RP – A Pixel Nomad

Brownies and Broken Timeways

Auchindoun always felt… heavy. The air shimmered with lingering spirits, whispers of draenei prayers long since faded. But even in a place like this, I found small joys.

Like the smell of roasting meat.

I followed it past a collapsed archway and nearly bumped into the source: a broad-shouldered human shaman, hair tied back with what looked suspiciously like a piece of cooking twine. He crouched near a campfire, turning a skewer of clefthoof meat over the flames, seasoning it with pinches of salt and flickers of crackling elemental energy.

“Smells amazing,” I said, peeking up at him.

“Should. I don’t burn food,” he grunted, glancing at me briefly before flipping the skewer. His voice was rough, like gravel rolled in ale, but his hands moved with the care of someone who respected every bite they made. “Name’s Hugeo. You eat?”

“Sometimes,” I replied, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “Though usually not in the middle of a draenei tomb.”

He snorted at that, and for a moment the grimness of Auchindoun faded, replaced by the warm, smoky scent of cooking meat.

We parted ways shortly after—he back to his skewer, me to my errands with the Timewalking group—but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not just the food, but the way his expression softened, just slightly, when he cooked.

So, later that evening, I found a quiet corner, pulled out a small parcel, and packed it carefully: three soft, rich Dalaran brownies, the kind my mom used to bake when I had bad days. Sweet, fudgy, and best eaten warm. I tied the parcel with a simple red ribbon, slipping a little note inside:

“For the road. Sometimes cooking for others is easy. Eating something made for you is harder. –Auremai”

I asked a helpful ethereal to deliver it and went back to sorting my wares.

Somewhere out in the shattered wilds of Outland, a rough and tumble chef was hopefully taking a bite of something sweet. And maybe, just maybe, smiling.

Mist, Memories, and Mana Potions

I was only trying to queue for the cooking daily.

One click too many and—poof—I was standing in the upper reaches of Hellfire Citadel, wrapped in the vaguely sulfurous scent of The Blood Furnace, wondering why I’d equipped my tea-stirring spoon instead of my proper staff.

“Wait, are you the healer?” asked the draenei paladin at the front, squinting at me as though I might still poof away.

“Er. Yes! That’s me. Auremai. Mistweaver monk, mostly merchant, occasional healer,” I said, bowing. “I dabble.”

The group charged ahead before I could elaborate, which was probably for the best because my last healing run had been before Deathwing redecorated the planet.

I took a deep breath and shifted into mistweaver stance, letting the familiar flow of chi swirl through me. It was like riding a gryphon: you never really forget… but that first jump still makes you question your life choices.

The first pull? A lesson in humility. And combustion.

I targeted the wrong person, cast Life Cocoon on the rogue who hadn’t taken any damage, and managed to roll directly into a Firebomb.

“Gnome down! Gnome down!” the mage laughed, while I extinguished myself with a small squeal and a health potion that tasted like burnt pennies.

But I didn’t give up.

Monks fall, monks rise. And monks—especially gnome monks with a sense of misplaced confidence—improvise.

I planted my Jade Serpent Statue this time (in the right direction!), let Renewing Mist dance through the group like a breeze, and used Vivify so fast my fingers blurred. The tank, bless him, only died once more after that.

“Getting the hang of it, shortstuff,” the rogue grinned after we survived a rather dramatic encounter with a room full of technicians who really needed a union.

“Thanks,” I muttered, cheeks warm, as I ducked behind my cartwheel to dodge another Fel Nova. “Just… channeling the mist. And mild panic.”

By the time we reached Keli’dan the Breaker, I had settled into the rhythm: soothe, roll, heal, repeat. The boss ranted something about destruction, but all I could think about was how very rude it was to yell indoors.

When he finally exploded in a spectacular burst of fel energy (and flair), everyone stood—somehow still alive. Even the mage.

We looted in silence, the good kind, and the paladin finally gave me a thumbs-up. “Not bad for someone who said they ‘dabble.’”

I shrugged, blushing as I tucked a small healing charm into his bag when he wasn’t looking. “Helping people is the easy part. It’s the not panicking that takes training.”

Back in Stormwind, I climbed onto my cart, pulled out my notebook, and jotted down a new idea: Love in the Time of Felfire. Maybe with a paladin and a baker trapped in a fortress together…

Maybe next time I’d heal on purpose. But for now? I had tea, a story brewing, and no scorch marks.

A pretty good day, all told.

Auremai – Introduction

Most folks don’t expect much when they first meet me. I suppose I’m easy to overlook – just a gnome with a satchel too big for her shoulders, boots too dusty for a lady, and a cart full of trinkets I swear have stories of their own.

My name’s Auremai. Merchant by trade, monk by discipline, and – though I’m a little bashful about it – an avid writer of romantic tales with happy endings and at least two comedic misunderstandings per chapter. There’s just something about a good love story that warms the heart, don’t you think?

I’ve spent the better part of the last decade trundling my way across Azeroth—from the rolling green hills of Elwynn to the misty coasts of Zandalar—with a cart full of curious wares and a heart full of stories. If you’ve ever bought a self-heating teapot in Stormwind or a ring that hums when you’re near your soulmate (questionable results), there’s a good chance it came from me.

Though I could settle down—I’ve the gold for it, Light knows—I’d rather use my coin to help those who need it. A warm meal in Westfall, bandages in Redridge, a school roof in Dun Morogh. I don’t make a show of it. Just a little envelope left behind, or a coin purse slipped into a pocket. Gold’s only as good as the good it can do.

When the world settles down and the campfire crackles low, I like to write. Rom-coms, mostly—set in places like Dalaran or Booty Bay, full of flustered apprentices, mysterious rogues, and misunderstandings that always resolve with a kiss and a laugh. I write under a pen name, of course. Can’t have heroes recognizing me from Love in the Shadow of the Spire while I’m bartering silk in Boralus.

Truth be told, I’m still looking for my own story. Maybe it’s waiting down the next road, over the next hill. Or maybe it’s already started, and I just haven’t reached the twist yet.

Either way, I’ll get there. One step, one sale, one story at a time.