I will be giving away one (1) of the $10 Blizzard Store pets (of the winner’s choice).
These include:
- Soul of the Aspects
- Lil’ K.T.
- Pandaren Monk
- Lil’ XT
- Lil’ Ragnaros
- Moonkin Hatchling
- Cenarion Hatchling
- Guardian Cub
Rules:
Reblog once, you…
Aside from that, Meiles is actually infertile. After he found out that he was going to be fathering Jin’thekk, he worked some juju on himself to make sure that he’ll never mistakenly spawn another offspring ever again.
BTW, so sorry that I take forever in responding to asks!!
Ahh I see. It all makes sense now.
I think Yari could handle it regardless, if she could put up with Meiles for so long.
Owls confirmed to be the creepiest birds ever. LOOK AT THE FUCKING THINGS. If you fail to notice the one on the left fucking SWALLOWING a rat, then you have the dude singing some satanic chant or something next to him, and then you have those two other fucking psychos synchronized to make you feel creeped the fuck out with their soulless dance of FUCKING DOOM.
I really am tempted to reblog this every time it’s on my dash. That description is one of the best things on the internet.
Lift Me Up
A story I wrote about the concentration camp Struthof. Please enjoy and respond :)
By: Elizabeth Hancock
It was a cold day; pale wisps fell tenderly to the ground, some melting on top of a leather-bound journal. The diary was tattered, the animal hide smooth from constant use. It was November. Most of Struthof was empty, somehow still bearably quiet. The month prior the camp had been evacuated; the prisoners sent on a Death March to Dachau. A French soldier appeared through the thickening snow, leaving behind his comrades as they explored deeper into the man-made hell. He bent down to pick up the book, wondering how anyone could possibly have the spirit to write when everything had been taken from them. Flipping to the first page, he found the name of the owner.
Property of Ifellia Marks, If found please return to this location.
It then listed an address in faded black ink, looking to be scrubbed out. It began in the girls own handwriting. Many of the earlier entries told of a gypsy’s life, how she was learning to be a dancer, her dreams of being more than what the people have named her kind. She said she was lucky that she had learned how to read and write, that her older brother and younger sister would never get the same chance. The French soldier closed the book for a second, staring up at the dark sky. This girl would have never left behind something so precious, so she instead brought the keepsake with her. After taking in a long breath the liberator knew that he must keep reading, lest this girl’s story be forgotten. She was a person, a human being, with thoughts and hopes, dreams. Ifellia was not just another number, not just a notch on a gun or a rope. She had a family and a life; a life that was ripped away from her, thrown off balance. Carefully, the man flipped to the last few pages.
August 19, 1944
Dear Mom,
I know I promised to write to you every day, but my lead, like my time, is running low. The warm summer months seem to be fading fast before my eyes. I can almost see the horizon over the gates, but every time I take a step forward, I only get shoved back. Our captors took away my clothes, my culture. They told us when we first came in here that we are no longer a person, no longer a human being but a number; That all of our rights have been left outside the gate, and that there is only one way out, the chimney. I promised myself to not believe them, that I am still Ifellia. You and father always used to say that I was strong willed, creative, that my soul could never be crushed, but I feel crushed. I feel broken and I want to give up. My birthday was yesterday. I am now sixteen. They are thinking of sending me away. I don’t know where, but there are rumors. One of my roommates has been helping me decipher the writing on the walls. Many were warnings, others were last goodbyes. I cannot forget how their own blood was smeared on the once featureless walls, in a last desperation to spill out the truth. I hope they do not send me away. I fear the torture that occurs beyond these dreadful walls. I dread the day in which my name shall be uttered upon their unfeeling lips. You taught me to not fear death when the end will come, but I cannot help it. It is so cold, so lonely. I fear for humanity.
Turning the page, the young man felt a dripping tear roll down his cheek. The unmentionable truth of what happened to these people. Still, he urged his mind to read on, even if his heart could not bear to read the last pages, he knew he must.
August 26, 1944
Dear Mom,
They have dogs that attack resistant prisoners. I am frightened. I never liked these kinds of dogs. They were trained to kill. To kill, to mercilessly slaughter without any thought of what they are doing, only trying to please their master. The Nazi soldiers bark at me that I am lucky, that most die on arrival. I fear that they act more like the animal than the poor dogs. There was another execution today. The Jewish man held his head high as they made him put his own noose around his neck, and he smiled as he jumped. So happy to leave this hell on earth, he was. I wish I had enough courage to follow in his footsteps, but the threats of being sent away instead of killed are too frightening. I spend most of my days pretending I was back at home, dancing away to the sweet sound of Poppa’s harmonica. I am hungry, so hungry mom. My stomach rumbles in a nearly silent protest. I want to eat, to breathe, to live, I want to live so badly that it burns my eyes, making me cry. Why must we suffer? Why are we the plague; the untouchables? Why doesn’t anyone care about us? Were we not once their neighbors, their friends? Why must all of us suffer under one power- hungry criminal of a leader? It is not logical, but when is anything?
The French soldier swallowed his sadness, closing his eyes. There was one last entry. Could he bear to read it? It was not his duty to prove to the public eye that these people were not the unspeakables. How could he prove to them that this little girl, young woman was living, and now dead, proof of what had happened in one of the ‘more pleasant’ camps. The rumors of the human soap had been true, as did the human lamp shade and many other things. His commanding officer had warned them of what had happened behind these gates, but never had he believed it. All of the rumors were true, that humanity had become non-existent within these very walls.. He held back bile as he thought. They say that war changes you, but no, it is the self destruction of mankind that can destroy you. Opening his eyes again, he brushed the snowflakes off of the page and began to read.
September 1, 1944
Dear Mom,
I fear I must go now. The time to leave has long been gone. The march to Dachau begins at dusk. I am scared. I do not have shoes to walk with, only the sandals that they captured me in. I write to you in a frantic haste, because today I know I will die. Please, merciful God, why do you let such cruelty happen? I do not want to suffer, I want to live. I want to live. I am not just a digit, mother. I am a person, and I want to live so badly that my handwriting has begun to falter. They say that the Allies are close, then why haven’t they saved us? Why haven’t they saved me? My heart flutters and falters within my chest. My once soft hands are now toughened from the labor, and yet still I will die. The very breath that escapes my lungs, past my lips will soon not be needed. I hope that once I die, I can be set free. Like a blue jay in the summer, I want to be able to fly again. Maybe numbers do not get a place in heaven, or even purgatory. I doubt that this is considered purgatory, because hell can only be so bad. Maybe I will see you there, mom. I love you.
Love forever and always,
Ifellia
Closing the leather-bound journal, Simons looked up to the darkening sky. There was no one to liberate here, just a bunch of caged souls, hoping for a sweet escape. There was no hope for these people, for the Jews, the gypsies, the gays and people unfit for society. They were branded with a star and sent for slaughter.“Don’t worry, Ifellia.” He whispered, setting the diary against the fence of the camp. “You are free now, s’envolent à votre famille.” Turning away from the book, the life of the girl, he felt a gust of air blow past him, sending his hat flying into the snow-ridden currents. And he knew she had heard him.
