#Sunguard glass

[guardianglass]

In 2023, the Indian glass products industry stands at the forefront of innovation and quality. Notably, the production of glass for uPVC windows has witnessed a remarkable surge.

[gujaratguardianglass]

SunGuard® High Durable Colours Blue Glass Online - Gujarat Guardian Glass

Gujarat Guardian SunGuard® High Durable Colours Blue Glass provides great solar insulation for your project, as well as vibrant colour. To get SunGuard® HD Colours Blue glass, click here!

[arqbrasil]

Controle solar SunGuard Âmbar

Controle solar SunGuard Âmbar

Novo produto da Guardian Glass com tonalidade âmbar confere estética diferenciada e conforto térmico a projetos comerciais e residenciais. A Guardian Glass lança o novo vidro de controle solar SunGuard Âmbar. Com tonalidade âmbar/bronze, o produto chega para suprir a demanda crescente da arquitetura comercial e residencial por vidros com grande impacto estético, que aliam o conforto térmico e a…

[thepilgrimofwar]

Bladeborn

As the House Guards of Emberheart carried bodies from the manor, the boy ruler made his way towards the guest rooms. With a trembling hand, he made his way past the fireplace, where Zarannis stared into the hearthfire. Stenden thought best not to disturb her. He then made his way to one of the other guest rooms, where Vaelrin was plying himself with what alcohol he had gathered- and been given by Zarannis. The boy bowed his head and moved past that room, until he came upon another occupied room. Inhabited by one who would possibly be in a better mind to speak to- Especially when it came with the gravity of the request he was about to make.

Stenden knocked and the knock on the door caught the youth inside by surprise.

Vissehn grabbed for his tunic, tugging it on over the bindings at his chest, grumbling to himself. He had planned on a bath, to wash the blood off, but it had taken the better part of an hour to find a place that fit his very specific and paranoid needs. He doubted that the servants to the Emberhearts would race to tell the tel’dorei that the towheaded fighter didn’t seem as male under the cloth as he looked, but he also couldn’t cross off the possibility.

And with the Oracle damned and dead, it was more obvious than ever that he had to keep his shit under wraps-- literally, and figuratively, as it were.

Ruffling his birdsnest of pale hair, he went to the door, buckling his belt even as he looked over… the boy lord of the manor.

“Aw, fuck.” He sighed. “Am I gettin’ kicked out? You don’t gotta be all polite about it, I figured I might.” He looked Stenden up and down, a twinge of sympathy threading through him. He really did look like his uncle. More so than his father, really; there was a serious determination to his brow that was all Sederis, and not Solli-the-stick-in-the-mud. “Just let me get my shit together, kid-- er, m’lord? Fuck, yer a kid, right?”

Stenden tucked his trembling hand behind his back and spoke with a bemused smile. “You’re not getting kicked out. In fact, you’re an honored guest of the family- So-” he gestured at his unkempt appearance- A hastily draped tunic and a half buckled belt. “Don’t- worry about- all that-”

The Lord of the Emberglades suppressed the urge to laugh, doing his best to keep up the airs of nobility in the face of someone so close to his age. It was the first moment of levity he had had all day.

“But I am here to make a request, so, may I come in?”

The smile on the other lad looked about as thin as the years between them, and so it was easy to reply. “Hey, yeah, come on in. It’s yer house, really, I’m just soilin’ your sheets yanno?” He snorted awkwardly and moved out of the way to let the young lord enter.

The room was, despite Vissehn’s claim, incredibly neat, as though no one had been in the space at all. Only the sheets looked mussed, and a chair brought near the window. The window was, however, open-- and there were definite signs that the youth had been gallivanting out on the rooftops and beyond, in the form of a curtain shoved into the lock, and mud on the edge of the sil.

Drawing the chair back to the table quick as a flash, Viss sat in it backward and patted the table. “Go on, take a seat.” His eyes flicked over Stenden’s features. He felt the question on his lips-- but it seemed too unkind to ask, too fresh. He would likely be asked by so many others, if this was his first taste of war, if these were the first deaths he bore witness to.

Vissehn knew the weight of those questions. He wouldn’t add to it.

“So, whatcha comin’ in for, if not to toss me out on my ass? Not that any’d blame you, really. We’re all just lucky I got a fleabath before they let me in here.” He jibed, leaning his chin on his crossed forearms on the back of the chair.

Stenden stepped inside, noted the window and the associated shenanigans, and tried his best to ignore it. He took a seat, also ignoring the mud he had been tracking into the room. The servants were not going to be happy about this. The smile turned to a stifled snort.

“Lirelle said I had the finest warriors in the Kingdom, all gathered here. I will admit Mr.Bladeborn, that you don’t look the part.” By the sounds of those words coming out of his mouth, it didn’t sound the part either. “Can I just call you Vissehn?”

“Gods, anything but Mister Bladeborn, I think Sederis called me that once and I almost popped a vessel from either laughin’ or hurling.” He snorted and ruffled his hair further, just to have something to do with his hands. “An’ Lirelle’s kind, for a dead scary woman. I’m more used to bein’ a courier.” He waggled his brows at Stenden. “Gets me in a lot of doors, and no one tends to think much about the post-person.”

Still he leaaaaaned sideways, looking over Stenden. “You don’t look much like a lord, neither, but I ain’t casting aspersions.” He drew out the last word, obviously having read it without hearing it much. “Got your mothers’ complexion and your uncle’s brow, but I got a feeling you get a fair portion of your father’s smarts. So!” He sat up and clapped. “Call me Vissehn, I’ll call you Stenden, and we’ll forget that neither of us looks the parts we’re bout to play, huh?”

“Deal,” Stenden extended his hand to shake on it.

Vissehn spat in his palm and shook with the young Lord. "Ceremonial, rightly so." The sparkle in his eyes showed it really wasn't but honestly that was far from the worst fluid they'd gotten on them that day.

The boy took his hand and shook, firm, joining him in the ritual of mutual nastiness. They were now partners- Not quite like blood-brothers- More like… Spit-brothers. Luckily for Stenden, this hadn’t been his first encounter to the ritual. Unlike Sederis who did not have a childhood shared with the low-borns of the realm, Stenden had spent many a time playing with the children at Dawnveil.

“I’ll be brief Vissehn. The Emberglades are going to war. I don’t know who my friends are. I don’t know if I’ll win this. But if I can borrow your strength, I can promise you that you’ll have a place here in the Heartlands.” Stenden spoke, with a mix of gravity and levity that was absent earlier. “If this war isn’t for you, I could still have you do be a courier.”

The firm handshake brought a smile to Vissehn’s features, something a shade softer. The kid was alright. He resisted the urge to ruffle Stenden’s hair, some deep-seated place of affection stirred by Stenden’s untimely burdens.

“I’m good for it.” He released Stenden’s hand and resumed leaning with his chest to the chair’s front. “I’ve gotten a fair hand at killin’ things now, which says summat I’m sure, but I’d rather it be for a cause than not for one.” He reached blindly to the table and-- after a pat or three-- found what he sought; a bottle of the local brew, which had been forgotten in his haste to attend the funeral and then the subsequent difficulty of bath-locating.

He took a long pull, pulled a face and put the bottle down. “Now. Before you sign off on your pretty friend Fish being a soldierboy, I got a counteroffer.” He had swept the room for enchantments minutes before the lordling entered, and he felt like the news he was about to share was less sensitive even than his gender.

“I did courier work, yeah, for the Sunguard and the Hawks and all. I also did good behind, let’s say, enemy lines. Got papers where they needed to go… and stopped a few too.” He waggled a brow. “I got a few friends I can reach out to, sees what I can pull, maybe get some of those friends where they’ll do some good in Ilithia, it was called, right?”

He paused. “Now. I’m not doing this cause I’m a sufferin’ saint, like half of yer uncles friends… nor am I a wardog like the other half, though I could be in a few years. I’m a survivor.” He leaned forward in the chair so he met Stenden’s eyes. “I got red in my ledger I plan to make black. Your uncle did right by me and mine… more than I can say.” A flush crept up the youths face, and he needed to look away, at the dark glass of the bottle. “So this is payment back. Whatever you wanna offer, you offer, but know I’d let ye piss on my name and call me curr and I’d still do this cause of Sederis.”

Stenden took in this information with great interest. If the Emberglades did not have the strength to win this war by force, an agent- Another agent- would do well to turn the tides of battle. Besides, while his father had an agent in the form of former Logistics Offier Beathyn Val’cinder, the Lord of the Emberglades figured that it would be prudent to have an agent of his own.

“You know, our coffers are likely to be empty of coin for awhiles yet but...” he began leaning forward to meet the boy’s gaze opposite him. “When this war is over, there are a few Lords that are likely to be removed and their lands will need to be… Shall-we-say, redistributed.” The Lord of the Emberglades broke into an unexpected grin. Playing to his new friend’s… Shall-we-say, hobo-ness, Stenden spoke up with a lilt.

“What would you say to a house?” He let the suggestion sink in for a moment before playfully rubbing his chin. “Wait- Maybe a field- Some land perhaps? But the maintenance of those will put you deeper into the red… So some farmhands?” Stenden clapped his hands together. “What say you, to a minor title? Yes! Be an agent on my behalf and you’ll have yourself a farmstead and peasants of your own to boot.”

The young man listened, watching the way levity made Stenden seem his age at last. The immediate rancor he typically felt when discussing the landed was therefore muted by the warmth he had for the other youth, and so when he spoke it was kindly.

“Oy, that’s a hell of an offer there, but not the first I’ve garnered.” He waggled his brows. “I’m not exactly the type yon good-and-true elves of the land are gonna tip hats to.” He flicked hair away from his short and honestly stubby ears. Tracing the edge with one finger, Vissehn’s voice went a shade softer. “I’m a mutt, through and through. I don’t need land or titles, but if’n you can sort some of those means and ends towards improving the livelihood of your less fortunates… specially those who don’t put down roots, well, I’ll have done my square part on looking after my fellows.” 

He smiled then, a subdued thing that brought the softness of certain parts of his face into stark relief with the wild and fae mien he typically wore. “There’s a whole passel of mutts like me who need someplace to wander. If your borders’ll be open to ‘em, I’d consider it a way to bring all that black and red into some kind of balance.”

If Stenden was looking his age, Vissehn was not keeping his cover very well around the other no-longer-a-child.

“If you want a reason for me to be stickin’ around after alls said and done, just lemme know. I’m a roustabout by nature but I could see cooling my heels here, near the Dawnbrooks an’ the Emberhearts. I’m a fair courier, fair in a fight, and got some unfinished business here abouts that would be easier to accomplish if I had a place, but say… not necessarily landed or well known.” He shrugged and leaned back so his elbows rested on the chairback, one leg bouncing.

“Ah,” Steden verbalized when he caught sight of Vissehn’s ears. It’d have been fine with him, perhaps, but the average peasant? The crown? He didn’t believe that giving out such a gift would go down well with either. “I can do borders. The Broken Bulwark will need resettling and I feel like a more… Accepting sorts are likely to resettle those broken lands.”

But he smiled again. “So that settles it then, and I’ve got myself my very own agent.” In lighter times without the same gravity upon them, he supposed his first task that he’d give his new friend would be to harmlessly prank his father in some way. But war was upon them, and the reality of the situation began to weigh on him once more.

“Glad to have you aboard Vissehn. Now about the help you said you could get me…”

Quickly spinning the chair back towards the table, Vissehn dropped onto one knee. “Naw, Stenden, we’re gonna do this official like.” He looked over the table and grabbed a quill, and shoved it into the young lord’s hands. 

He clasped his own around Stenden’s a moment, serious eyes despite his grin. “Induct me into yer service, Lord Emberheart, an’ I’ll serve ye loyal in any capacity I might for as long as you do good by the Tel’dorei. I might be a bastard and a halfbreed and a dirty spy, but I’m good as my oaths and you’ll want to make this… deal.” The word makes his smile turn bitter but it remains intact, as his hands remain on Stenden’s.

Stenden wiped his hand on his shirt and cleared his throat, getting back into character. Rising to his feet, he tried his best to dull the smile on his face to something more regal, but a hint of it remained. He grasp a nearby parchment and started to pen the terms described in curls of cursive, and ensured that mentions of open borders to the boy’s people were included- Emphasized even.

Because the boy, despite his adherence to the traditions of his station and his land, did not just want to maintain what came before. But to build a better realm. Something that his uncle wanted, but could never achieve.

“I, Lord Emberheart, hereby induct you into the service of my family.” He states as he signs off on the document. He hands it over to him, and as a symbolic gesture, offers his hand to Vissehn. No titles. No absurd formalities past what was required.

--

Art by CD Projekt Red

@retributionpriest​ @stormandozone​

[jessipalooza]

Journey to the Vale

Esme woke before dawn. She had always. It was something that lingered, even when unnecessary. Over a century of the same sleeping patterns is hard to shake, even if she tried to do so. Her eyes opened easily and she took in a deep breath to distinguish it from the rhythmic breathing of the man beside her. He was fast asleep and radiating warmth. He was also snoring every few seconds. 

Quiet and as light-footed as ever, she slipped out from under the covers and went about her morning routine. She stretched. She washed her face. She brushed her hair. She pulled on dark brown pants of supple leather and a thin, white cotton blouse. She shrugged herself into a blue silk vest and laced herself into knee-high boots of an even darker leather. She stretched again. 

With a glance back to the slumbering felmancer, he was granted a small smile even if he did not know it. Then she left. Down the east wing she walked, casting a small frown towards a few of the cracked windows and crumbled molding. The intricately weaved rugs in sun-bleached blue and muted gold had been washed and brushed, but there were parts that remain singed and damaged. The east wing did not take the brunt of the damage from the Black Bloods, however.

Esme turned to wander down the grand staircase and felt the kiss of the cold wind. No longer was there a large glass wall with double doors to go through and enter the aviary. There was nothing. It was shattered as was the dome of the aviary itself. Some of the foliage inside - large, weeping willows, tall and far-reaching oaks, fluffy bushes, lush grass - had been saved, but much of it had been eaten away as though by acid. Not even branches were left among the black, crisped ground. The pond in the middle had been drained of all its water and the forge in the center that used to be home to the phoenixes, Little Prince and Sprout, was crushed under the large gold statue of what the birds were in life. 

Eventually, the aviary would be rebuilt, but the rest of Embertree was more important and needed to come first. It was a decision that Faervell did not disagree with. It was a decision that Captain of the Guard Baclen Highstar would have been proud of. 

If he were still alive. 

Esme crossed the marbled threshold of the grand entryway, careful of the chips and gouges, and made her way down the west wing to the kitchens knowing full well that Teresa would not be there.

Teresa was still alive, but had been assisting with the towns, ensuring that the few workers they still had were well-fed. In order to do so, she was out of the estate even before Esme woke up. She was best suited to the house and complained about not being in Embertree Court, but Esme never asked her to go to the towns. Teresa did that of her own accord. She complained, but she found it important and Faervell had floated the idea to Esme that Teresa did it as a way to honor Baclen. Faervell whispered that he thought Teresa might have been a little bit in love with the Captain of the Guard. 

As suspected, Teresa was not in the kitchens, but there was still a cup of coffee that had been enchanted to remain warm. It was sitting beside a small cup of fruit and a plate with broiled fish with lemon curry butter and a slice of toast meant to soak up the butter. Another place setting sat across the butcher block island, and it was clearly meant for Faervell: biscuits smothered in gravy and chopped up thick slices of bacon, fatty sausages, and two large eggs sprinkled with chives and garlic. Next to the plate were two glasses that held water in one and milk in another. 

Esme shook her head, still incapable of understanding how Faervell could eat so much, but she filled herself up on her fish, ate the toast, saved the fruit for last, and drained the cup of coffee. By the time she finished and left, dawn had come and the sky began to tinge a beautiful purple and orange. 

Standing outside of Embertree Court, she cast a glance back towards the tower in the distance, the Hunting Lodge. It was normal. The building itself took minimal damage from the Black Bloods, but of course, it was enchanted to be a strong hold. No longer did it serve the purpose of housing hunting parties of drunken men that celebrated their managing to take down not one, not two, but three stags. The building’s purpose was no longer to have animals butchered in its lower levels and hung as decorations in its upper levels. It had a darker purpose. 

Esme had gifted it to Faervell as a place to practice his magic. Whether it was practice with fel fire or summoning demons - something she especially hated - it was built to last and contain whatever was within. In doing so, the wards on the building were strong. They had strained against the Black Bloods, but had held all the same. Faervell was always good with curses and wards, and the building standing was a testament to that. 

But Esme was not interested in how the building still stood. Her thoughts trailed off to what lie within. On the bottom floor, tucked under what looked like glass, was a drop of sludge. It looked like the remnants of the Black Bloods - black and purple in color with a consistency of congealed blood. But it was not wholly of the Black Bloods. It could not be. The rest of whatever was left from those creatures had gone away. They had all but evaporated when the Sunguard had defeated them. All of the lands that had held any trace of such things were clean. Wounded, injured, yes, but clean. 

How had this bit, enough to hold in one’s hand if one were stupid enough, remained? Faervell had claimed he felt something more than just old gods. Shadow and void both, he had said. He knew best, of course. Magic was his field. But Esme could not help but feel as though there was more to it. She could not help but feel that while Faervell was right, neither was he completely right. 

With a deep breath, Esme turned away from the Lodge. It was something they were working on together. Something that Faervell would no doubt begin to look into as soon as he woke up. It was not something she needed to think on for now, even if the worry still crept in the back recesses of her mind that whatever the thing was, it was dangerous and oh so very close to the place she now called home. 

She shook her head and lifted her fingers to her mouth. A sharp whistle followed, carrying over the meadows and echoing through the expanse of the surrounding field. She only needed to wait for a few moments before she saw something shift in the tall grass. A flash of orange darted between purple and blue flowers. The tall wheat-like grass parted and bounding towards her was Amon, his fur the color of her hair, the color of sunset. His large bushy fox’s tail wagged and he excitedly rounded her a few times before nudging his nose against her hip so that he could slip his head beneath her arm. 

He was much larger than any fox. It was no doubt a side effect of the curse that had lay over Embertree before, as were his blue eyes that appeared to hold a glow not unlike her own. But he did not have any of the animosity that the controlled animals had before. He was free, and he had been domesticated before his long stint of being in the wild and being changed by magic. His saddle was still in place, soft and made specifically for him. And as soon as Esme reached for it, he obediently crouched down so that she could slip onto his back with ease. 

He enjoyed being ridden, and though Esme would not admit it aloud, she enjoyed riding him. Holding on to the thick fur of Amon’s neck, she said in Thalassian, “Go.”

The two went east. He was as swift and slippery as a fox ought to be, weaving through grass and over hills with ease. He did not have to stick to riding paths like many horse’s favored. It made the journey to the border easy. It made the ride shorter, easier, and quieter. The two went into greater Quel’thalas and kept going into the mountains, slowing only whenever a party of travelers might stop by. 

Most of the time, such travelers were not looking for conversation much less trouble. Every so often, one would recognize Esme and call her Fleet Commander or Pathfinder of the Sunguard. Sometimes she corrected them, sometimes that took much effort. She had found a way to tell if they were being polite or if they were scared. If she saw relief in their faces when they referred to her as Spectre or Sunward, she allowed them to do so. She had not the heart to tell them that her oath was gone, that the Sunguard was disbanded. Let them think she is still there as a soldier to protect. They would not be wholly wrong. 

“Almost there,” she said to Amon, offering the fox a pat to his neck. He was panting, but happily so. He had been running for hours, which was no doubt a treat after her had been stuck in Embertree for the last few weeks. He sniffed almost everything they passed and seemed so excited by it all that Esme allowed him to wander off course more than once before easing him back. 

As they continued to ride, she saw their goal over the rise. What used to be large gates of what might have been gold were crumbled and leaning against the mountains around them, tired and destroyed and burned. Whatever ‘acid’ the Black Bloods had, it had tarnished what used to shine. Miraculously, the doors still stood and they also remained closed. Likewise, guards dutifully flanked either side of the gate with spears in hand, and they immediately turned their eyes onto Esme as she approached. 

Esme knew suspicion and could sense it in the air. It was a familiar emotion to her and she did not blame either of the guards for feeling it. She did not look like a normal visitor. She had no party with her, nor did she bear any seal. Had it been a month or so before, it would have been easier. They would have seen the crimson and gold tabard and let her in without a second thought. Of course, they would have been crawling with Black Bloods as well. 

She took a breath to shout a greeting, but a whistle rang through the air, getting louder as it got closer. Thankfully, Amon moved of his own accord and jerked to the side - just as an arrow sunk into the soil left behind. Two more whistles and Esme gripped onto the fox, entrusting him to dodge the arrows. 

Ah, so that was how it would be. Fantastic. Never were things easy.

“STAY YOUR BOWS!” Esme shouted as Amon whipped to one side and bared his teeth at the guards, even though they had not lifted a single hand between them. Archers must be hidden in the mountains. 

“Stay your bows!” she shouted. “I am--”

Another two arrows whistled through the air and landed. One was only a few inches from Amon’s back paw and Esme felt a small spike of anxiety and a flash of anger. 

“STAY YOUR BOWS!” she yelled louder. “MY NAME IS KNIGHT-CAPTAIN ESME SUNSHARD OF EMBERTREE! OF SHALLOWBROOK!”

As Amon readied a dart to the other side, the guards conversed and one - a woman with a deep pitch - called out, “Hold!” but too late. Another arrow swept through the sky, arching, and landing in front of Esme and Amon.

The same guard lifted her chin. “Zalin Shadowsunder wrote ahead of your visitation.”

“And you still shot at me?” Esme shouted back, exasperated. 

Neither guard looked bothered by the question, nor what spurred it. The other guard, a man, said simply, “We did not know that you were she. Now we know. You are expected. The Lady Voidsunder will see you.”

Esme’s brows twitched. She was annoyed at the reception she had been given, but her curiosity at the title eased it somewhat. She imagined Seileran. She had met the woman a few times while they were in The Sunguard together. She did not recall her using that title, however. Something must have changed in order to have her take on such a moniker. 

“Go through the gates and follow the path,” the woman guard said. “Do not stray from the path.”

Esme could not help but huff out a breath. The guard did sound much different from Esme when the Embertree lands were laden with curses and crawling with monsters. She did not argue, though she could tell the woman was bracing herself for such. 

“Aye,” Esme answered. “Do not stray from the path. Are you sure the Lady Voidsunder is expecting me? Or should I expect to be shot at even after the gate?”

The guards exchanged glances. Beneath the helmet, the man’s smirk was visible. The doors opened.

At the lack of an answer, Esme huffed again. She glanced down at the arrows that surrounded her and Amon sniffed at one of them before offered the guards his own little huff. She counted eight in all before she patted Amon’s neck. “Come on. Let us go. The Lady Voidsunder is waiting for us and we have work to do.”

Behind her, the doors shut and the sound of the metal lock sliding into place echoed behind her.

---

@pyrar | @stormandozone | @curiouslich for mentions

[guardianglass]

From architectural marvels to intricate artistry, this blog unravels the mesmerizing potential of glass in various industries. Explore the latest innovations in energy-efficient windows, avant-garde glass sculptures, and cutting-edge automotive glass technology. Gain valuable tips on maintenance and cleaning to keep your glass surfaces pristine. Delve into the world of sustainable glass solutions, showcasing how this versatile material is reshaping the future of construction and design. Whether you're a glass enthusiast, a design professional, or a curious reader, this blog invites you to discover the endless possibilities of glass.

[xuzffxiv]

Spellcraft and Glass

Spellcraft and Glass

    “Can anyone tell me the similarities between glass and the beginnings of a spell?”

    No voices bore an answer. The silence in the courtyard broken only by the clamor of the city. Muffled shouts too far to make out, the clang of craftsmen at work. No answers though. The circle of shifted, wavered in discomfort, glances shared between neighbors. None of them bothering to meet the cold gaze of the magistrix in the middle of them. A woman’s voice finally called out,

    “Enough force and they both will shatter.”

    “Close enough. What’s your name?”

    “Vyriali Cinderspear. House Cinderspear. Battlemage.”

    “Ah, a Magister’s daughter. If you didn’t know that, I bet your father would be rather displeased. You have any further insight?”

    “Spells are crafted, they are fragile. You can break them with so little if you know where to put pressure. Unless the spell is tempered, all you need is a nudge in any direction and it disrupts.”

    The magistrix raised her chin, cobalt eyes focused on Vyri. Slender fingers clasped behind her back before she spoke again, “Good. Come by my office later, would you? There are some things we need to discuss. But before that, can anyone else tell me how to stop a spell?”

    Once more the muffled sounds of Silvermoon filled the court. Vyri clenched her jaw before she opened her mouth to speak, but before the words were even on her tongue.

   “You silence them. You bend the arcane in their bodies and wrap in around their throats. Or you starve them, siphon away any mana they attempt to turn against you.” The voice echoed from a far hall, each word followed by the sharp clatter of metal against stone. Nervous chattering erupted in hushed tones as attention wavered from the woman in the middle. Her sapphire eyes closed into narrow slits, brows bending in as one corner on her lip curled in a snarl. The circle parted, a wide opening as the white-haired man came close. Each step sang like the shaking of chains, each footfall was a metallic stomp. Red and gold encased his form that towered over most by a head.

  “So, the Spellbreakers show once more. Lovely, so I assume you are her for --”

   “For her.” The armored and robed man’s final bootfall brought him looming over the magistrix. A thumb hooked over his shoulder, leveled at Vyri. “Knows what she is doing. Don’t know why she even attends these, she’s proven.” A faint azure glow peered over his shoulder towards Vyri, “You want to be a spellbreaker, girl?”

   The darkness broke, a faint green glow just barely visible as it spread over white. Vyri pushed herself up onto her elbows, the glow swiveling about. Silence. The light blinked out as the quiet was ruffled, a sigh so quiet it almost didn’t manage. She shifted, the shush of the sheets following as she tried to pull herself over the edge. Just the right twist made her bite down on a groan. Fingertips trailed over the bindings she felt over her ribs, over the uneven tightness of a not-so second skin. Bare toes pressed over the smoothness of earth and rock.

   How long had she been doing this? Was this how it was always going to be? Traitor princes.. The world seemed to be gathering them. Arthas, Kael’Thas.. Who was going to be the next to throw their people out a window? A sharp hiss press from between her lips as she tried to stand. But she still did, the darkness hiding away the muscles of her jaw working to keep any more noise down. Her gaze just slipping over to the edge of the tent. Another light, a dim purple line. Each step grew the light, made it brighter until her eyes narrowed and she pushed open the tent.     “Cinderspear.. What are you doing up?” The voice familiar, one that had barked at her, called her out, snapped at her. Older, rugged and harsh, time worn from decades of doing what he did best. “Get back to bed, girl. Don’t be daft.”

   “Captain Morrowmourn, Wh--”

   “You don’t want to hear about this now.”

   “I think I do, sir.” Vyri’s jaw set, squinting up at the captain. “What. happened?”

   Morrowmourn’s gaze bore into her, harsh and hard. It lingered there, unmoving, as he chewed on nothingness. Until a grunt broke the silence, “Fine, kid, fine.” One of his gauntleted hands grazed over the short white stubble, “You’ve been… out a while. No idea what actually happened, probably some mechanical bullshit. Point is, we found you. A few others. None of you were in great shape.” Vyri stared up at him, her eyes darting over a stoic face. It was like trying to read stone.

   “Captain… what else?” She stumbled forward, legs still not quite steady, but she kept herself up.

   “The last one, Freeburst, passed. About a night ago.” His hand came down onto her shoulder, “Sorry, kid.” The smooth plate pressed on her shoulder as his hand closed, just enough to be there.

   Vyri shook her head, but it didn’t hide how her brow drooped, it didn’t hide the way her ears fell. Fists balled up into the fabric of her pants, but she didn’t speak. Not for a while. When she finally opened her mouth to speak once more. She was cut off just like that evening.

   “Nothing you could of done. No one could of seen it coming. You’re on leave, my orders. Go home, Vyri. Rest, recover, do whatever you have to, but nothing left here. We got this. So. Go. Home.” Morrowmourn’s hand double tapped her shoulder, thumb digging below her collar and fingers clamping down for just a moment. Then the captain turned away, those unchanged eyes glancing over his shoulder as he walked off. The clattering of heavy armor muffled as if it were coming through water. Vyri looked up then over the Eye. 

   Flurries and swirls of fresh snow cascaded from the trees above. The sounds of the warcamp ringing out and drowning the sounds of the forest. From the clatter of crashing trainees to the call of criers, shouting out wears and news. Vyri sat the the edge, the head of her spear lost in a sea of white. Soft creaks and protests came from the crate below her, but all these sounds never reached her mind. The spellbreaker’s eyes shifted about under closed lids as if reading something long forgotten.

    Scenes from the past few months. The battle of the beard, her holding a choke point. Her company starting to falter, but the Sunguard helped her. The Siege of Sundial, the blood of so many over the stone roads leading to the point, not of the fresh from innocent veins. And once again, she threw herself into a choke point. She flung herself into danger. Blood ran down her face and three Kul’Tirans beared down on her, but the Knight-Commander, Corinth, Zana all came to her aid. Brawling during Mistlefoe and meeting Razail and Thordemar, laughing as she shoved snow down Narridel’s shirt, then winning the tournament.

   The cacophony of to two different worlds collided back into her sense, a sharp blink that shook her from her daydream. Golden eyes looked around at the mask of her home, studying or searching, for a moment. The cold air bit all the way down her throat as she took in a deep breath and slowly brought herself back to her feet. Shouts of familiar people and friends came to her ears. The effort of the smiths and the people around her in a home that is no longer intimate.

   It’s been too long.

   Her feet carried her, sabatons clawing through the stark white sheet, towards the heart of the camp. Faces that were once unfamiliar smiling up at her as she passed. People that were once characters of a completely separate book now friends she saw daily, that she bled next to.

   Enough of this. They fight with everything. They do what must be done. And you, what have you done? Tried to throw yourself away.

   The war council’s tent came into view as she straightened herself up to her full height.

   If you are to protect them, then do so as they do you.

   “Archon, if I may.” Vyri spoke as she raised her chin. The talon tips of her gauntlets scraping along the chainmail of her palms.

   You will not lose them, not again. They’ve done so much for you. Return the favor, kid. Or else, go home and cower.

   “I formally request my own unit of Spellbreakers once more. Allow me to show our enemies that the only thing they hold against us is glass.”

[deviri]

"Anything for you."

The music is soft and upbeat, a melody from Suramar that had been popular for centuries before finally being outdone. It had been the Grand Magistrix’s favorite for a time, and then after the composer was never heard from again. Absolain’s tent was fond of it so it seemed or else it was just fond of playing it on near repeat.

Members of the Sunguard move about the dance floor in time, not in time enough to be synchronized but not lagging enough to look like a bunch of adolescence hawkstriders who haven’t grown into their limbs. The dresses and the suits are breathtaking and as he watches from the sidelines Mekia cannot help but feel a little envious, dressed in his button-up, slacks, and dance shoes as he is. 

A few people had come up to ask him to dance and he had politely turned them down. Still...

Casting a glance around the tent as he drinks he catches sight of her. Korregan stands on the outside of the crowd as well, her red dress washed and pressed like he had never seen it before. He’s seen her in that dress a hundred times before and had never payed it any mind but in this light it looks different, though the giant cleavage window was the same. Her eyes track the dancers on the floor and even from here Mekia can see the way her hand tightens on the glass in her hand. Swiftly he leaves his spot and walks until he stands beside her.“Not a fan of dancing?” Korregan jumps, smacking his hand against her chest when he smirks at her. 

“No. No, I like dancing.” She sighs. “I just... don’t know anyone here to ask.”

“Ithanar?” He tries, holding a hand up when she glares. “Look there are plenty of people out there who would dance with you if you asked. I know the Sunguard looks like it’s full of snobs, and, yeah, sure, there are some, but most of the people are good people.”

“I don’t want to dance with any of them.”

“But you want to dance with someone?” She hums, and Mekia sighs. Reaching out he takes he drink from her, ignoring her protest, and places it nearby alongside his. 

Taking her hand in his Mekia leads her out onto the dance-floor, squeezing his way into the crowd. He turns about to face her once in place and grabs her other hand. Pulling her into the step that the crowd is doing he leads as best he can. He’s tighter than most on the floor, shoulders drawn in and mouth set in a firm line and he knows what he’s doing as his eyes start flicking around to find the exits. Korregan’s eyes are heavy on him as they dance but he ignores them until she speaks.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine. Dancing isn’t something I like to do.”

“Then why do it?” She snarks, slipping a hand free long enough just to flick him. “If you don’t like it, that is.”

“Do I get something extra if I say it was because you wanted to?” The look she gives him is all the answer he needs. “Because I did, do it for you.”

Surprise flashes across Korregan’s face as she blinks and then she blushes, ducking her head. He spins her in time with the music and lets out a laugh when her dress fans out to her surprise.

The music ends and Mekia offers her a bow before escorting her off the floor. They walk back to where they had started, and Mekia picks up both of their glasses, handing her’s over. 

“You didn’t have to do that you know.” She stares at him as if she can convey this fact through her eyes.

“I know, but you wanted to and so i don’t mind.”

[curiouslich]

Aftermath: The Nation of Kris

The Dawnbringer ascended the stairs of his new chappel. The Sunguard had used it as an infirmary. Their belongings long since cast out. Their place of healing restored to its rightful glory. A symbol of the might of the Crimson Sun. Their holy church, for their holy doctrine. Each step brought a new clink of metal to marble and made the man’s heart sing. The song was one of victory. The region of Kris was born to become its own Nation. The Druids of the Vein’s ritual had been stopped, and though the their allies… the branded coalition of the north failed to destroy the blighted tree. The land had fallen into peace. Victory enough…. For now.

But in his new land, in HIS new nation Kris had known silence. In the last month there had been no sight of the Amani, their nightmarish monsters vanished, and the forces from Quel’thalas had retreated. Banished from Kris by his own decree, and they obeyed.

Another satisfied smile flashed behind the emotionless mask as he pushed into the hall of the Crimson Chapel.

Banners and statues adorned each row as it led to the altar. The heartbeat of his footsteps signalled to the parishioners of his return. Rows of red clad knights kneeled down pressing a hand to their helm.

Flashing golden boots marched down the aisle. The altar at the end was flanked by enchanted glass. Regardless of the time of day they shown on the chappel. The Crimson Sun never set.

Kneeling before the holy site of worship the Dawnbringer repeated the symbol. Pressing three fingers to the metal mask. To pledge his mind, body, and soul to the Holy light.

Three of the knights rose up from the front of the room and flanked the man. Each falling to their own kneels raising a hand to their head. As the Crimson Knights assumed their places the air seemed to stop. A presence filled the room, and silence like the dawn itself enveloped the congregation.. Each moment stretched out in reverence and introspection, each moment another reflection.

After his prayer was complete the Dawnbringer composed himself. Hand moving to his neck for a moment he rose up. The rustling of chain, cloth, and armor announcing the sermon would soon begin. Turning to face the gathered he rose his hands up in praise of the gathered. Back to the shining glass he glowed with a divine aura. “Brothers and Sisters of the Light. Children of the Crimson Sun! I bid you all welcome.”

In unison the gathered returned his welcome. “The Light welcomes the pure.”

Nodding as his words came from the crowd. Repeated by the masked gathering, by his loyal Knights of the Crimson Sun. “And the pure have risen. They have taken this land from those that would corrupt it. From the filth of the witches of blood. From the grasp of a weak state. We have risen with the Sun to a glorious new era.”

Reaching for his belt he removed a heavy chain. Opening his libram he thumbed through several pages. The holy text of the Crimson Sun. “But what does it mean to be pure? To welcome the light and all its glory. To reject false magics and the corruption they bring. For the other forces of this fallen land are just that. A corruption of the Light, distance from the divine force that gives us purpose.”

“The poor souls that worship this power are given a choice. Repent, or Perish. By the light of the Crimson Sun it is our sacred duty to purge the wicked and protect the pure. Only those pure of mind, pure of body, and pure of soul may dwell in our house. In the house of Kris.”

“Pure of mind, our first tenant. Give not into temptation. Do not take the simple path. As ours is a hard road with a heavy task we will bare it gratefully. Remaining focused on what is right, what the light calls us to do is the start of our path.”

“Once our minds are cleansed of evil we can start to heal our broken bodies. Borth to this world we are flawed, we are weak, we are full of darkness. It is only by adopting the light are we given strength. Through the focus of our mind we can push our bodies. To grow strong, to nurture our young, to pick up the blade, this is the path we walk.”

“At the end we reach the very core of what it means to be pure. The purity of the soul. With the thoughts of the pure our body will act in its name, and by doing the Light’s work we are made whole.”

“Those that do not accept this path. They are our enemy. They deserve no mercy and will be purged so that the purity of this world can be safe. Can grow.”

“We do not seek glory, we do not seek fame, or riches. These are the traps of the State. The nobles of Quel’thalas look down on our humble work. Clinging to their mountains of gold, their corrupt magics, and their life of sin. They will face our judgement.”

“This is why we wear our masks. Not in shame but in pride. We are the people. We wear no names. We act selflessly to protect all those under our banner. A force of knights, free of the corruption of this rotten world.” “You are my knights. Paladins of the Crimson Sun. And with our divine light we will protect the pure, and persecute the wicked!”

The crowd snapped a hand to their chest in unison. “The pure will rejoice, and the night will fear us, for we are the Crimson Dawn!” The chorus brought a smile from one ear to the next.

Repeating the salute the Dawnbringer echoed the cry. “For we are the Crimson Dawn!” 

@sakialyn @stormandozone @captainswingbeard

@thesunguardmg

[korkrunchcereal]

Unpleasant Company

The stories of war always told you the heroic parts. Grand battles and mighty conquests by great heroes were tales as old as civilization itself. Cultures like that of the orcs or the Sin’dorei, which are so vastly different, retain the common link of triumphant stories; of men who fight a hundred, and of monstrous evils vanquished by the forces of justice. They were popular, and they were loved.

And they were only half the story.

No one ever talked about the dying men, who screamed abandoned and alone. They didn’t talk about the fear man faced, shaking in his boots and forced forward by those behind him. They never talked about the smells either; the abhorrent stench of rot and decay mixed with blood and gore. If they ever told that part, no one would go to war.

Aurelian wished he wasn’t in this particular war, and not for the first time. He found himself within the Eastern Plaguelands, holed up in his tent to escape both the torrential downpour outside and the stench of the place. He was amidst a small armed force that had deployed there to aid in repelling a demonic outbreak, and so far there had been a string of successes, if somewhat costly. Men died in the mud and the festering bogs by the score, giving their final breath to face down the demons.

Luckily, Aurelian had not met his death as so many had. He doubted he would find death here or anytime soon. So skilled with a sword as he and believing he had a future destiny yet, he felt invincible. Of course, invincibility did not save you from an unpleasant smell as Aurelian learned. Light, the stench was nearly overwhelming. He had even imported jasmine to be liberally sprayed inside his tent in a vain attempt to keep the smell of rot down.

“Why did the demons insist on one of the most unhospitable places on Azeroth to invade…” he mused aloud. Aurelian remembered a time when the Eastern Plaguelands had been called the Eastweald. It was a fertile land of farms and small villages that had always reminded him of the Illonian Plains of his own lands. Of course, that had been well over a decade ago since it was known as the Eastweald, and Aurelian doubted it would ever be called such again. The scourge’s destruction of the land had been overwhelming, and even today its corrupting touch lingered.

Why here, of all places? Aurelian knew the demons attacked across the entire world, but to come to this wretched land seemed punishment. As soon as he thought it he knew why, having replayed this scenario in his mind countless times already. Access to the Plaguelands meant access to Quel’thalas’ southern borders in the Ghostlands. It was why he had chosen to come here in some mad display of patriotism and bravado.

The rain gave a dull thud on the fabric of the tent above him, continuing its irritating drumming. It had been raining for the last three days and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon, which had put any efforts to attack the demons on a temporary hold. They had beat the demons back, but hunting their source was proving problematic. Rain loosened bowstrings and made travel harder, especially with the heavy downpour causing flooding over several of the roads.

Scouts had been sent by Aurelian’s comrades some time ago, but the Plaguelands were vast and so any trackers had plenty of ground to tread. Aurelian hated waiting during war. It made him uneasy, and gave his mind too much to think about concerning the darker aspects of war. The last hour had been what led him to thoughts of war stories, aided no doubt by the empty bottle of wine that lay at his feet. He realized he had been slumped in his chair, groaning as he straightened himself. Perhaps another bottle of-

“My lord.” Aurelian nearly jumped from his chair, turning to look towards the entryway of his tent. The flap had been pulled back, one his guards standing silhouette in the entrance.

“Yes? What is it?”

“A visitor has come to see you, my lord.” A visitor? He had few he’d consider close to being a friend among the soldiers he marched with; they were too crude and crass for him, and did not have good taste. Perhaps it was Sare’wen, come to talk with him again. He had taken a liking to the woman, despite her naïve innocence. Aurelian opened his mouth to speak, then paused as the guard was unceremoniously shoved aside from the visitor and instead saying something else entirely.

“Shit.”

“Hello, Aurelian.” Aurelian’s visitor was a large, heavily armored man that spoke with a gravelly voice. He wore gold and crimson plates, denoting his allegiance to Silvermoon in an eye sore display of colors. Aurelian’s response however was because he recognized immediately who the man was.

“Veridan Koss; what an incredible displeasure. Come, take a seat I suppose. I doubt you’re here to kill me, anyways.”

“Not quite.” The guard, who had recovered from being shoved, moved to grab Veridan as the larger man moved in. Veridan simply craned his neck, staring at the guard with his blank expression helmet. Perhaps realizing that Aurelian allowed the man entrance, or perhaps he knew better, the guard backed away.

“Why are you here? Have I offended Silvermoon in some way?” Veridan grabbed a nearby chair, taking a seat. The wooden chair groaned under the weight of the armored man, and a small part of Aurelian wished it broke under him.

“In a matter of speaking, yea. Got any wine? I’m damn thirsty.” Aurelian curled his lip in annoyance as he eyed the man, who simply sat waiting instead of explaining why he was here. Aurelian rolled his eyes, leaning forward to grab a bottle tucked beside the nearby table both chairs were a set of. He placed the bottle on the table, getting up now to grab glasses for the two men.

“Did you ride all the way out here to speak to me, Veridan? I must confess I am a bit flattered Silvermoon would send one of its dogs to bark at me.” Aurelian’s ears perked as he heard the man remove his helmet, turning around to look at Veridan. Months ago Aurelian had tasked Cyvar with looking into who Veridan was, and apparently the man was essentially unidentifiable.

Apparently, unidentifiable was short black hair and a face only an orc could love. Veridan’s nose must have been broken a dozen times in the past, judging from the unnatural bend in it. He had more scars on his face than any orc Aurelian had ever met, which was saying something. Rather than waiting for any glass, Veridan simply grabbed the bottle and pulled off the cork, tossing it casually to the side before he dipped his head back and drunk deep. Aurelian watched in growing annoyance as the man loudly gulped down Aurelian’s wine, before Veridan pulled it away with a satisfied smack from his lips.

“Not as good as Silvermoon red, but it manages. You know what they have here to drink? Not a fuckin’ bit of wine. Sure they got ale and grog, but have you tasted it? Tastes like bog water.”

“Why are you here, Veridan.” Aurelian’s tone was laced with irritation, to which Veridan gave a smug look.

“Figured I’d stop in and check on my comrades, aye?” Aurelian simply stared in confusion, realizing with growing concern he had said comrades.

“They didn’t.” For answer, Veridan reached into one of the pouches at his side, withdrawing a small piece of metal he showed Aurelian. It was an insignia Aurelian knew all too well, for he also wore it. It was an emblem of the Sunguard, which meant only one thing.

“The Sunguard hired me on as a mercenary. Ah, its great to be back in this gig; making money for mass killing of monsters. Almost beats the dog sitting job.”

“Dog what…? Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Why are you part of the Sunguard? Did Silvermoon grow tired of you? Or was it simply that odd fellow Balasar.”

“Neither, actually. See, here’s the thing Aurelian. You’ve been naughty.” Veridan gave a grunt as he lifted his legs, which was mildly impressive considering he was in plate still. With a loud thud he put both feet on the table, the sound making Aurelian wince. The table had been a gift from one of the lords his hand, and now it was used as a foot stool. How disappointing.

“Me, ‘naughty’? How so.”

“You haven’t responded to any of Silvermoon’s letters.” Right. Aurelian hadn’t responded. They were inane requests and bothersome attempts to speak with Aurelian, and so he had ignored them. He had been busy, anyways.

“Forgive me for being too busy liberating Suramar, aiding in the Plaguelands and of course helping to save the world.”

“And planning a ball.” Veridan countered. “The matter of Lord Illova’s death some months ago at the hands of your ward is still a matter of contention, Aurelian.” Aurelian’s eyes followed the emblem in Veridan’s hand, watching as he rolled it between his knuckles.

“I have ensured she remain within Castle Indaris, effectively under house arrest.”

“And now,” Veridan continued, “there is talks of sedition within the Gilded Lands.” Aurelian guffawed in bafflement.

“Sedition?”

“The Unbidden, Aurelian. People always panic when there’s the threat of being eaten by a goddamn demon, but this is becoming a nuisance that’s spreading.”

“I-you found them in Silvermoon, didn’t you.” Veridan nodded, confirming Aurelian’s suspicion. Silvermoon wouldn’t get involved unless it had begun to involve them, but what was Aurelian’s part?

“Problem about people panicking is they make stupid decisions. Stupid decisions create bigger problems, and soon the whole city is a fucking firestorm of trouble. Silvermoon doesn’t want that.”

“So what’s my part in this then?” Veridan paused at that, as if contemplating what to say.

“Simply know that I’m here to watch you, Aurelian.”

“So you’re posing as a mercenary to watch me.”

“Aye, that’s the basic idea of it. Silvermoon’s authority supersedes the Sunguard’s, so let’s just say you better keep fighting demons, Aurelian.” Did they think he was going rogue? Turning against Silvermoon?

“I plan to, Veridan. If you won’t tell me what Silvermoon’s interest is in me, then so be it. I appreciate however the warning, for what purpose light if I know. Now, do you have anything else to tell me?” Veridan shook his head, getting his legs off the table and standing up.

“Mostly here for the wine. Figured I’d return the hospitality by giving you a heads up.” Aurelian blinked at that, eyeing the man as he placed back on his helmet. “Besides; this shit smelling place is infested with demons. Don’t like the damn things, so I gotta kill ‘em. Goodbye, Indaris.” Aurelian remained silent, simply watching the man leave with a troubled expression. What was Silvermoon planning?

  “Ah yes, I suppose you’ve been wondering why we sent Veridan. The truth is Silvermoon didn’t.” Balasar tapped the tips of his fingers together, humming to himself. He leaned back in his chair, sighing as he glanced at Veridan. “I sent him.”

“Yes, so I eventually gathered. I figured in time that you sent him to ensure I remained fighting demons?”

“Somewhat. The truth is, with the Unbidden presence and lord Illova’s death, there was growing concern that it was all a plot by you, Aurelian.”

“Me?”

“Yes, to seize power. With the Unbidden spreading discord and rival lords being eliminated, several lords of high status had growing concerns. The Council of Silvermoon is uneasy with blatant power plays, so I decided to investigate further.”

“Like you are now?”

“Precisely. I will confess that everything that’s happened since then has only made such unease worse.”

“Hence why I am here. Do not worry Balasar, there is more to my story that will show I’m innocent at least in that regard.”

“Well, go on then.”

“I’ll skip the battle I had with the demon Baal and-“

“No.” Aurelian raised a brow at that, tilting his head.

“No?”

“No. Veridan was not part of that particular battle, and so my details on that are not complete. I hear you were the last to escape back, and so I must know. Tell me of Volcanius, and of Baal.”

“Very well. So, there I was returning to the one demon world I wished never to see again…”

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[the-lady-lummeth]

[War of Thorns] Safety

Sildre watched from the safety and warmth of her chambers in the Dawnspire. She watched the horrors unleashed upon the world over a simple material and a dormant sword from behind a simple arcane scrying crystal. She watched, safe and protected, as countless died under the choke of the Banshee Queen's noose.

Sildre was safe, and thousands were dead.

The Arcanist looked up from the crystal. A large bound tome, almost as old as she, rested on the desk in front of her. It was one of many items she'd transported to her chambers after her initiation into the Sunguard, and by far the oldest. It was open to a large family tree, one that lifted off the page to expand to its full size. The Lummeth family began long before the Shattering, with countless branches and offshoots that sent it growing this way and that. The magic within it knew when someone died, or someone was born, regardless if that person knew they carried the Lummeth blood within them. A divide split the tree almost in two, giving the impression of a tree growing over a ravine or canyon.

A great swath of the tree was dark and dormant. The upper boughs perpetually stood dark, several generations long since gone before even Sildre’s birth. Those descended from Highborne were long lived, but not immortal. Many of the Highborne became Nightborne, as she did, and there were dark spots here and there.

It was the other side of the divided tree that concerned her.

Here, newly darkened sections of the Starborne side - the Night Elves - kept cropping up. As the minutes passed, more and more flickered out until it resembled less like a galaxy and more like specs of dust. These were never people Sildre had ever spoken to - or knew at all - but they still carried her bloodline within them. Yet she felt a sort of… sadness, at their deaths. She sat back in her chair, lips pursed. Why would she feel remorse for a people that supposedly she was at war with? There was no attachment to them, there was no legitimate reasoning behind this emotion.

Yet she felt it.

Sildre turned back to the small scrying portal above the crystal on her desk. The tree burned in the night sky, an angry red column of smoke and rage. A fire burned in her belly as memories came to her of houses and fields consumed by fel fire. Innocents died when the Felborne came calling. Be it by sword or fire, no one stood in their way. It struck fear into the lower classes of Suramar, kept them in check, for it was never a whole quarter or neighbour hood at once. Besides at the end.

Innocents died in that tree, in that command.

And Sildre was safe, housed within the ‘winning’ side.

She was still safe when the Alliance retaliated.

South they marched, burning a path from the coast to the doors of the old castle of Lordaeron. She found a certain irony that the path the King of Stormwind took mimicked that of Arthas upon Quel’thalas. Especially, given what the history books told her, since Arthas too stormed into Lordaeron to murder his own father. An amusing irony, had the circumstances not been so dire.

Sildre sipped on a glass of arcwine, watching the aftermath of the siege. It had been brutal; the Alliance routed the Horde at almost every instance, except one entrance of Brill. For every Horde soldier, there were two Alliance. All the while, the Forsaken scrambled to evacuate it’s civilians. Somewhere along the way the Translocation Orb into Silvermoon was destroyed - a necessary precaution to the Alliance suddenly showing up in Regent-Lord Lorthremar’s lap. The Horde was backed into a corner, behind crumbling walls and impossible odds.

The Banshee Queen had an ace up her sleeve.

Plague.

Sildre also read about this concoction, a substance so toxic it primed the body for reanimation almost immediately. It did not discriminate, it did not distinguish sides. At the Wrathgate, the relatively newly freed Forsaken used this creation to push back the Scourge. In doing so, they destroyed the forces of both their own allies, and that of the Alliance. Former Warchief Thrall, and Garrosh, banned the substance almost immediately. Sources told her that it had not stopped the Forsaken from quietly creating more.

Then testing it on the Gilneans in Silverpine after the Cataclysm.

Sildre watched in horror through her arcane scrying portal as the green mist choked the life out of their own soldiers… and let Sylvanas raise them as undead. The Alliance too.

A ship sailed over the trees in the distance, and her feed cut out.

It returned several tense minutes later.

Lordaeron sat below a haze of thick green mist, not a moving soul in the courtyard except those immune to it.

Shivers ran down Sildre’s spine and she terminated the spell. The Arcanist stared out the window to the bright fields of Quel’thalas outside the Dawnspire.

Sildre was safe.

For now.

[rambleverse]

Return to Night

((Set roughly two or three months following the Battle for the Undercity. No spoilers.))

“Master Nethermoon”

The doctor clears his throat.

A lucid jolt hits Ouron back to the present. Across the fine, dark desk an elf so junior it offended Ouron how important he was looks back with false concern.

“Trouble focusing?” the bratty snide little nothing says to him.

“I’m very present, thank you, merely much on my mind. As you can assume,” Ouron says with hands folded in his lap. The feel of skin on skin, especially there, still felt strange. No adjustors, no finely-crafted compensators, just flesh and bone. His flesh. The little tendons-

“Master Nethermoon?”

Ouron clears his throat, noting the doctor’s silltop plant aging with little less grace than himself.

“Please continue,” Ouron says to nobody.

“It was at great expense and as recompense for The Sunguard’s service that I reviewed a mister...Silversword’s request to see your file. I hope you realize that-”

“And to myself, of course,” Ouron interrupts.

Framed by two goliath reams of paperwork the doctor appears ready to break his oath of service.

“Pardon?”

“As recompense to The Sunguard, and to myself,” Ouron completes.

Doctor Jel’arae Ivyheart considers his debts private and public for a moment, and finds nothing for the swelling raisin of an elf in front of him. The two contend to stare at the plate bearing the doctor’s name in silence while the room cools.

“Go on,” says Ouron.

Having quite enough Doctor Ivyheart, head of the Crown Institute of Medical Magecraft reads the carefully constructed, appropriate, and politely worded document all his bedside manner of three-hundred odd years gave him. Speaking in one breath, loudly, and against the petty injections of “Hmm,” intentional coughs, and nitpickings of pronunciations.

“Master Nethermoon,” he reads:

“After the best attempt to discern your current state, the Institute has prepared a scenario that given your history we believe is plausible within current acceptable medical margins. It is the Institute’s belief at this time that your repeated induced stases and exposure to Elementium-5515 (see cited said isotope’s catalogued side-effects and your history of warnings in repeated exposure in the attached file) created a bizarre situation in which your body rapidly shed its own stores of mana, causing your physical structure to deteriorate.This accounts for the severity of your previous misdiagnosed mana addiction, and explains your ability to retain higher cognitive function despite appearing as Starved, and the phenomenon described where rare cases of oversaturation induced a medical homeostasis.

It is the Institute’s belief that, following the complete depletion of mana from your body during the incident in question-” the doctor pauses to look up at Ouron’s glowering face “-that the interference of your chronic Manalysis ceased to have an available means to perpetuate itself. The triage care you experienced following your trauma, including the magical means of healing and rapid mana transfusion, likely caused the violent reaction producing your hemmorage.

It is therefore, at this time, that while the Institute congratulates you in overcoming your illness, and in your renewed vitality, that we regretfully posit the belief that in all likelihood the affected areas of reasoning, spellcraft, and your previously described areas of concern will be lifelong.

The Institute would like to-”

The doctor’s groan follows Ouron out the door as he walks, cane tapping syncopated to his irritated stride. The grout of the tiles below him whisk by in pairs of two as he rounds the corner mumbling, huffing. On reflex his mind turns first to the memories of many letters, the failings of many doctors of the past. Each of them incompetent to the last; each maintaining the cornerstone of their profession. Bad news, disappointment, and hold-holding mollycoddling was all they ever offered.

Past protesting nurses, into the light of the street he bursts with a fury of robe and rod, tapping the end of his cane to the ground in his signature bluster.

But there is no sound to greet him but the streetside chatter. The singing of city birds, the shouts of workers busy with their labor

There is no chime, no “Ping!” from just above his eartips. All above his head is sky and wind.

There is no glow, no flash of light or sweeping beacon. Sun above looks on him and all the rest as plain as ever, putting shadows where they must be.

No magic.

The nausea hits him all the same. His stomach turns with his eyes to the bit of benign branch in his hand; a stupid and ugly bit of work. Folksy. His hands grip about the wood and feel the slobbish grain foul his hands with blisters too small to exist. Stupid-useless, thinking to himself.

The glass door to the Institute shatters as a piece of broken wood flies through the delicate finely frosted etchings to the information desk. Ouron’s angry eyes, swelling with life and anger, look about the frame.

Do it yourself.

But when he reaches out to find the spell it is not there. The fine pieces of glass float tidily back into place as he struggles to find the words.

Like the frame remembers the door, like the hole remembers the ground-he feels the ghost of it calling from nothing. Words lost in a gossiping crowd, words so loud they filled his mind with horrible powerful choirs every second-every day. He calls to them once again, they are there! They are there!

[thanidiel]

Prompt 1: Choose a scar on your character's body. Describe in detail where it is, what it looks like, and how they got it. Is it significant to them in any way?

Content Warning: Body Horror, Gore, Post-Traumatic Episode.

Atrophic. A trench; withered and achingly white against the gold of the skin around it. Over the decades, she has grown used to it. Somewhat. The way it licks at the sharp of her collarbone and drags over her sternum has become fact, like background. It is a sight unable to be denied with the wrap of bindings and the pull of her tunic overhead every morning and the undoing of these actions every night. But what is accepted is only a chapter of the story. A portion.

Thanidiel is silently discriminate to the whole of it. She has accepted where steel, likely rusted and buried into elven soil by now, had shorn across the muscle and cartilage and bone. She has not accepted what strokes below the curve of her twelfth rib. It. She is so unaccepting, so prejudiced, so mired in her obstinate compulsion to deny - where the world revolves, Thanidiel grips into its earth and forces her own course like the way water cleaves and gushes through canyon.

Mirrors are obsessively constricted in Thanidiel’s alternative world.

Thanidiel strips every property ever assigned to her down to its bones.

Thanidiel configures rooms to be barren and bleached, more suitable for ghosts than for people.

Thanidiel only allocates one of these objects in her spaces; situated close to the bedroom doorway, for a cursory study of her attire and painstakingly angled to avoid any flash of nakedness before she is ready.

Thanidiel likes her windows a certain height above the floor, or curtained, or placed as deliberately as her other glass concessions.

Thanidiel dislikes Bricini’s restroom.

Thanidiel brushes her teeth over the kitchen sink.

Thanidiel ducks quickly in-and-out, avoiding that haunting object of silver-and-glass.

Thanidiel tilts her chin up and to the side whenever washcloth must be ran along her stomache.

Thanidiel bunches up gauze or whatever fabric is in her hands when, whatever is needed, is done so she cannot feel it.

Thanidiel avoids being on her back during.

Thanidiel rages when partners bring attention to it.

Thanidiel has thrown out noblewomen who offer her poeticisms, comparing it to ‘ocean foam on a beach’ and other nonsense.

Thanidiel likes that Rosewind and her possessed unspoken camaraderie on it.

Thanidiel likes that Bricini’s introduction summed up to a cursory glance and, ultimately, disinterest to it.

Thanidiel has a note in her file on it: with both the Thalassian Military and the Sunguard. Do not ever suggest treatment to remove or ease it. Avoid contact with it. Behave as though it does not exist unless it is pertinent to the matter.

That is what has been woven in her muscle memory - forged into phenotype. Void, forced. A pool of incoherent blindness, swirling. One, last, piece of puzzle, thrown away. The world, made to move on as though none of this missing is there. Imperious, in ‘nonexistence.’

Today, Thanidiel is… brave. Thanidiel wants to break the wheel. A burst of optimism born of itching impulse (restlessness).

Her hands are curled around the porcelain of the apartment basin. Her weight presses down into those supporting limbs through her hunched frame. Her bad eye is squeezed shut, the good one angled closer to the mirror with the forward-shift of her head. She has spent the last… twenty? minutes exploring the upper body. Three minutes before that were dedicated to brushing her teeth; making advance.

She has examined the gnarled forest of scar around the bad eye; the vibrant warmth of the Crest painted into the cheek below that; the pink smooth where salve and magic has eased honeycombed tissue on the opposite cheek; the high cheekbones; the pointed round of her nose;  the prominent chin; the proud stalk of her neck; the broad collar; the breasts; finally, she has drummed up enough to begin with what is accepted, and draw down from there.

The same, familiar, trench. Atrophic. Withered. Pale. Splashing against gold. It is like washed-up ocean foam. Fuck. It starts at the medial point of the left clavicle. Angled, it follows the sternum. She sees it disappear briefly around the curve of right breast, continuing down the ribcage.

Thanidiel inhales. Sharply. Her right hand scrambles further up the basin towards the ‘thistle cigar she took in with her. She indulges as frontier is breached.

Her eye drops to the soft of her abdomen through the mirror. It.

…

…

…

Not… as bad, as her mind has warned. The expanse is shorter than what she has grown accustomed to. Deeper, than that, however. It cuts through the thicker layers of fat and muscle present. Above, it is like a shallow trench, a stream. Below, it ropes thick like a river from where the ribcage ebbs to angle along the hip’s crest.

She rolls the harsh smoke around in her mouth until her lungs begin to strain and hot bitter is pricking all over the surface of her tongue and the insides of her cheeks.

With the release of her breath, Thanidiel moves to drag the pads of her fingers along it.

The wrongness of it makes her shudder. Her innards twist (just like old times).

The expansion and constriction of her lungs puffs in increased frequency. The calm wave of sound shifts into harsh bursts pushed between mouth and flared nostrils at once.

Her touch feels like the sear of—

—the blade C A R V I N G her O P E N as she stares eye-to-eye with this creature of scorching red pupils and spurting black blood where the talons of her gauntleted mitten have buried into the thick squirm of green flesh, worming to rip apart the throbbing—

—blood vessels in her neck and temples; sharp, and roaring, and overwhelming. She can feel sweat rolling across taut skin and she breaks away from the glass to truly look down—

—and all she sees is the fat pulse of her own intestines pushing O U T where her abdominal cavity has been O P E N E D and there is this mess of dirt and blood and mucus coating everything and she, instinctively, tries to shove it all back I N S I D E, smearing lacerated chunks of flesh and black blood that is not her’s all over herself then she is moving—

—towards the basin with this violent flare of arcane surging into the runes carved into the copper faucet, opening the pathways for frigid water to gush out. She splashes her face and her body like acid is crawling all over her skin then she is walking towards the towels and she hears someone call for her—

—like their mother and she looks around and she sees Cayvia on her knees with a huge blade sticking out beneath her sternum and she keeps walking and all she can think of is how much copper is in her mouth and that she need to wash it out with a draught of—

—”Coffee?”

The inquiry is punctuated with a rap of knuckles along the door’s frame. There is this pause that seeps into the air as Thanidiel cannot find it in her to respond just yet - not with how her world spins and pricks and buzzes as her back slumps aside the towel rack. She busies herself with the idle motion of dragging the towel over her arms and chest and face. It is neglected.

There is an unsettling starkness to the white of the room all around her. Thanidiel notes smears of ash from where her cigar fell and drowned in the sink. Water settles in flecked pools on the ground. She will need to clean up.

The soldier rolls her jaw with a grinding pop, her tongue dragging along her lips. She breathes.

“Five minutes.”

“You know, you said that thirty minutes ago.”

“Fuck off. I come out when I want to.”

She hears a muted snort through the wall separating them. A peculiar relief settles in her breast towards the nonchalance of the other (of course, there is no way that her whirlwind had gone unheard) as her long ears flick and hear out the footsteps leading away.

One last look, for now, drops downward. It.

Her lungs still.

She drops to her knees.

She starts to mop up the mess.

Her eyes move away.

She breathes.

[Mentions of @jessipalooza and @azriah]

[arqbrasil]

Guardian Glass nas alturas do Centro-Oeste

Guardian Glass nas alturas do Centro-Oeste

Edifício Kingdom Park Residence recebeu 5.500 m² do vidro SunGuard Silver 32, que proporciona mais conforto luminoso, térmico e acústico aos moradores do empreendimento que une sustentabilidade e tecnologia com vista em 360 graus.

O recém-inaugurado Edifício Kingdom Park Residence é o novo ícone na paisagem da cidade de Goiânia (GO). Com 175 metros de altura, o mais alto do Centro-Oeste…