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Dalaran is floating peacefully, the sun beginning to peak up from the distant horizon and a mechanical rooster bellows it's morning call.
About three more hours pass before the light-gray lump of fur rolls out of his bed in his small Dalaran room, taking the pillows and sheets down with him to the floor. Another hour or so passes before he finally gets up. It's two hours to noon as Nishk rubs his eyes and finds a pair of trousers to head down stairs in. He looks around at the world that has already began moving outside before turning his gaze to an impatient looking elf quietly waiting for his order.
"Two scrambled eggs, some rhino-bacon and a mug of cocoa please."
The plate comes out and is placed in front of him, and food is quickly eaten. He rubs his stomach with a content sigh and is tempted to head back to bed. Perhaps not, the days started and he might as well got something done while he's awake.
A plain white shirt, leather jacket and fresh pair of pants later, and the bull is heading into the barber shop.
The hair stylist and he chat as her nimble little green hands manage brush and scissors with lethal accuracy, and treat his scalp to a special shampoo he purchases. It makes for a shinny coat and has a hint of lavender.

It's an hour past noon.
Nishk has found himself traveling from kiosk to kiosk, purchasing the usual groceries. His favorite is lean-sliced mammoth on white bread, with some sharp cheddar melted on top. Yes, that is what he'll make for lunch. And so as he renters his housing-complex, he wanders up to his flat and to his stove.
After lunch, he lies about reading comics he picked up from a local artist. Today's a day to let the characters in his stories fight the evils of the world, he'll get his turn some other time.

It's about two hours before night fall as Nishk awakens once more, he had fallen asleep after three issues of "The adventures of Birk", a crime-fighting wolvar who has the most powerful jaws in the world. The bull sits around and picks up the next issue, reading as the furry fighter saves a beautiful (and rather curvy) night elf from certain death by yeti.
It's a good series.
The sun is just now beginning to set as he once more leaves. He's not entirely sure what to do, as he wanders about. The city is always busy, no matter when you're in it, and there's always a crowd. Maybe, he thinks, that heading to the bar will be a good idea. Maybe Urdaa or Dernes are around for a drink.
He shrugs.
Hopefully there will be something to do before bed.

(( No epic adventure, no battle to the death, no grand plot. This is how Nishk's day goes when he's not fighting the Scourge or hunting in the Storm Peaks. It's a day where there's nothing much to do. Everyone has a day like that, and now I ask how does your character go about a day like that?))

((All right, I'll bite. ))

The same morning call of a mechanical rooster reaches the ears of another tauren. Kaeevanrash opened his eyes groggily, having to think for a moment before it registered in his mind as to where he was. Dalaran, he thought, and he grumbled softly as he remembered why he was here and sat up. Still groggy, he sat there zoning in and out for a minute or two before actually getting out of bed and donning a simple robe.

After some meditating, breakfast and getting himself cleaned up, the shaman was getting more formally dressed, though in an outfit he wasn't all that used to. He stared at himself in the mirror with a slight frown. He wore a long-sleeved blue shirt with a brown leather vest over it, and some simple trousers. It wasn't the sort of look he was that used to having. He was more of the "home-grown" type, as he had heard another call it. At least he would wear his necklace of fangs and feathers to help distinguish himself as a shaman. If the fangs and feathers didn't do the trick, the ankh at the middle of them all surely would. The shaman's frown faded as he gave a soft 'hm' before heading downstairs to leave the inn. The dress was unorthodox, but neat and comely nonetheless.

As afternoon came, so did the lull of activity in the Agronomical Apothecary, the city's main alchemy store. Kaeev sat at one end of the register, looking bored out of his skull. It was a time where the shopkeeper could not be around, and so Kaeev was one of two people that opted to fill in for a wage. The other...the shaman wished was not there. So that customers from both the Horde and the Alliance could be served, the shopkeeper had employed a gnome mage that was at the other end of the desk. A gnome AND a mage, thought Kaeev with a grumble. One or the other had the tendency to show off their skill, but both together? He sighed. This particular gnome had quite the alchemy contraption set up to work on between customers. There was plenty of smoke and noise coming from that side, and the mage was frequently employing his magic in some grand display to aid in his brewing.

Bah, mere cantrips, thought Kaeev. The shaman did nothing but page through a catalog of potions on the desk while waiting for the next appropriate customer. He saw the mage's flaunting more as bait to actually try to compete with him, but the shaman wasn't taking it. Sure, he could compete (and probably even "win"), but such an endeavor seemed vain to him. Another time, he thought, he would show the alchemical prowess of the Winterhoof and put the gnome in his place. A slight smirk came to his face as he thought of a few ways he could go about doing that.

It was dusk now, and Kaeev was done with his shift. He received his wage from the shopkeeper with a nod of thanks. The city was still busy as ever, and he wandered his way through the crowds back to the inn for dinner. He had forgotten that it had got to be that hour where there were now plenty in the bar portion of the tavern making themselves merry and creating quite a stir. He frowned a bit upon seeing this, not liking the idea of having to eat amid so much noise. Paying the grocers a visit was sounding like a better idea.

The shopping actually took longer than Kaeev expected. He not only visited some grocers, but also the herbalism and enchanting stores and finally the Dalaran bank for some deposits. He returned to his room with the food, which thankfully had a small stove to work with. He set his bags down and snapped a finger, and a small flame began to appear in the palm of his hand, which then formed into a small fire elemental. "Reth," it said in its own language, and Kaeev smiled a bit. "Yes, yes," he said, "just don't make dinner well done, would you?" he asks as he carefully helped the little flame into the stove. He promptly fed some firewood into it. The elemental could be heard inside repeating the word softly as the stove heated up proper. With some talbuk venison and the right seasoning, Kaeev had a filling talbuk steak that night in relative peace and quiet. He was able to enjoy the said peace for the remainder of the night before retiring to bed. It had been a rather uneventful day, but the shaman welcomed it.

((When I find my writing brain again, I'll try a post or two.))

((An important day, but still an ordinary one in Arjah's life:))

The best mages - the masters of their craft, men and women who spent their lives in study of the arcane - were said to see the world less as a collection of physical objects, and more as an unending swirl of contrasting and complementing forces, perceiving every nexus of power they might tap or alter as easily as you could make out the color of their robes (which were generally blue, for some reason). At the very pinnacle of understanding, the physical reality was said to melt away entirely, leaving only a sublime understanding of the shifting aether (archmages also seemed to like words that joined "a"s and "e"s unnecessarily). It was considered a mark of great success to become so involved in the arcane that one forgot necessities like eating and sleeping unless reminded. Arjah - The Esteemed Doctor Legionnaire Greatmother Arjah, if she tacked all the currently-relevant titles on - was a self-taught "wilder," remarkably well-read on subjects of poetry and etiquette, but barely literate by Dalaran's standards and quite affectionately attached to her physical reality despite the lure of the aether and the occasional painful biological necessity that grander mages chose to eschew.

Bearing children took time; as she lay on a comfortably-warmed stone under a stormy jungle sky, she reflected that the six-month pregnancy was probably as much to give the mother time to forget her last delivery by the time the next one rolled around. No one else was present; the ruin she had chosen was empty of trolls, jungle-native or Horde-raised, and her only company was a thin, carefully-sharpened knife, a basin of clean water, and a collection of rags and towels. She had delivered hundreds of children for other women; the slight complications involved in delivering her own distracted her as much as a passing mana storm might have bothered a long-time Dalaran instructor: interesting in its own way, but hardly worrisome. "Twenty-three turns a woman" - the troll way of counting, based on a three-turn year and counting only from maturity; an orc would have pegged her age at around twenty-one or twenty-two years - was a healthy age, fully matured but not yet into the weakening middle age of the late twenties, and her unquestionably maternal frame was well-suited to childbearing. Complications - other than the occasional flare of magic that surrounded her as she focused on the physical and neglected the aetherial - seemed unlikely. She gave herself time to relax and think things over a bit.

I have born five children of my own body, and nursed seven at my breast. Of these, all but one have lived their first year at least - forgive me that one loss, Blessed Heart-Weaver! I was too young.

A spreading family - more a constellation than a tree - spread in front of Arjah's vision like the weaves of forces mages saw, descendants and ancestors spiraling out from her in a rapidly-increasing geometric progression. She was one of at least a half a dozen children, all bastards, and the mother of as many again - if her half-brothers and half-sisters were anything like as prolific, old Hroohzin's clan would be able to rival the established lines of the jungle in less than a dozen generations. It was a dizzying arrangement, when you sat back and looked at the whole of it, with all the cousins and aunts and foster-children that had never left tacked on.

Aziel was wrong to see our family as a weakness. He is immortal; if he truly wanted to rule the world, he would recruit mothers, not warriors. Where does the man think warriors come from?

In the jungles, they said that "the men protect the village, but the women guard the clan." Like most troll truisms, it translated badly into Orcish, losing most of the subtle meanings trolls could pile into their words - yes, the women of the jungle tribes were property, dependent on the permission of their fathers and husbands for the arrangements of their lives. But it was daughters that could strengthen the bloodline, could be traded for a husband from a stronger heritage; could bear a dozen daughters of their own, each one eventually bringing another husband of her own into the triumphant patriarch's family. Young fathers prayed for strong sons; wise fathers prayed for healthy daughters, and the best bloodlines were the ones whose daughters bore more women then men.

Arjah was bastard-born and the only child of her mother, the least-illustrious bloodline a troll could come from. She smiled faintly to herself as she felt things changing and shifting painfully in her abdomen; she was making up for the failings of previous generations. The traditions of the jungle, to say nothing of the Horde and its allies, could find her as scandalous as they pleased. Her children and her grandchildren, and their children and grandchildren after them, would be around long after the rules that labeled her disgraced had crumbled like the ruins she lay among. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the first drops of a wild jungle storm began to fall. Her smile widened; she turned her concentration inward, understanding the ebb and flow of life inside her as clearly as any mage had ever made out the mysteries of the Nether. She let herself lie back, relaxing carefully as the child and the rain came on together.

Let them have their floating city. I have made life out of nothing more than blood, sweat, and the love of a man.

Someone - Iktik, probably - had stuck her with the title of "Greatmother" as a joke, when she founded her Homeland. Her teeth bared proudly as she stared up into the rain. She was the Greatmother, dammit. It had just taken her a long time to figure it out.

What a beautiful day...

In the corner of one of the rooms in Nishks Dalaran flat stood a large dummy, on it was a rather well kept set of Crypstalker armor that watched menacingly over the rest of the room it was in. Above it was a banner from Thunder bluff that went from one wall to another, and on either side was a collection of tabards. Some beaten and worn, others fresh and clean with medals and badges on them. Further along each wall was, in neat parallel lines, weapons of a wide variety hanging like trophies.
On the opposite side of the room was a rack that stood facing the dummy, on it was a wide variety of rifles and bows, with quivers and arrows sitting in and on boxes around it.
And all around the rest of the room were trophies; banners from enemies like the Scourge or Legion, skulls and pelts from beasts, and a wide arrange of trinkets spanning from beautiful jewels to a horrendous shriveled heart strung up to a peg.
Sure, it wasn't the most impressive collection, but it certainly showed that the owner had been around the block.

Outside the room was Nishk, in his simple civilian clothes and his little cup of juice. Staring out the window at the bustling streets. It was finally bearable enough outside to keep a window open so long as the sun was still up. He went about his business cleaning and straitening up, and paid no special heed to the collection that stood no more than ten feet away through a locked door, as if a collection of treasures and a small armory worth of weapons was nothing important.
Well...that's not totally true, he did have half a mind to go dust off everything. The place was starting to look like a museum rather than a trophy room.