#Lyrenn Moonveil

[moonunveiled]

What pride has wrought

‘My thoughts are long and pained. I feel the pain fall elsewhere. I feel it spill out, rampant, consuming.’

He had fled from the courtyard and down the many stone steps that made up the tiers of Dawnwind Keep and the shining city surrounding it. He fled, robes fluttering behind him in his haste to leave the jeweled buildings and the wealth and luxury born on the decay of a being older and more marvelous than he’d ever seen before. Made with the actions that doomed the marsh and the tree left to fester for no crimes of it’s own. The  small silvery cutting of Enasal was tied to the staff in his hand, in hope their closeness would keep it nurtured as it was born from it’s source. And, like the staff, it melded into him when he shifted outside the city gates. 

‘I do not know how to save me. It has been long, and I am tired, and I am weary.’

Twin trails of tears ran down Lyrenn’s cheeks as he passed beneath the high gate that separated the city from the rest of the Reach beyond, pulling in ragged breaths between his sniffling. He dropped to his hands and knees,  fingers curling both in the grass and around the stave beside him. Shifting was not always a smooth process, it required concentration and control and a calm he did not feel. He forced the change, a sob ripping through him as the world shifted colors and his vision focused. He needed the calm clarity that the stag brought. He needed to focus. And he needed speed. 

A last glance back toward the city of false gold and the silver tree at it’s zenith and the white stag turned south, spindly legs taking him where the thrum in his chest said to go. His mind said south and east, deeper into the heart of the Ghostlands, where the rot lingered and threatened his copse. His mind always came back to that pain. But he trusted the magic of the staff like he trusted his heart’s call- it would take him where he needed to go. 

He was unsurprised -as this form did not find surprise as readily as the elf did- when his head turned toward the Emberglades, fixing on it’s point like a sailor charting their course home by the stars. The stag did not slow, though exhaustion crept up his bones. The thrum that lead him only grew stronger and it’s crescendo urged his pace. He knew not what waited for him at the Hollowlight home but it’s presence was felt for miles. He hoped it would be an answer. He emerged from the brush at a walk, leaves stripped from low branches caught in his antlers creating a wreath of green against the backdrop of white fur. He was far more ethereal in this form than as an elf- a spirit of flesh and bone that stopped within yards of it’s goal, the enigmatic elf drinking tea as the sun began to slip behind the trees. Lyrenn knew the moment he saw him that this was where the staff had brought him. This was his answer. 

It was little doubt Ghilahim recognized him as well.

[moonunveiled]

This is my Lyrenn's home. :)

I want to follow your IC Blogs

Tell me the names of the IC blogs you have and I’ll follow them.

Mainly only those who are related to WoW, FFXIV, and ESO

thanks

[moonunveiled]

From death blooms life

He moved through the city like a ghost- unseen, unwanted, a presence that unsettled by sheer nature of it’s being where it should not be. Where it did not belong. Clad in pale robes, the breeze billowed shock white hair behind him as he walked. The end of the staff in his hand clicked on the stone streets. He was unadorned in the finery that exemplified those of measure in the Reach, a placid smile and calm kind of air the only things that kept his journey un-accosted.  If he’d had wings he might have avoided the trek to Dawnwind Keep but then.. perhaps he needed the time to think. The story of Enasal and it’s unfortunate twin touched something inside the druid. As did the thought that the only option was to destroy them both. That they could neither be saved. And that one was a font of prosperity while the other was a font of disease. It was a false dichotomy- it felt heavy in his stomach.  Nature does not work in absolutes, it’s fabric is woven with many shades of grey.  They had seen the tree’s beginning among the visions they’d received from the Coven. But it had not told them everything. Who was Abelas and where had Enasal come from? This was no ordinary tree, to have changed the whole of the Reach as it had. And to be impacted so by the actions of those who planted it, their greed and excess, there was something to be learned even if the outcome could not be altered. He was, after all, only a little druid in a very large tale. 

The white tree might well have stood alone in the courtyard for it towered over everything around it. Shining pale and silvery as the hair that broke free of it’s braid and whipped about his face, Lyrenn stood for some time and simply looked. He felt he could feel the thrum of something old from where he was. Something deep. Something unsettled. Something sad.  He glanced to the staff in his hand. Such an unassuming thing, unworked and adorned in feathers and beads. But it had a story itself- one of his copse of trees that spanned the length of Quel’thalas, through which he could  see and feel all that happened down the coast of their lands. One of the trees that had warned him of the sickness spreading north along it’s roots. And one of the copse culled when the Sunguard had been pulled from this world into a land of shadow at the end of the Blood war. This was a branch he had pulled from that tree there in the dark wasteland, desperate to connect to anything that felt like home. And this was the branch the ever mysterious Ghilahim had imbued with the strange magic he wielded that was both nature and not, gifting it power and resonance and strangely, some manner of peace.  Lyrenn smiled, turning back to Enasal before moving closer. He could almost feel the tree shudder as he touched it, hand splayed flat against the smooth, white, bark. Held in his other hand his staff touched the ground while he acted as a conduit between the two. Invoked, the staff warmed in his touch, pale golden ghostlike petals scattering in the wind as it’s magic was called forth. It had been vested with a knowledge of life and mourning but also hope -always hope-  of healing. Leaning forward the druid pressed his forehead against the tree and closed his eyes. “I am sorry,” he whispered. Sorry for his people’s folly, for the pain they had caused in their ignorance or maliciousness. So desperately sorry for what had been done to Enasal and it’s nameless twin. His heart ached as he thought of it. To be so separate from your kith while they pained- to be the cause of it in any way. It hurt in a way he hadn’t expected, more personal than he’d realized though he didn’t understand why. “Please, tell me.” Tell me your truth. Tell me where Abelas found you, what magics brought you here and what I can do to save you and your sibling. Give me your knowledge and if I cannot save you- if we cannot save you- I will make sure you are not forgotten. 

Time meant little while he communed with Enasal, day could have sunk into night and the druid would have remained as he was, waiting for the story to end, watching the visions he was given with the rapt attention of a child. When he finally did pull away he was unsurprised to feel the small silvery cutting under his hand, given freely, in expectation. The breeze amid the courtyard continued and the looming white branches swayed as if Enasal was reaching longingly across the miles toward it’s stricken kin. 

[moonunveiled]

fallow fields

The fields east of the Reach were brittle and dry, dead and devoid of even the smallest insects. Lyrenn hadn’t even been able to find so much as a worm when he’d dug through the soil. Something was certainly poisoning the land then.  He’d been as unsurprised as Valera when the shaman’s spell pushed back against the winds blowing from the Aldmarsh. He’d been perhaps a bit more relieved. He had no way of directing wind like that. While he could call on nature in fits and bursts a consistent plea to the elements like that was far beyond his ken. He’d simply watched from afar as the draenei went about her work, before moving to the opposite end of the fields to assist with his own. Rejuvenating the land was something he could help with. Sticking his staff into the dirt until it stood on it’s own, the druid settled onto his knees beside it. While one hand held the staff the other curled fingers into the loose soil in front of him. Lyrenn leaned forward, bowing his head and closing his eyes. His own pleas were wordless, more feelings than thoughts. He could see, in his minds’s eye, how these fields had looked before. Like the memory of nature itself giving a glimpse into the past. He exhaled softly and  focused on that picture. On the life he felt in that frozen moment of time. Nature wanted it too, he could feel it. And slowly, it responded to his call. 

[moonunveiled]

wight pox

The wind that blew in off the water was colder than he would have imagined and he had to wonder if this had changed any over time or if his recollection of the western coast of Quel’thalas was only warmer in his memories. It still smelled of salt and sea however, and an almost sweet scent underneath that nearly gave him pause.  The illness was just as bad as had been reported. Homes had become prisons with families shuttered inside hoping to avoid infection or locked away with loved ones already suffering. Public buildings had already become make-shift infirmaries and then make-shift morgues. The small town hall building was lined with blanket covered corpses. The once open air market had been hastily turned into an infirmary, sheets and wooden panels erected to keep out the biting coastal wind. It was not like what he’d seen with Tyleril when they’d visited Kris. That village had been thoroughly overwhelmed and devastated. This one.. this still had time.  The illness didn’t seem to have a rhyme or reason, from what he could initially understand. The local healers reporting  that it came in waves and fits all at once. Horrifically but perhaps not surprisingly it seemed pregnant women and children were the first initial patients.  “It spread from there. We know the boils are contagious with contact but people not near anyone with them will fall sick too.” The young woman rang her hands, wiping them on the front of her dress for the second time. An apprentice to the local healer she’d never encountered something like this before. “Theres just so many. We can’t treat this many at once, not without help.” The illness was a progression. Boils turned to abscesses which festered until necrosis set in. The healers had begun treating the boils, trying to prevent that progression and applying wet salves and poultices when necrosis sat in. There was nothing to be done for the dead tissue once it began other than remove it and attempt to force new growth beneath. It was a sound method but without treating the source of the infection it would never end.  Lyrenn spent a deal of his time in the village moving through the side streets and edges of the settlement like a wraith, hands held out some as if feeling his way around the area. He paused to touch trees, knelt to feel the earth. They weren’t in the Aldmarsh’s backyard here but it was close enough that he had a suspicion. If nothing had changed inside the village, no one with a sickness had come in, then outside forces had to be at play. 

Further to the east, several miles from the village proper, he found a spring that sloped underground, disappearing from a pool beneath the earth to flow through caverns out to sea. With some luck, it would be where the village got it’s water. He’d seen a well, but had given it little thought at the time. Now though..   Pregnant women and children didn’t subsist on wine. If corruption in the water was to blame it would be quickest to find them. It was a hunch moreso than a certainty, but the druid could certainly do worse than attempt to cleanse a spring. If it worked all the better and if it were not the cause nothing would be lost. But first he needed some things, else whatever his affects were would be washed away with time. A more permanent cleansing totem might be useful, at least until they’d dealt with the Aldmarsh.

[moonunveiled]

of will

The whirring growls and expressive yips that began as soon as he entered his tent brought a smile. The white kit raised up on her back legs and hooked her paws on the edge of the crate that served as her bed. She’d picked up on the routine of Lyrenn’s departures and returns and seemed to celebrate every time her elf showed back up. Crumbling to his bedroll, he scooted until he could lift her from the wooden box filled with blankets and makeshift toys. “Hi to you too sweetpea.” The kit wiggled as best she could, still not quite coordinated enough to preform the acrobatics he was sure she’d get into as she aged. He curled her onto her back and pressed his face into her soft belly. Tiny paws pushed against him, and he could feel her stretching to try and grab a tasty looking elf ear with tiny teeth.  “Hungry?”  Setting her down he reached into his pack and withdrew a tin box, inside the many portions of dried meat from his own rations, set aside for her. He’d been hard pressed to find any milk supplement when she’d been found, and he’d been worried she wouldnt take to the powdered stuff reconstituted in water. Between them there was diet not easily accommodated by war.  “We might be puny but we’ll tough it out hm?” She growled seemingly on cue. Her presence eased the sadness of his tent mate’s death and added levity to otherwise bleak surroundings. But a glance at the empty space his fellow soldier had once filled turned his mind to thoughts of preparation. With Quel’danas on the horizon, perhaps it was time. 

Twisting where he sat, he picked up the journal and pen that had been gifted to him before all this began. Carefully he tore a page from he back and moved it to the front of the book, the first thing someone would see if it were opened. A glance at the fox kit and he began to write.

I, Lyrenn Moonveil, of sound mind, write this as my last request upon the event of my death. I do not name an executor but humbly ask whoever finds this to fulfill these few requests.  As I have no one to receive my belongings they may be distributed as needed, or wanted, if any should want any of it. Aside from this I ask:

My bracers be returned to Tyleril Silversword, as they were a gift. If he is not able to receive them I ask they go to his son, Samiel.  My journal be given to Rythriel Kel’thear.  My fox, Scritches. This is the most important, if nothing else is done please see her somewhere safe. Among my friends, we all march with the army and I do not know who may survive.  I will not make a last request that any care for her forever, as even a fox’s life is a long time for a request. But maybe they can see for her best interests.  Tyleril, as he found her first and has many adopted children.

Dalheim Windchaser, as a dear friend and keeper of promises.

Razail Dusksinger or Ashzouren Summerfall, both lovers of animals with the kindest hearts.

or Caelinda Dewfall, who I know knows foxes and has a soft spot for those in need I have no wishes for my remains.   Shorel’aran

@tyleril-silversword  @ash-summer @razxion @dalheim @caelindadewfall

[moonunveiled]

Battle of Quel’danas

The last thing he remembered was the sound of war horns.

And then.

Nothing.

When he came to, it was the distinct lack of noise that he noticed first. It seemed odd, but for a moment he couldnt figure out why. The world slowly brightened and came into focus and he found himself on his back, head turned and staring at the massive ballista blade that had embedded itself into the ground feet from his head.  Its sight jolted him and the last few minutes returned with clarity. With clarity came pain. Even the slightest movement caused him to gasp. His left shoulder felt on fire and he couldn’t move his arm. Glancing down told him why. The shaft of an arrow protruded from the space below his clavicle, blood staining his robes. Now that he was aware of it he could feel it, sticky and pooling. He also realized he was pinned under wooden sections of the tower he’d been standing on and lucky in the position they’d fallen. He could wiggle his toes inside his boots but not shift around enough to try and crawl from where he was.   The silence was slowly turning into a muffled ringing, increasing in volume as he mentally assessed himself. Slowly he reached up with his right hand and grasped a piece of the tower frame, pulling himself only to let go quickly. That was excruciating. He could hear his own harsh breaths amplified inside his head. It was the vibrations of many feet that made him tilt his head back and look toward the western gate.

The alliance had broken through and he was trapped. He could vaguely make out the glowing tattoos and flashes of leathery wings. Illidari. The Cabal was holding the gate. Looking back at the tower and ballista pieces that were scattered over top of him he noticed the edges of the wood smoldering. It wouldn’t take much for that to reignite. Lyrenn struggled briefly then to wiggle himself free of the rubble but every movement wrenched the arrow deeper into muscle and scratched the bone it had hit. He could feel his chest and arm spasm and forced himself to stop moving. He glanced back up toward the gate and could no longer see any signs of the Cabal.

His hearing came back in a rush then. The alliance advanced into the camp and the cry went out to fall back to the hill. All he could do was lay silent and watch, slipping in and out of consciousness. He closed his eyes, focusing on steadying his breathing and slowing his heart rate. If he could stave off shock maybe he could.. Something. Blond brows furrowed. He might be holding on only to be killed later. The sounds of battle continued. Eventually he rested his right hand in the grass beneath him. The grass sparked a thought and slowly he splayed his fingers, drawing magic from deep in the earth, willing life to grow. It was slow; his injuries and confusion were interfering with his grip on nature. Being cut off from the blood of Azeroth didn’t help. Still, the magic answered. Tiny vines broke from the muddy ground around him, curling around and through the wooden structure, growing in size as they sprouted. His concentration had nearly deafened him to the battle. Eventually his vines had grown in size and strength enough to exert force on the structure around him. They pushed upwards, wedging a gap and freeing him. Gritting his teeth he rolled and crawled free of the rubble, only just managing not to scream. A glance at the hill and he exhaled sharply. Propping himself against the structure, he reached for the arrow shaft and snapped it off at the end. He couldn’t remove it, but he could at least get the damn feathers out of his face. A shadow fell across the field then and he looked up, at a hawk circling the camp.

[moonunveiled]

sleep

He couldn’t sleep.

Even after the retreat. Even after the push of the main forces away from Darkwood, after hours of dutifully tending the wounded, after being pushed away toward his tent when his own bruises and blackened eye were looked after.  The drizzle of rain not quite cold enough to turn to snow peppered the tent canvas. It droned on into a buzz and he stared wide eyed at the wall, lamp blazing despite the hour. His tent-mate was gone and he dare not ask how. He hadn’t seen him in the infirmary which meant he could be one of the many dead back in Darkwood staring at a black sky. A feast for--

Lyrenn sat up, pushing hands through his hair hard enough to pull strands free. Curled in the blankets in her crate Scritches whined. The druid continued rubbing his palms against his scalp. It had touched him. Whatever that thing was had touched him. It had wrapped warped black tentacles around his wrist and thrown him across the field as the army had scattered. Pushing his sleeve up he could make out the red and purple bruising it had left further up his arm, where Tyleril's arm guards didn't reach. The bruising would fade. He didn’t think the images it shoved in his brain would ever disappear. Horrible, awful, things. Death and pain and torture and it delighted in it. He could feel it’s glee at his horror. At all of their panic. Thousands of gnashing teeth in a sea of black and purple, swirling and growing, suffocating and devouring.  He shook his head violently, stopping only to throw himself at his satchel nearby, digging through it’s contents until he found the vial he was looking for. Dreamless sleep, the label said. So much more potent than the tea that he’d never dared to use it. And what if dreamless didn’t mean without nightmares of void and rot?  Lyrenn debated the consequences a moment before a full body shudder had him twisting the cap free and throwing back his head to down the bottle. He would drown them out or drown, but anything was better than this.

[moonunveiled]

You (Laireth writing)

I remember you. Bits and pieces have floated to the surface in the years since by mind was freed. It started, as it always does, with my death. The end of whatever man I had been and the beginning of what I am now.  For the longest time I could not combine the two. It seemed incomprehensible to me. I scoffed at others who spoke of their lives before as anything other than a far away world they could never return to. I think perhaps I envied them, even if I failed to recognize that emotion for what it was. While they became aware of  all they had lost I... felt nothing.  Remembered nothing. 

My past came much slower, in pieces like shattered glass. They stabbed deep, even then.  The way undead had flooded the estate. How our father had ran to the gates, his smithing hammer in his hand. I recalled his last words, as he bid me to the house to protect the girls.   The girls.   I remembered them too. Their screams that ended after I’d fallen.  Flashes of a brutal end and a life I held no emotions for.  It took longer to recall other things. The most overwhelming of these was home. My homeland. The tall forests and wide fields. The crashing of waves on high cliffs overlooking the sea. I wondered what had become of it.  I missed it.  Even if whatever family I had was gone -and I did believe them gone- I felt a longing to return home.  Icecrown had been a tomb and when news of the alliance movement on the Eastern Kingdoms reached even there I abandoned Northrend. The first regiment I was pointed to was one recently embraced by the state. One that apparently tolerated or even welcomed the kingdom’s once dead sons and daughters.  I slid into step with soldiers like me. My only interest lay with protecting whatever this place still was. It felt a stronger calling than tearing apart undead had been at the throat of the world.

And then I saw you.  

I saw you and I knew you. And memories once broken were suddenly made more whole. You were there, in the tall trees. You were there collecting shells by the sea with the girls. You were at the smithy. At the stables. In the estate. I knew you. Your meaning and place was as real as the names of the swords on my side. Kith and Kin. 

 And you were alive. 

[moonunveiled]

He’d never gone that far south before. Others had, of course, but he’d stayed to the city proper for as long as he could because even ruined and chaotic it was safer than anything that still lurked outside it’s walls.  But weeks and months of scrounging and scraping had left Silvermoon a barren desert. What food that wasn’t eaten quickly was spoiled beyond salvation and even then they’d choked it down for want of anything else. Starvation forced survivors into Eversong in search of anything to eat. Rice or beans still safe in storage pots, dried meats or fruits tucked safely into a larder by some thoughtful mother or grandmother. Fruits and berries and nuts that survived the taint of undeath. What game was left had been razed or fled deeper into the woods where undead things still roamed. It was a dangerous trek to comb the forest floors for mushrooms or edible roots but the hunger was gnawing and endless and it forced one to make decisions or wither away slowly in an alley. Even when food was found the pangs of their mana addiction meant little relief came with it.  He’d been sharper when he’d started. Stealing out of the city walls and scurrying south, hiding and pausing, listening for the tell-tale sound of shuffling through the trees. He’d found he was able to creep through the woods and rifle through buildings despite the way his heart pounded like it might shatter his ribs. He was too hungry to be frozen in fear.  As time went on, and the scarcity grew, he was forced further south to find anything at all. He could feel his senses dulling. The preoccupation with finding nourishment had left him vulnerable and slow. Digging grubs and ants out of fallen logs became a single minded focus and single minded focus got one killed. He’d heard it coming but he hadn’t recognized the sound. 

He heard it now often as he fell asleep. 

[moonunveiled]

He felt too warm. 

Scritch played in the empty side of the tent, eternally chasing and pouncing her walnut. Desiccated, it rattled in it’s shell, an enticing noise to chase about. Meanwhile Lyrenn wrote. He wrote mundane thoughts and practical lists. The day to day moments, phrased as letters he’d never send. He wrote his secrets too. These he tore carefully from the journal, folded into thin strips of inked paper, and added to the lamp flame lighting the tent. As if he could burn those thoughts to ash as easily as his words.

[moonunveiled]

not alone

“Moonveil??”  The voice seemed at least as much frustrated as it was confused, but there was an audible sigh of relief when Lyrenn nodded yes. The strangely large crate was thrust forward against the blond’s chest and the moment he’d taken control of it the courier retreated. “Direct to you.”

Ah, no wonder he was annoyed. He’d spent who knew how long searching for Lyrenn while the druid had been hours in the forest doing.. whatever druids did out there. At least as far as the poor frozen courier was concerned. Putting his hands to his mouth to blow warm breath between them, the elf turned on his heel and was away to deliver less bulky things.

Lyrenn watched him go for a moment before looking questioningly down at the crate. A note taped to the top had him hurrying to his tent. His bunk mate was missing for the evening- likely on watch or enjoying a night of stories about a fire- so Lyrenn plopped himself down on his bedroll and reached to ignite the flame in the lamp hanging from a pole in the center of the tent. The faint light was more than enough to read the letter by

              Son- I found this animal not far from the camp with others that were to                        far gone for me to save. I did what I could- the paw has frostbite                         and I fed her some water and dried meat from my rations- but she                       has not taken kindly to me. Would it be to much to ask if you could                       watch her until the morn? I wish I didn't have to ask and burden                           you but I fear leaving her alone and you're one of the few the Light                      has whispered can watch her.  If you cannot send her back with                            the Courier. Be good. I love you.      -Tyleril

                    P.S. Her name is Skritches.

Lyrenn stared at the note for a moment, lingering on the last line before the post script before a noise from the box had him reaching for the lid. An immediate whirring growl split the silence. He paused, setting the lid of the box down and peering into the crate. Inside huddled a fox cub. She had shoved herself into the corner furthest from him, tail curled around as if to hide her. Her ears flattened and a sound somewhere between a whine and a warning came again. She was white, though the tips of her fur seemed almost blue. Dark eyes watched him warily, and Lyrenn turned to pull his meat rations to him. He was suddenly thankful he’d kept them. “Here now bit, be calm.” He fished a piece of jerky from the tin and offered it out, at the edge of the box so not to crowd her. At first the fox snapped, a high pitched growl bouncing around the box. Her shuffling let him see the bandage wrapped foot Tyleril had written about.  “I know...” He cooed, “I know.. you’re scared and hurt and alone. You’ve lost your family all at once and that should never happen. I’m sorry. I can’t bring them back or replace them, and it will never be the same. But maybe I can help a bit, yeah? You're not alone now. And happy will come again.” He watched her watch him, little head tilting a the sound of his voice. It would take a lot of this, he figured, before she chanced to take that meat.

“You and I have a lot in common you know. My brother would have loved you. My sisters.. would probably want to put bows around your neck..”

@tyleril-silversword, for mentions

[moonunveiled]

About Lyrenn

Bold what applies best to your muse or italicize if it sometimes applies. Feel free to add options onto any section if you feel something is missing!

CLOTHING MAKES THE (WO)MAN

Do they wash their makeup off before going to bed? Yes | Sometimes(eyeliner) | No | Doesn’t wear makeup

Do they wear socks? Yes | No | Sometimes I Tights (if they do wear socks Azeroth Pusheen)

What do they usually wear to bed? Nothing | Undergarments | Pajamas I A Nightgown | Pajama pants | Whatever they were wearing that day | Tomorrow’s clothes (if she feels the need to change)

Are they… Fashion over function | Function over fashion | Trendy but values function too

Their clothes are usually… Stained | Raggedy | Like new | Well worn | Depends on the clothing

FINANCES? LET’S SEE

How do they handle their money? Blows through the entire paycheck | Sets some money aside, spends the rest as needed over time | Holds onto it as long as possible, spending here and there | Lives past their means

How do they handle their bills? Sets aside bill money each cheque | Pays them right away | Pays them last minute | They’re frequently overdue

What are they most likely to buy? Food | Clothes | Hobby supplies | Work supplies | Trinkets | Movies | Games | Spend it on others | Charity | Books | Alcohol | Drugs | Technology

AN APPLE A DAY

How often do they get exercise? Frequently, as a hobby | Frequently, from work | Somewhat, from a hobby | Somewhat, from work | Never

Do they drink? Always | Often | Sometimes | On rare occasions | Never

Do they do drugs of any kind? Yes | Sometimes | No

Do they smoke? Yes | Sometimes | No

What ailments do they have? Blind | Deaf | Physical handicap | Bipolar | DID | Gender dysphoria | Body dysphoria | Amnesia | Depression | Anxiety | Learning disability | Asthma | Food allergies | Other allergies | Insomnia | Migraines | Mute | Epilepsy

EDUCATION MATTERS

What education have they reached? None | Elementary/Primary | Middle/Secondary | High/Tertiary | College, Bachelors (Azeroth Equivalent) | College, Masters (Azeroth Equivalent) | College Doctorate (Azeroth Equivalent) | GDA | Workforce training (apprenticeship) | Independent study

Do they frequently learn new skills? Yes | On occasion | Only as needed | Not usually

How do they learn best? Visually | By ear | Hands-on | Logically | Socially | On their own

Tagged by: @asneakyrogue

Tagging: @tyleril-silversword @razxion @ash-summer @shampoocommercialelves @caelindadewfall & anyone else pls

[moonunveiled]

run

He had been told once that druids traveled to the Dream in their sleep. It made sense. He still wasn't sure if he had ever done as much, despite the few stunningly viceral dreams he could remember. Generally painted with a vivid brush and filled with all manner of flora and fauna, he had wandered several life like dreams over time and wondered where they had come from.

Perhaps now he knew.

This dream was different. The thick forest was the same, and the birdsong, and the crickets. It was night, as it so often was. Or was it dusk? He couldn't tell. The light shifted and moved- he could see a only bit of moon through the trees but there was enough light to brighten his path.

As always these woods felt familiar yet distant, like a memory long locked away.

Malorne hovered as he always did just outside the blood elf's sight. Moving through the dense trees like a ghost, the stag lead the way through the dreamscape. Lyrenn followed dutifully, watching flowers and vines rise from the wild god's footsteps.

He only noticed the quiet when the moon's light failed. Turning his eyes skyward he watched clouds block out the white lady's face.

An eerie stillness reined.

Lyrenn looked around him, dismayed at the change. Where healthy life had been was only death. The birdsong and night sounds had died away and washed in greys the forest seemed sinister. He turned to follow Malorne's path and caught himself before he fell.

The stag was there, facing him this time. Mere feet apart, he could feel the god's breath on his face, his soft gaze ruthless without his love's light touch. Lyrenn held his breath, wordless questions filling his head.

Malorne's gaze didn't waver. And the toneless echo of intent he felt so often from the stag reverberated to his bones when it came.

Wake. It said. Wake and run.

He drew in a silent breath as he woke, eyes open and alert in the empty night. It was dark. Their fire had been snuffed out. Instantly Lyrenn felt afraid.

Tilting his head slightly he could see the outline of Rythriel in the dark. The ranger was knelt to shake him, but his focus was somewhere else. On something lurking in the trees.

@thesunguardmg

pt2: here

[moonunveiled]

Claimed

He hadn't been part of the forward guard breaking through the alliance ranks and pushing into enemy lines. Instead Lyrenn had found himself among the rear units, tasked with establishing perimeters and tending to the dead and wounded left in the wake of the sunguard's ferocious offensive. The thunder of canons and cracking of gun blasts mingled with shouts and screams and the occasional terrifying roar. Magic and fire lit the sky ahead of them as they advanced, the healers waiting for word before rushing to work on men and women left too wounded to continue with their comrades.

Very few of the Kul'tirans survived the initial push, and those who did lay waiting for death in alleyways, broken and bleeding. Most didn't wait long. Lyrenn had only found one still breathing.

He'd slurred, fumbling with his helmet until it tumbled to the street slick with blood. The human didn't seem to register he was surrounded by his enemy, abandoned and bleeding out. Red ran in rivers down his young face and he struggled to stand despite wounds that made the feat impossible. Lyrenn knelt beside him, reaching out to try and still his efforts, struck by how easily he could be one of them if just for longer ears.  “Shh..” Before he could more than coo the flat of a blade was pushed against the human’s chest, forcing him back to the ground. Cold cut between them as physical as the sword, colder than air that brought Quel’thalas’s first snow in centuries. When Lyrenn followed the line of the weapon up he found equally cold blue eyes looking at him from beneath a dark hood. A death knight. The elf’s voice was hollow and distorted when he spoke. “Death has claimed that one. Tend to those still salvageable.”  Pulling the blade away the elf dressed in black turned to continue following the host, a wraith of winter in his element.  Lyrenn turned back to the human only to find empty eyes staring up toward the sky. Gently he released the man’s arm and stood, unable to muster enough anger to feel incensed at the death knight’s words or actions. A call was given nearby -wounded needing aid-  and he turned to respond.

@thesunguardmg

[moonunveiled]

sleeping

The fields were sleeping now. Even in his dreams they slept. In the dark shaded land of nightmares that so differed from the emerald colored world he often walked when he slept- the forests were wrong.  No magic flowed here. No druid care maintained these forests. These fields and streams were empty. 

The only thing that moved here was slowly falling snow. It covered the greenery in a blanket of white. It turned the trees to leafless ghosts. It was cold and he walked this silent landscape alone. Lost, he wandered. 

The forest dissolved into a field. The horizon stretched on for miles ahead but in every direction snow. The sky loomed grey and sun and moon hid from sight. The sounds of battle turned his head. Far away the crack and flash of magic and steel lit up the darkness. He hurried toward the fighting, watching elves fall from a distance to enemy mortars and magic. And he gained no ground. He raised his arms to call on nature and felt hollow cold seep through his bones.

The fields were sleeping.

What could he call on when nature was frozen beneath his feet?

Another sound, this time from behind. Hoofbeats. The ringing of metal and breathing of many mouths. Re-enforcements. He stopped his running and turned, a sigh of relief that froze in his throat.

 The bannermen raised blue flags.

He could hear his fellows raising the call behind him. They were routed. Turn about. Split the defense. 

Survive.

The hollow in his bones filled. His arms found the sky. Hands gripped nothing in shaking fists as he forced the earth to hear him. Reached through frost and snow, gripped the sleeping magic and ripped it from it’s slumber. Mighty trees on either side of the approaching cavalry shook, snow falling from ancient boughs. 

Forgive me.

One fist and then the other were wrenched toward the ground. He hit his knees in the snow as trees older than the elven kingdom itself responded to his call. They shook and groaned, limbs cracking before crashing, uprooted, down on the advancing enemy. Snow and earth were shot upward like waves beneath the force, and several more trees gave root to fall like massive barriers, blocking the alliance’s path and killing their soldiers.  His fists opened and his bones felt cold.

“Would you fight for your land, your people, your comrades? What would you give?” “Everything.”