Flipside Exercise by Kormok

"What are you looking for?"
Maxwell shook his head a few times to clear out the errant thoughts, then got to his feet. Tarnished plates, barely fending off the ravages of oncoming rust, clattered noisly as he righted himself. The body sprawled out on the muddy earth before him was riddled with arrows and slices, but most of the blood appeared to have simply pooled in the punctures. The unfortunate victim was stabbed multiple times after his heart had ceased to beat. Some parts of his pale, dead flesh were gnawed upon.
"Now? I'm looking for a sick bastard." The warrior raised his fist to signal the riders behind them. "Onward to the border, we strike the Undercity at dawn!"
His companion spurred her gelding alongside Maxwell, her face clouded with concern. "Max? Are you alright?"
Maxwell Kormick turned from the fallen commoner and strode to his powerful stallion, swinging up into the saddle without any apparent effort at all. Fire blazed in his eyes, a spark that was seen all too frequently these days; it was the desire for revenge.
"This was Bill Crowley, the man who owned the farm on the far side of Fallow Hills. He was my uncle, Sergeant. And I will take my vengeance upon the monsters that did this to him, mark my words."
What would your character have been like if you had rolled on the other side of the fence? What race? How would their personality differ? Their history? The way they grew up, or even the training they underwent?
Kormok's alter ego would be a similarly rigid, military-minded human, possibly a former knight in the service of the Alliance, and would most definitely be too blinded by his own prejudices and desire for revenge to see any difference between the Scourge and the Forsaken. Category:Kormok
=Stamp=
"Munch!"
The gnome sat bolt upright in front of the Tinker Town mailbox, eyes flying open at the shout of his superior officer. "Munch wide awake! Munch not sleeping. Again. Much. Munch watch good!"
Scowling, the security chief, Flap Biggles, smacked Munch on the shoulder with a pair of purple goggles. "Better NOT be sleeping. We've got word the Horde might be planning a raid on Ironforge tonight. You don't want them sneaking past on YOUR watch, do you?"
"Nope," Munch agreed. "Munch not want that."
"Good," grumbled Biggles. "Because I don't care how funny people think you are in those Gurgling Murloc movies. Around here, you're just another Tinker Town night watchman. Got it?"
"Munch got," the gnome warrior agreed, shifting the two-handed hammer slung against his back. "Horde come to Tinker Town, Munch hit. Chief not gotta worry."
The security chief sighed, but offered no further scorn for Munch. Instead, he took out a ring full of keys that he jingled incessantly with the compulsiveness of an infant toying with a slow-spinning mobile above a crib and wandered off to continue his personal patrol of the area.
Munch got to his feet and turned to stomp grumpily down the tunnel ... just in time to spy a Forsaken rogue skulking along - a scout for an invasion, perhaps. For a moment, Munch felt relief: At least it wasn't a Tauren. He couldn't abide the big smelly creatures with their oafish hooves.
"Munch go," the gnome growled. "Munch HIT!"
((
The flip side of Stamp, of course, would be a gnome warrior with a smattering of celebrity for some sort of frivolity - and he'd have an irrational loathing for all things Tauren. Category:Stamp
))
=Alkan=
The skies over Mulgore cleared of its clouds, blown away by the breath of the Earthmother. Alkor Sunhoof smiled and laid back in the grass. Peacebloom smoke billowed up from his snout, a grin etching its way onto his face. Crickets were the only sound that invaded his peaceful night.
He felt the elements coursing around his body. He could hear the whispers of his father, and his father's father, of all the ages back to the foundation of his tribe and family. They would call upon his aid again some day, to help others of his kind, and his kind's allies. But for now, here was silence. Here was freedom.
Here was a peace he enjoyed.
Alkan would definitely end up as a tauren shaman, and a bloody carefree one at that. Still smoke peacebloom and drink alcohol all day long, though...Category:Alkan
=Vandrian=
He threaded the needle and wove it through the fabric. His ancient eyes smiled as he carried out the art he had perfected for millenia. His mind collected once again, devoting his every thought and action to the craft. An hour passed, but for him, it seemed like mere seconds, all devoted to the wondrous shirt he weaved.
Chimes sounded at the entrance to his home. He stood up, robes unfolding from his lap as he placed the shirt on the table. "Yes?"
"Father Starwhisper. I was hoping to catch you in. I know you don't often pursue your art these days, but, ah..."
His old eyes twinkled, a long brow arching. "Speak, my son. I may be retired but I never shy away from my duty. Is it your daughter?"
The younger kal'dorei paused and nodded once. "Y-yes. She's come down with Darkshore Fever. I fear I cannot move her from Auberdine. Bed-ridden, and..."
Vandilar Starwhisper, retired High Priest of the Moon Goddess, held up his hand. "Peace child. A life comes well before my life as a tailor. I may no longer work in the temple, but I still am blessed by our Goddess. Returned to your home. I will gather the necessary medicines and call upon the blessings of Elune so your daughter may breathe freely again. I will be with you shortly."
The younger elf, a fisherman Vandilar had known for many moons, hesitated. "I...have heard Darkshore Fever is a curse, father...a curse wrought on by the damned spirits of the ruins. I am not sure how much a priest may help her, but...I have nowhere else to go, I am too poor to afford to pay you, or a doctor, or..."
Vandilar held up his hand, eyes focusing on the fisherman and pausing his rant. "The Moon Goddess is a strong lass, dear Daham. I'm sure she has the strength to lift the Fever from your daughter. Do not worry about payment. I require none at all."
The other elf blinked, eyes glowing brighter as a smile crept to his face. He bowed hastily. "Yes...yes, thank you, sir." He backed out of the home, hurrying towards the portal to Ruth'eran.
Vandilar smiled, taking the shirt and placing it on a rack. He set the needle in its drawer and closed it slowly before reaching for his walking staff. As pleasing a tailor's life was, he dearly missed these house calls. Elune would guide him to Auberdine.
Vandrian would end up as a kal'dorei - actually not surprising, even on the other side of the fence he'd fall in with an elven mindset. Far from the temptation of the arcane that corrupted Vandrian, a Kal'Dorei version of himself would probably fall in with the holy orders. Of course, like Vandrian he's got to have some other profession to keep himself busy in his older age - although with the lifespans of night elves, he would undoubtedly live far, far older than Vandrian has so far.
Also, no stories for these two, but for my two other alts lesser played...
Skar'jin, troll priest, would probably end up as a paladin of the Scarlet Crusade. Gotta love fanaticism.
Talema, draenei warrior of the Hand of Argus, would become a Forsaken warrior of the Deathguard - vicious, but utterly devoted to her cause.Category:Vandrian
=Aloaki=
Susurrus pushed herself off the moss-covered tree she was leaning against, not taking care of brushing off the pieces of tree bark and moss clinging to the seat of her leather pants. The wind carried the faint tang of blood in its breath.
Something's wrong and death is in the air, the Druid thought to herself. Her features darkened and she fell to all fours. Dark blue-black fur sprouted out of her skin as she began to sprint, now in the form of a lithe, dark-furred great wildcat.
She felt alive with every step, with every breath she took. Her whole feline body felt the thrum and pulse of life all around her unlike when she was in her biped form. This form was more natural and less foreign than her actual form.
She began to purr with the thought of the hunt before her as the scent of blood thickened in the air...
Aloaki couldn't be anything except for a Druid. And why not do a flip of not only his race, but his sex as well?Category:Aloaki
=Moskau=
"The ways can't be lost. Despite my curse, I will use the elements to overpower and contain these demons."
"It can't be done,Mal'garroth. The two are too foreign to each other. They aren't opposed like the Light those Dwarves and Humans use that of fel magics. The elements can't directly counter the demons. Anyone who knows about magical theory can explain that."
"You are, excuse me, were a Human once. You are still a mage, are you not? You view is limited by what you know and have experienced. I was told I was destined to be a great shaman for my people until everything happened. I still know of the elements. I can still feel them. I know what they are capable of. Don't lump me in with those who still have the fel curse coursing through their blood. The elements can, with proper mastery, subdue and control the demons. I will show you, Craddoc..."
Moskau would be an Orc Warlock, but would be controlling the demons through his understanding of the elements - binding them much like elements are shackled. He'd probably be moved by seeing the Mag'har again; knowing that some Orcs are still untainted by the former blood curse would make him proud. He'd also stay true to the old ways...
And as for Anansi, well...he's a special case... Category:Mosaku
=Arrish=
He is on her list, so she learns when he comes to the north. She acquires his squad as they ease their way through the rough terrain around Andorhal, avoiding the ghouls where they can, fighting -- competently enough -- where they have to. They're hampered by the wreckage; she can observe them at her leisure.
Four Alliance soldiers, young and strong, escort an old man. He has white hair and intensely sharp blue eyes. While he doesn't join in any skirmishes, it is clear that he wants to, and he is wearing a battered sword. When they have to dismount and lead their horses around rubble, he moves with a slight limp. He still has some strength, but it is fading, and she feels hollow as she watches him. Naturally, none of them see her.
When they reach the road they move too fast to shadow, but she knows where they are going now and rides overland. She is hidden and in position by the time they run off the shades haunting the burial ground near Corin's Crossing. The Osrics don't have any of the fancier stones or enclosures near the front of the graveyard, but they make up for it in population, a sprawling family rooted into the land. Many have simple epitaphs describing simple virtues. Devoted. Loyal. Hard-working. Loving.
The new stones, only a few years old and significantly less weathered, have only names incised into their surfaces. Geoffrey Osric next to Marren. Violet Osric. Adeliza Osric. Then an older marker: Rowena Osric, beloved wife and mother. Room enough for another name on the headstone, another epitaph, and another grave beside her. Next to that another new stone: Strand Osric. It took her a great deal of effort to have those stones carved as they should be.
He has brought an offering for Rowena's grave, but he did not expect the recent ones. She can still somewhat read human expressions, so much more mobile and seemingly exaggerated than the subtleties she'd grown used to in the New Lordaeron. She still has memories of some of his own particular mannerisms, more like stories passed down through years than true memories, so abstract and emotionless they have become. That squint he has, for instance, that is all he ever wishes to show of pain in front of soldiers. That has an association. When a young soldier fell under his command he used to say, "No parents should ever have to outlive their child."
What best serves the Dark Lady here? He must have a voice in Stormwind, to have earned this private and dangerous pilgrimage. Is he better as an object lesson, or as a voice? He kneels at his son's grave to gather up a handful of dirt and she eases forward, as silent as falling dust.
He starts to lever himself back up and freezes in shock, his eyes locking with hers. As far as he can see she is just there, suddenly enough to be a vision and close enough to cut him open if she's not. She's a slim girl who will never become a woman, subtly deformed by her undeath. Her pale skin is mottled with green and her knotted-back hair has gone the miscellaneous brown of rotting straw. A slight but disarmingly pleasant herbal scent masks any other odors, proving her reality. She knows her face is not so much different save for the eyes, and he can't look away from the cold light of hers. She can see him recognize her, try to deny it, and then deny dishonesty. He shudders but squares his shoulders, saying a word. But her name is one of the things she has lost, though her Lady gave her back so much.
She snaps at him, "This is still my home. You deserted it. We are the ones to reclaim it for the New Lordaeron." She knows he can't understand her, she's lost that too, but she says it anyhow. "Go away and tell the other humans to stay out of our lands." She accompanies this with an unmistakable gesture. Go now! At her motion, his hand drops to his sword-hilt, his revulsion leading to action over flight. A fierce hunger hooks through her; she curls her hands to keep her claws from reaching for him. His men noticed her when she spoke; two are aiming crossbows at her, and the other two are rushing forward with swords drawn. Too late and they know it; he's so close to her they can't get a good shot, the swordsmen still moments away. Plenty of time. She twists her hand up to show them all the knife, the edge just touching his neck before he can finish clearing his sword from its sheath. Another unmistakable message: I could have ended you if I wanted to. But now she's gone, leaving them with a mocking laugh. Leaving the old man looking grimmer than she's ever seen him.
She watches them cluster back around him, watches him shrug off their treatment of the cut. That should get the message through. We are still here. We are alert. We are strong. We are the New Lordaeron. Come here if you dare, but be prepared to regret it bitterly.
(( If Samuel Osric had not been disquieted by vague rumors of the Cult of the Damned, he would likely have sent Arrish and Strand to live with their grandparents and other kin, rather than to family friends in Elwynn forest.Category:Arrish ))
=Akindi=
"Kayla! Open up!"
The door creaked open hesitantly to reveal a young woman's scared face, framed in bright copper curls. Her dark eyes shone in the torchlight. "Sir Dannaeth...? Come in, please!" she said quietly, backing up and inviting him in.
Dannaeth hesitated, then motioned for the other two guards to wait outside. No sense in frightening her. He stepped in through the door, looking around at the poorly furnished shack of a house with some distaste. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Have you heard anthing about my husband?" she interrupted, wringing her hands nervously. 
The knight shook his head. "He is still missing. Actually, that's why I'm here. The Inquisitor has a few more questions he'd like to ask you. Would you come with me to the courthouse?"
Kayla looked at him gravely for a moment, then nodded. "Let me get my shoes on," she said, and turned to go up the rickety ladder to the second floor where, presumably, the bedrooms were. 
Dannaeth watched her climb the ladder. She moved with a kind of feline grace, despite the slight limp she had. He remembered hearing that she'd fallen and broken her leg last fall. Strange, for such a young, graceful girl to have fallen down the ladder. Strange that she never seemed clumsy, but still kept showing up around down with bruises on her face and arms. 
----
Kayla kept up the meek facade until she'd climbed out of sight. She snarled then, her fear turning into anger. They've come to arrest me, she thought bitterly as she lifted the old mattress and pulled out her twin daggers. Where were the guards when Olly beat me? Where were the guards when he beat our child, and kept her from the doctor? Where were the precious town guards when she died? Fumbling through her tears, Kayla strapped on her belt. The daggers felt good, sitting against her hips. She sat and pulled on her leather boots, then grabbed her satchel. She'd been prepared for this, ever since she dropped Olly's body down the ridge behind the forest. 
"To fel with all of them," she whispered bitterly, and slipped out the upstairs window. 
Let the dark nether take them all. She didn't need anyone. Let them look for her in the Dark Forest.
Akindi would have done poorly as a human, I think. Facing the prospects of an arranged marriage that she knew would end badly, the troll hunter just left and lived on her own. A young human would never be allowed to leave, so she would have likely been stuck in her situation. Akindi's sense of duty to her family would have kept her in it, but eventually her pride would have made her snap. I imagine she'd end up living a rogue's life.Category:Akindi
=Phealea=
Kel'doa stood on the barren lands of Durotar as she strode gracefully into a near by quillboar encampment. Strips of inky blackness seemed to roll off the young orc and plant life withered and died under her footsteps. A quillboar on guard spotted the orc female and sensed that strange aura of 'wrongness' about her and began to gather his weapons for an attack. Kel'doa eyes flared bright green, the color of felfire, for a heartbeat and a oddly seductive and alluring succubus materialized from nothing. With a amused laugh she locked eyes with quillboar and began to whisper. The quillboar stopped in mid charge and simply watched the succubus before, who had suddenly transformed into the most beautiful woman he had ever since. The woman began to ask him odd questions about the location of strange magics, but he was only too happy to tell her all he knew in hopes she would favor him more.
Kel'doa walked over to her demon and smiled wickedly. "Where is the item?"
"He says that the Eye of Zhorin is kept with the high priest of the village."
"A priest? These filthily pigs are as adept with magic as those moronic blue elf creatures. Devour his soul and then return to the Nether till I have use for you."
"As you wish, mistress." The succubus said with glee as she turned back to the quillboar.
Kel'doa stood over the fall husk of the guard and smiled a bit to herself. She then pulled out a purple crystal, that pulsated in her grasp. faint sounds of horrific screams echoed deep within the crystal and that always amused Kel'doa. She used the crystal and offered up the soul within to tear open the veil that separated the material world and that of the Twisting Nether. She continued her chant, which sounded more like a soothing call, and soon a large red armored felguard appeared before her.
"What is your bidding my mistress?" It asked
"Destroy the whole encampment. When you are done, return to me."
With no more words needed to be wasted the felguard went about its task. Kel'doa smiled and waited. Soon the Eye of Zorin would be hers and all who even were aware of its existence would be dead, leaving her the sole owner to the knowledge and power it contained.
Since Phealea herself is rather young, yet gifted with a great talent for the arcane, her opposite would have been the same. Where Phea was given a large amount of schooling and raised as a noble in Dalaran, her orcish opposite would have been born in a interment camp. Her gifts would not have gone unnoticed by members of the Shadow Council however. They would have taken the girl from the camps and trained her in the darker arts, hoping to produce another powerful warlock for the Council.Category:Phealea
category:Roleplaying Exercises