#Telchis!

[femmchantress]

It is traditional to read from the Megilath Ruth - the Scroll/Book of Ruth - on Shavuot (a holiday which begins tonight). As such, I present to you my favorite passage from it: Ruth’s declaration of unending love and loyalty to her mother-in-law Naomi.

Regardless of how you interpret her actions (there is a lot of Jewish lesbian literature on this), the declaration of “Ki El-Asher Telchi Elech” - “Wherever you go, I will go” begins one of the most moving and romantic monologues that Hebrew has to offer (it’s even engraved on the inside of my husband and I’s wedding rings) and it makes me so happy to see how many queer Jews have incorporated it into their marriage/commitment vows. ☺️

[elchaqueno]

Lucas Careaga conquista su séptimo campeonato nacional de karting

El 11 años de edad, Lucas Careaga, quien ha nacido en Potosí pero representa a Santa Cruz, se coronó campeón nacional de karting en la categoría Vórtex 100. Esto volvió a demostrar su gran talento y dedicación para el deporte. Durante el último fin de semana del Campeonato Nacional de Karting se llevó a cabo la tercera y última fecha, en el circuito de la Villa Deportiva Abraham Telchi de Santa…

[noticlick]

Lucas Careaga conquista su séptimo campeonato nacional de karting

El 11 años de edad, Lucas Careaga, quien ha nacido en Potosí pero representa a Santa Cruz, se coronó campeón nacional de karting en la categoría Vórtex 100. Esto volvió a demostrar su gran talento y dedicación para el deporte. Durante el último fin de semana del Campeonato Nacional de Karting se llevó a cabo la tercera y última fecha, en el circuito de la Villa Deportiva Abraham Telchi de Santa…

[curiouslich]

No one is Forgotten

“Embershade...Daygrove...Flamewhisper...Dawnshield….Hawkheart….Brightblade.” The words on his lips had become a mantra. The return to Kris was a blur, truth be told Itrius couldn’t even fathom how he ended up back in the bed at the Sleeping Lynx Inn.

“Embershade...Daygrove...Flamewhisper...Dawnshield….Hawkheart….Brightblade… Sunshatter... “ his name on the list bought a reprieve from his  devouring thoughts, but just for a moment.

“But you aren’t dead, you are here in Kris, in a bed, safe, warm. You are alive..” Swinging his fist down on the mattress he grit his teeth suppressing another scream. “Do not disgrace their name, Ours doesn’t belong there. They are heros, you are a coward. You left Allamar. You left them. You led everyone straight into hell, and you were the ONLY one to leave!”

Swinging his hand out he slammed it into the wooden wall next to the bed. The thud of an arm hitting something it couldn’t dream of changing echoed out. The ache of pain spread radiated, but that didn’t stop him. Again, and again, and again the thud rang out. “

“I am not the leader you were brother… I failed our family. I wish I was with Sunstorm against the Eternal Dawn. If they killed me my men might still be alive…” Clenching his teeth he sucked in another breath. “Irigir… Help me. What in the Sun’s name can I do? I can’t go back by myself… The Crimons won't follow me without Eclipse. And I am already out of my jurisdiction.. the Phoenix Guard won't come…”

Wetness gathering at the edges of his lashes Itrius bit his cheek. Bringing a hand to rest on the palm shaped scar seared into his skin he closed his eyes. “Sun guide me….”

Knock… Knock… Knock

Itrius couldn’t help but to stifle his growl. Was now really a good time to disturb him? Despite the mused questions he remained silent. He had no words for anyone. He didn’t want the world to witness his failure quite yet.

After a brief pause there came a second round of knocks. Just go away already! Fingertips digging at the scar as the hint of copper flicked at his tongue.

The unknown guest must have gotten the message as there was no third round. Instead the sound of soft scratching filled the room. Sitting up the paladin squinted at the space below the door. Then with a serendipitous push the folded parchment slid onto the floor.

Eyes shot wide open at the invasion Itrius lept to the floor. “Light above…” Practically falling to his feet he dove for the letter. Greedy hands pawing over the parchment to see the answer to his prayers and problems. All summed up with the familiar signature.

“Elleynah Stormsummer”

Throwing the chair out of the way Itrius tossed the letter onto the bed. There would be time for that later, now was not for idle conversation. Bringing the candle closer to the parchment he ripped a quill from its rest. Stilling his racing heart he dipped the quill away and raced the edge along the paper. Creating what could barely be acknowledged as a return letter.

Elleynah,

Your letter could not have come at a better moment. I found myself back in Kris after a nightmare return to Allamar. They are gone Elleynah, my men, the crimsons. The casualty level of the mission was nearly all. I need help, I need your Sunguard to help, someone, anyone to help. Their is a faint hope they still live, I pray to the Sun they are. If I don’t act with beyond haste they won't be though. Please deliver this to Lord Truefeather personally. You are a leader in your order. He has to listen to you…

Please, for everything I hold dear I need you.

Itrius.

Moving the first letter aside to dry the shaken man relaxed the hold on his lungs.. “Sun, please guide me.” He had spoken with the Truefeathers often. The lords of the house came by Goldsea often. They were proud of it. Breathing again Itrius summoned all the nobelity he could muster as he penned his second missive.

Archon Lord Telchis Truefeather.

My name is Itrius Sunshatter, Investigative Captain of the Phoenix Guard and eldest son of the late matron of Goldsea. I am writing this most dire letter in a great time of need. These past few months I have been on assignment in the Southern tip of Quel’thalas along the Amani border. I have witnessed horrifying oddities that have plagued this land and its people. Working alongside the local militia I had hoped to placate any threats and minimize possible incidents.

The forces at work though, are far more insidious than I could have fathomed. Entire cities have been laid waste at the feet of some dark magics. This land is caught in a war between the mindless undead, the savagery of the Amani, and now this new element of terror. People are dying, good, honest people that have done nothing but struggle to live their lives. I find the resources at my disposal inadequate to remedy the situation.

I write you not as on envoy of the Phoenix Guard, but as a Son of the Dawnspire and Lord of Goldsea. Send aid to Kris. Help me show the people of this land they are not forgotten, that they are as we are, citizens of Quel’thalas.

Itrius Sunshatter

~~~~

This is it, this is the end of the story and the call to action. One year of work 60 pages wrote and its ends here.

I want to thank my lovely wife @stormandozone for standing by me, for pushing me, and for inspiring me.

@sakialyn for supporting and helping me build this world

@felthier is being tagged for mentions.

Now its all up to @thesunguardmg to help me write the next chapter, and stop the Return of the Nightmare

[qelodraws]

Lucio ❤️🖤

Se llamaba Dante pero le puse Lucio ❤️

[testimanifesti]

[felthier]

@azriah

[redarrowhouse]

A Letter to an Archon

Tears stain the parchment in places, blurring and marring the otherwise perfect handwriting.  The letter itself is rolled unevenly, as if done by shaking hands.  

Archon,

News has reached us in Orgrimmar about what has happened.  I write this to you knowing full well that my brother is in his current predicament by his own fault.  I know you are angry about what he and the others did.  I would ask you to set that aside so that I may ask you a question close to my heart.  

My family from my life before is small now; I can count on one hand the few I have left.  Ithranicus is reckless and impulsive but he is also my brother and the only family I have left that is not my own progeny from before.  We were starting to get along and to understand each other, myself with his strange humour, he with my strange nature.  Our meetings are no longer ones of uncomfortable wariness, instead holding a warmth I have only felt with my daughter.  We have plans for the future, plans to rebuild our home.

I have heard of the letters dispersed by the Alliance, promising his execution if hostilities are not ceased.  

Please save my brother, Archon.  

Emberward Siildore Frostlotus

[thanidiel]

Establishment

[Taking place in some fuck-off time bubble a month after the current phase of the Kris storyline]

From the green horizon that divides Dawnspire Province from its Kingdom whole, a curious sight greets the scarce workers tending the plots of winter-wheat surrounding ailing Autumnvale.

Like the rolling fields of the Goldsea, the Sun, posed overhead, shines onto a glinting sea of bodies. Two-hundred men and women, all donning the winged greathelm of the Phoenix Guard, march in unison along the stone-laid road set centuries prior and maintained since. In the center of their army, space is made for the movement of herded cattle and wagon; evidencing that these elves had no intention to return to the bounty of the Dawnspire garrison any time soon.

At the head of this formation, two horseriders post to the rhythmic trot that leads them closer and closer towards the approaching village. To the left, overtaken by the other, a woman with a mass of hair as black as the beast ‘tween her knees. To the right, a figure with the same greathelm as the host behind them: their body below bathed in red and slivering gold (striking against the white of their steed) and in their hand, standard breaches skyward. Large and paramount, the weathered, scarlet, symbol of Tyr’s Hand, and beneath, the more vivid gold and crimson of the Sunguard.

Once, the movement of such armies along this route between Quel’Thalas and its Dawnspire whether in war or peace was a regular occurrence. Now, the flow of migration that met Autumnvale has trickled to near-nothingness beyond the most bold, or desperate, of elves.

So unique this sight is, the marching host observes the quick withdrawal of the labourers specked all along the soon-to-be-harvested green of winter-wheat towards the disrepair of the village.

Allowing no pause, the army draws ever-steady to the very edges of the farmland surrounding the village buildings within. And that is when the leading figure releases their grip on the reins of their companion. Their unoccupied hand raises high and flat into the air. A succession of shouts and the two hundred come to clean halt in moments with the thud of feet and the ache of wagon wheels.

Once the din of noise settles, the low feminine that had been in quiet discussion to the woman to her right raises to a high thunder that carries over the army and to the ears of the villagers already beginning to gather in the square ahead.

“Harthen! Establish the company’s encampment along the plain. Lynxfury, Dragonsroar, Hawkspear Platoons - you are with me. Assemble behind me in phalanx as the others disperse. Gather the supplies we spoke of last night, the wagon marked with yellow paint.”

The Captain’s vision lolls lazily to regard her partner; a feat that is, by no means, done easily with the weight of her greathelm. her volume lowers to something only heard to Bricini.

“Get the fuck out of my sight. I don’t need you.”

“Oh, Light, you’re such a romantic. Say it again. Once more. With feeling.”

“I mean it - you can’t fuck this up. Go take a nap in one of the supply wagons.”

“I! Want! ...to see my girlfriend, my partner, in her element. Is that so unbearable to deal with?”

“Yes.”

“I’m gonna be in the crowd.”

“Get off the horse, then.”

“But–”

The Phoenix Guard presses her knees into the bare flanks of her mare and bends her head to murmur into its ear. A slow, precise, walk of its hooves commences with another flourishing wave of left hand towards the gathered thirty-six behind them.

Flowing around the dismounting Dawnmender, the soldiers make their way to the center of Autumnvale: where, already, about half of its population has gathered in curious interest towards the seemingly paused army. Worry, hope, fear, caution: she catches all of these murmured sentiments through the whispering people. Very few seem to have recognised her from past days.

The soldiers move in quiet succession around the barren market stalls and prominent statue that make up the core of the square. Ultimately, presenting themselves to where the crowd has condensed the most, towards where the square bleeds into the majority of the sprawling buildings.

From there, one squad breaks from the three-platoon-strong phalanx and quickly establish themselves a large, empty, space behind the Duskward. Unslinging their packs from their shoulders, they work to establish a framework of wooden pole and stake in the earth interspersed between the pieces of stonery below - displaying the reason for the long roll of fabric that spanned the length of the phalanx before it.

In the meantime, Thanidiel pulls herself from the saddle of the dirt-slicked and pale horse below her. Clutching the reins of the placid animal in her left hand, she steps forward towards the crowd. She continues her silent march, closer and closer, to the growing citizenry. Until the phalanx’s backline steps backwards over the tarp to heft it up in smooth coordination and the whole of the formation strides to cover the space made between the working six.

Only then, she brings herself to a squared halt. From her slitted visor, the newly-instated Kin’taris gazes upon the sampling of her wards before her. Many are too young for work, with disproportionate bodies and stringy muscles to their bones. Some are too old for work, with curled, shriveled, bone and hair of fading pigment. Few of those who do not take to the sides of either caretaker or charge possess the weight of true adulthood, even their ears lack length. She could not even call what she had to work with here as ‘scraps.’

The doubled standard raises overhead, the noon-sun catching along the lengths of weighty fabric, and crashes down towards the earth in one beat (of course, it had cantripped an hours’ time before to cut through and settle in the soil as well as it does: thank the Sun for the unsuccessful arcanists ‘mongst the men). Her hand goes for the lip of her greathelm shortly after, already unstrapped from her head before they had entered village, and pulls away the heavy metal.

In the woman’s grip, the armour-piece fall to clatter against the golden steel of her chausses. Easing the ache sparked down her muscles from a motion more theatrical than based in her usual practicality, she hefts the same shoulder in a rolling motion. The draping mantle of a once-great lynx shakes around her in the process as Thanidiel lofts the strong of her imperious chin upward, flicking aside loose curls of her platinum hair. Her one eye falls upon the approach of Sir Reval through the villagers.

She thunders.

“Hail, People of Autumnvale!

Above all, I provide to you condolences concerning the passing of Besari Vella. The most deep of sorrows gripped me the day it was discovered that the efforts of your’s, Kin’taros Reval, Serdari Truefeather, and myself, failed to preserve the life of your own.

As we all know well, however, we, Children of the fallen Blood, must push on with the clockwork of the seasons ahead of us no matter the grief that clutches our breasts. We must honor the memory of not only the late Besari, but those that fell around her, as the Sun and Earth return their bodies to the wheat. Thus, your Serdar has assigned me, Thanidiel Highdawn, to warden these lands under the charge of Kin’taris.

From this point forward, Sir Reval and his troops are dismissed from garrison. His Lord has greater needs of his talent in regions beyond here.

The absence of his skill and the absence of his soldiers emphasises the gaping void that these foreign wars have exacted upon Autumnvale. In exchange; I bring you not only replacement, but I promise you growing respite of the burdens felt here.

Here is a fraction of the able-bodies I have brought you:”

In practiced unison, the thirty soldiers planted behind the Captain all remove their grandiose phoenix helms from themselves - all daring to throw the priceless armour forward with the lob of Thanidiel’s own signature of battle. All displaying the vibrant youth in their taut skin and seafoam eyes staring out to the Citizenry.

The winged gold falls in a rain of metallic racket, rolling this way and that way to strike either stone or the rims of the crowd’s well-worn boots. The Phoenix Guard allows the din to fall down to creaking hints, though not long enough for the people to recover from stupour.

“—the largest misconception suffered by the World is that soldiers eke their livelihoods on the sole spill of blood. We come here to alleviate such falsehood. We will work. We will perform our duties to not only the protection of Autumnvale, but its succour as well.

Aye, People of Autumnvale, we will harvest the ready bounty of your fields alongside you. We will repair what the Broken Men have razed here and more. We will take your ill and your hurt into our camps with open arms. We will assure that there is always bread in your bellies and a fire for your bones. And never shall we ask of you of anything but to live your lives as you ought to live them, anywhere where the Serdar’s Sun strikes the grasses.

Not only will we assist in the going-ons of the village, but we will work to revive the trade route that runs here from Dawnspire to Western High Home. The Broken Men that we all once called siblings terrorise our livelihoods. Telchis Truefeather, as both Serdar and Archon, possesses little patience for Oathbreakers, especially those who would exert their sorrow with ill upon their former loved ones.

It is his Will and, thus, mine to provide security to this region once more and reestablish the flow of trade. We would have Autumnvale’s square and streets filled to the brim with merchant stalls and first-privy to the goods that flow between this province and beyond - as the days of past prosperity.

So it all shall become and be.

I will make myself available here, in this square, for the People as long as there are troubles to plague us; I refuse to spend a single copper of your funds nor hour of your time to repair Sunvalor Estate, a pointless indulgence that benefits only myself.

I want all remaining businesspeople and those you call leaders to speak with me in orderly fashion during meal or passing times over the next week. I wish to evaluate what we are missing here in terms of resources and specialised labour to better my judgement of Autumnvale’s needs going forwards.

Please disperse and return to your days. The army beyond your fields will make rounds starting on the morrow to find and make work with you. Step forward if there are words to be passed.

Belono sil'aru, Tel rea Belore’dorei.”

Having refined to good time in the days prior, Thanidiel’s speech commences right as the crimson and gold tarp is completely fastened and secured to the Commander’s tent established. Pushing out a lengthy breath of repose from her lips, the woman passes off her reins to one of the soldiers now breaking from formation to recover their helmets. She accepts trade of her distinct helm, with its engraved horses into its fore, in return.

The Duskward pulls on the standard she had plunged into the earth minutes ago, turning away from the din of cheering younglings. She notes the squad from before, periodically jogging in and out of the tent with her needed furnishings in the wagon that had followed some distance away: table and stool, bed, armour-and-weapon stands, maps, papers, inks, quills. Their Captain drives her standard back into the ground where it near brushes against the pulled-back tent flap behind it.

The hours drone on in the aftermath of her introduction in a flurry of countless conversations hunched in stool, and painstaking notes generated by the new Kin’taris - a library of cross-reference birthed in a days’ half and promising much more in the length of this evaluation period.

By the time nightfall truly engulfs the village - the woman’s eye strains in throbbing pain, not to mention her spine and backside. She drains her waterskin like she had escaped the heat of Hellfire once again with the exit of the last tradesperson (a carpenter lamenting the lack of lumber for needed reconstruction) into the darkness beyond.

The thrumming relief in her breast is palpable when, minutes later, the smell of just-cooked beef wafts in through the tent opening. Followed by a characteristic smirk and wild of black hair.

[Appearance by @jessipalooza | Mentions/interest of @felthier @azriah ]

[telchis]

Born to the prestigious House of Truefeather, Telchis Truefeather grew up knowing a life of duty and honor. These traits were tested time and time again during the rise and fall of the thalassian people. Now born to take up the title of Serdar of the Dawnspire, Telchis looks to help his people rebuild anew, much like the phoenix that symbolizes his people’s spirit. 

I got this absolutely stunning character sheet from an amazing artist known as https://yourimaginarytwin.deviantart.com/! Not only was she delightful to work with, but extremely professional and very interested in making sure my character looked the way I wanted and envisioned! This is my second commission request from her and I cannot recommend working with her enough! 

[jessipalooza]

@felthier

1.01 x 8.01

[thepilgrimofwar]

Breaking the Line - Edited Roll20 Log

[Back dated from after Minutes to Midnight and before Warplanning 2]

[Event Start]

The counter-attack had caught the forces of House Illithia off-guard, and a conscripted army that had expected an easy advance against the scattered resistance from the Emberglades instead found themselves on the run. Retreating behind hastily dug and fortified earthworks, they manage to halt what meager soldiers that the Heartlands had to spare. Gathering their strength for the next push, they awaited Judereth’s militiamen. Numbering in the thousands from every household of the Glades, they had spent the last day mobilizing and marching to the front and were now prepared to join a new offensive.

Judereth marched at the head of the coalition. True to her words over the war table, they were to be the tip of the spear. A spear that would be driven straight into the heart of Westheath. “Spread the word, we’re approaching the front,” said the Baneret, and the men under her command did so without question.

Relriah rode beside her, sidesaddle. She looked the part of a noble lady save for the sheathed sword on her saddle and the look of fire in her eyes. “I am in your hands,” she said with a nod, looking at the men that she led into battle. The comment seemed to encourage them, activating some sort of primal instinct that did not wish to see a mother come to harm.

Mara Blazingdawn rallies the banner men of the Dawnspire to her side. Looking along the ramparts, she could see the muzzle flash of rilfemen opening up onto the approaching forces. Bodies littered the field of good men poorly spent. "Shields!" Mara shouted, as she channeled a personal protection spell. Swords and shields versus well fortified fusiliers. "It's a suicide charge! We need to clear them out!"

Thanidiel:"I am not fond of that entrenchment."

"Highdawn will hold but will not advance until there is breach."

Kebha was silent as always, her presence unknown even to those men she had been given to command. She had all but abandoned them, leaving them with the simple notion of kill or be killed- or be eaten, if they failed. Kebha cared little for the fates of 'her' troops- she was here at Lirelle's request, honoring perhaps the closest thing to a friendship she had formed outside of the cabal. She left them to their devices, cloaking herself in thick void and vanished from sight along with Xio'lhr and her trusted Ashtongue.

Ethalarian nudges his Charger forward to the crest of the small hill behind the artillery. He surveys the field with a grim expression painted over his scarred features and turns to the square-jawed man behind him. "Send word to Highdawn and the militia cavalry under my command- we wait for a breach in the lines."

Thanidiel:"Lady, if you would pull towards the farmland."

"It is unwise to be so close to the 'firing line.'"

Thanidiel 's iconic banner flicks after Ethalarian's runner reaches them. Some sign of her understanding without return or shout.

Relriah acquiesces to Thanidiel's demands. "Very well, I'll be observing"

Elara Blazingdawn surveys the troops under her command and fists her hands on her hips. "Alright lads and lasses. Now's the time to find that inner sense of strength that I hope to the Light you all have. Otherwise, uh, we're done." She pauses, realizing this is a bad motivational speech. "BUT!" She exclaims, "We represent the Dawnspire tonight! The Serdar has sent us strong and bolstered to the field. Tonight we fight for,er, Quel'thalas!"

Avenaiel is a construct of an elf, and her soldiers seem the same; the remains of Blood Knight armor mantles her but it is mostly replaced with leathers. She waves with her fingers to the artillery, and is greeted with nods.

[Combat Start]

[The Assault]

With a great war cry, the forces of Emberheart charge across the gap of no-man’s land, crossing over the corpses of the ones who had charged before them. But this time, the soldiers of the coalition were there to protect them with their flesh and steel. Esheyn covered their flanks, her soldiers protecting the ladder and siege bridge bearers with their shields as cavalry belonging to Thanidiel, Ethalarian, and Relriah ride at their backs, ready to cross the moment the staked trenches were bridged.

Beathyn orders the bombards that he had purchased off Obaniwix to shell the enemy rifle lines, trying his best to minimize the casualties from enemy fire.

Mara & Elara Blazingdawn, with their knights sent by Telchis and Ellasha from the Dawnspire, covered their rightmost advance, ensuring that the militia there were well protected from their assault.

Kheba, an Illidari of blood and shadow, infiltrated the enemy lines, drifting over with others of her kind until they were far behind the enemy defences and trenches. She moved towards the artillery that was raining death down upon friendly troops on the assault.

Oosaarn advanced with arbalests on either side and a handful of no longer bored Warsong at his back. While the orcs held their ground, crossbows soon fired away at the enemy's rifles.

[The Staked Trench Bridged]

Thanidiel rides straight through the enemy lines to the forefront of their cavalry reserves. The standard of Tyr’s Hand held high in the horizon by her troops as the ex-Knight cracks a whip of holy fire like a blazing lightning strike, meant to startle the horses.

Ethalarian lifts his lance high and bellows his orders over the din of cannon fire and the screaming wounded. "Punch through! Clear a path for the infantry!"

Thanidiel:"Soon would be the time to gain a real notch on your belt, Lady Illithia."

Relriah gives her a nod, unable to hide the mix of excitement and horror in her eyes.

Elara Blazingdawn signals her troops to advance, reinforcing Mara's troops near the ladder. Boots thunder on the ladder as the elven troops raid the fort, turning on the Westheath Militia where they can.

Oosaarn led that ragtag group of Warsong towards the siege ladders. Leaving the arbalests behind to continue their volleys upon the enemy forces.

Kebha continues to advance forward, an incidious shadow across the battlefield like choking smoke. She rushes forward, making her way towards the battery, biding her time until she can do real damage. Across the field, the militia struggled on, heeding the words of Thanidiel. They drew steel, diving forward into the riflemen before them.

[Battle for the Battery]

Esheyn rallies her troops to press on, to bring their weapons down upon the militia that surround them.

Mara Blazingdawn"Rally! Do not get stopped! All forces advance!"

Ethalarian wheels his cavalry about as the first formation of heavy infantry are broken apart. He signals to the militia cavalry with his lance and turns his own cavalry on the infantry striking at his flank.

Elara Blazingdawn hikes up the ladder with her troops in tow, eager to close the distance between her sister and herself. "Keep moving, keep moving! Get that militia!"

Oosaarn’s Arbalests again fired on the forces at the other side of the defenses. All while the group of orcs barreled into the enemy's frontlines in thunderous war cries.

Shrapnel catches Thanidiel as the battery fires indiscriminately into the advancing Emberheart forces. She is seen passing the Standard of Tyr's Hand to the Emberglades heavy cavalry and pulling off of the field with a scant retinue, letting them continue the battle in her stead.

[Morale Breaks Militiamen begin to flee]

Mara Blazingdawn:"Let these peasants run back to their homes. All forces reform and move onto the trebuchet!"

Ethalarian goes racing northward now, shouting orders for his flagging unit of militia to retreat. The Blood Knight lancers crest the hill, preceded by thundering hoofbeats and the deafening blast of a war horn. Lances at the ready, enveloped by the twisted sheen of stolen Light, they crash into the crews manning the artillery battery.

[The Trebuchet is destroyed. Combat Ends. Knowing they were defeated a significant number of Westheath forces have thrown down their arms.]

Ethalarian would like to keep War Crimes to a minimum.

Mara Blazingdawn:"The battle has finished. What will we do with all of these captured and wounded?"

Iriina:"Dungeon."

Relriah doesn't speak, but should the decision to slay the captured and wounded be decided upon she would see to it herself.

Oosaarn:"Give them a choice. Rot in a cell or a quick death."

Kebha sheathes her glaives, turning her attention back towards her allies. She says nothing, but does eye the frightened looking infantry like a snack.

Isilos:"The question is, will they become hostile combatants if released?"

Judereth clears her throat. "Prisoners will be a drain on resources we scarcely have at the moment. But I am usre Lord Emberheart would like them alive. The boy wants to be merciful."

Mara Blazingdawn:"I am liken to agree. Hold them in a cell until the war is over. Rebels are less likely to take up arms if their brothers and sisters have a chance of surviving. Killing them will only give them reason for revenge."

Elara Blazingdawn:"Offer them the choice."

Oosaarn:"Then do whatever it is your 'lord' wants. I do not care."

Iiloridan shrugs his shoulders; not his land, but if they were asking... "I agree with the orc. Cell or death."

Ethalarian tugs on the reins of his charger and, somewhat bloody and now covered in artillery shrapnel- thanks Isilos- exhales a long sigh. "I've seen enough of my kin slain in recent times." Lord does he sound thoroughly -tired-. "Treat their wounds and hold them until this business is finished."

Judereth:Sighs, shakes her head, but orders her militia coming up from the rear to collect the wounded and to clasp the others in chains.

[The Coalition votes to Imprison them.]

Kebha laments. But Dinner.

Ethalarian: There are enough freshly dead people to eat, you monster

[noirsnow]

Telchis

[worldofwarcraftart]

Telchis by Noirsnow Source: https://ift.tt/2H40JgE New news website for furry fans: http://awoonews.com

[felthier]

I make pretty transmogs

[thanidiel]

Around and Around (Prestige Class Story - PHOENIX GUARD)

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

Thanidiel was alone.

Not in the forgotten tower; not in Quel’thalas. She was alone somewhere dark, in the belly of some cavern, the walls pressing in and frigid with cold and sharp.

The chill numbed; she did not feel the hands on her ankles until they were dragging her to her knees.

Before her, a tabard forsaken; the burning phoenix of the Blood seemed bright in the darkness.

There was this sense of acute, infinite loneliness; this cavern went on forever.

The dark was endless.

There was no more purpose in this tabard.

All these things were dead.

The hands simply sealed what had already been done.

“You bear chances now that none have yet seen; you, Breaker of Wheels. What was fate was overturned, violent in its death and birth.”

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

Thanidiel was alone.

Not in that genocide; not in Stratholme. She was alone somewhere dark, in the belly of some church, the shadows pressing in and frigid with cold and sharp.

The chill numbed; she did not feel the hands of blood and black curl around her shoulders until they were dragging her to her knees.

Before her, a faith forsaken; the shattered gauntlet of the Silver seemed bright in the darkness.

There was this sense of acute, infinite loneliness; this prayer went on forever.

The dark was endless.

There was no more purpose in this faith.

All these things were dead.

The hands simply sealed what had already been done.

“You bear chances that none have yet seen; you, Knight. What was fate was overturned - the Light is not lost to our people. Come, see what Astalor has for us.”

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

Thanidiel was alone.

Not in that hopeless fight; not in Emberbreeze. She was alone somewhere dark, in the belly of some forest, the world pressing in and frigid with cold and sharp.

The chill numbed; she did not register the hands, curled around the hilt of a warblade, pressed to Cayvia’s back, until they were dragging her to her knees.

Before her, a life forsaken; the dripping blood of the blade seemed bright in the darkness.

There was this sense of acute, infinite loneliness; this journey went on forever.

The dark was endless.

There was no more purpose in this life.

All these things were dead.

The hands simply sealed what had already been done.

“You bear chances that none have yet seen; you, Miss Highdawn. You ought to be dead - what was fate was overturned. You ought to be grateful.”

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

WHERE WALKED PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

It takes only three hours into the night before the restlessness thudding through her breast overwhelms her desire for company; like a shaking fist snuffing out the fire’s wick against its palm. Both careful of her tender wounds, yet impulsive nonetheless, the former Blood Knight presses the heel of one bandaged hand against Bricini’s shoulder - and pushes.

She watches carefully as those glowing eyes pull open in the darkness, noting the fashion in which the other was faking her groggy tiredness. ‘Patiently’, Thanidiel allows that oh-so inconvenienced sigh to break through the Dawnmender’s lips, then cuts her off. Her words come in a slash of teeth - contrasting with the low quiet of their conversation earlier.

“What, Th–”

“Get the fuck off of me. I want a smoke.”

“...That’s too bad, I’m comfortable right here. Might even turn the lights back on and get back to reading now that you’ve woken me up.”

The Duskward emphasises such as she props herself up just a bit; her vision glancing down to the now-crumpled magazine spread along Thanidiel’s stomache, crushed when the doctor had grown bored and drowsy an hour’s half earlier. The light from the streets outside just barely catch the glossy surface.

“Hold on, let me clarify; that wasn’t a request. Get the fuck off of me, or I’ll shove you off–”

“No. No, you wouldn’t. Because you’re burned to shit. Because you could still very well tear up your wounds and bleed out. Because you wouldn’t dare to make yet even more work for your dearest mender - right, Than?”

“If you think I’m beyond killing myself and ruining your apartment furniture to make a point; you’re dead wrong.”

Bricini’s face takes on a flat, peevish, quality with her ears pinning just slightly back.

“And if you think I’m beyond finishing you off to rid myself of such a melodramatic headache; you’re dead wrong.”

“Get off.”

“I’m tired.”

“The bed is over there. It’s high time we moved from your shitty couch anyway.”

“It’s not shitty, you backcoun–”

The soldier heaves a deep sigh from her chest. The fatigue wears away any and all pretense of their harsh play. It shakes the air like something discordant, like a stone crashing along a blade’s edge and taking away whole slivers. The once-Blood Knight observes the ever-brief pause it summons before the Mender, as always, rolls over it with a tight, lopsided, grin.

“...well, you, and my couch, have been a good substitute for the bed. Regardless! Fine. I’ll be off, have fun brooding about your lost purpose or whatever is up your ass tonight.”

Bricini lingers, leaning forward to press her lips to the corner of the Lightward’s mouth. Thanidiel has a hard time deciphering if it were to stir another ember of annoyance with a continued presence or a genuine urge of affection. Perhaps it is both.

For once, it is unreturned. A gloom unlike any gloom that the elf has experienced in many years hangs over her. It buzzes in her blood, her muscles, her thoughts: it is like a black miasma settling over everything. She has it not in her to respond. The warmth she had possessed, just earlier this night, drained the whole of the well, leaving it droughted. There is no more stirring urge for the Duskward. The other finally slides off and saunters for sleep. Thanidiel, for some minutes, struggles to raise herself.

It is not the injuries: the quiet, constant, agony where acidic ichor seeped into her flesh. It is the heaviness. Every throb of blood that courses through her body contains malaise. She could suffocate in its weight. She only moves when her restless frustration boils back to the surface in the way hot magma erupts from the shiver of the suddenly snapping earth underneath.

From there, Thanidiel moves with as much of her frenetic energy as her wounds would rightfully allow. She slips over a long-sleeved shirt, something she had left here weeks ago over the back of a chair, over the bandages that enwrap her. A silent note is written down to take stock of what is her’s in the items strewn about the apartment. She spends too long on her boots - something mastered in its swiftness now made fumbling, interspersed with seconds of pause and weary, pained, breath. She exits. Or–

Or–

…

Bricini’s tabard hangs over the door knob. The red-black shine of the Blood Star glints. Something spills, then. It roars, it gushes, it rushes all along her. Frigid and biting, the way the ocean fills shattered hulls. It is reminiscent to the way her wounds burst and bled when she was putting herself into that fucking ceremonial armour for that farce - how it trickled and stuck into every crevice.

She reaches out with more force than she had ought to, feeling the scabwork on her arm pull painfully. The heavy commendation slams down with the fabric trailing behind it, cracking sharply against the ground underneath.

“Fucking hells, Than! Wh–”

The thud of the door locking into its frame muffles the rest of the other’s indignant husk. Thanidiel pauses then, and she tells herself it is more to breathe, that she found herself suffocated within that room like any fire when it is contained; certainly it is not the agony of protesting muscle.

She lurches against the nearby wall, staring out into the hallway. As usual - she senses Renalyas. The ward remains, then. In the shadows of the building, the Mark of the Inquisition is something felt than seen. It hangs over the air in a curious sense of alarm, like the eyes of predators glinting in and out of the darkness. Or perhaps its presence is much more incorporal and unfelt to the world, and the woman, who was once Hand to the dark organisation, is merely attuned to a familiar energy.

Thanidiel allows herself more moments of rest to think on that: that it remains. That Renalyas’ services have remained open to her old companion. She knows, truly, that it stems from the unspoken fondness held by the Inquisitor. Still, the thought itches that this is another way of keeping tabs from now on. The hound’s collar, so caked in Blood, had been snapped clean from her throat and replaced with a slithering noose, the woman feels.

Such a thought only doles out more weariness to press onto the Lightward’s shoulders. She pats at her trousers. She forgot to take her cigar tin on the way out. Fuck. She cants her head just a bit, to fix the bad eye back towards the apartment. The door is all a fuzzy, dark, blur against the white of the wall around it. She should have taken her eyepatch, too. The once-Knight is unsure if she will return later tonight, or at all.

...she doesn’t want to disturb Bricini’s night anymore than she already ha–

No, Bri doesn’t fucking care.

She’s projecting.

She cares. Uselessly. Unnecessarily.

She’s placing more weight, than ought to be put, into the earlier requests that her partner had murmured against her skin.

If she had done this, to have rejected their presence, to–...

Or–...

With–...

Bri isn’t V–...

Or R– ...

Or C–….

…

Bri isn’t… any of them.

…

Thanidiel will come back.

She just needs a walk to clear her head. She makes her way out of the complex and onto the City’s streets. She walks.

WHERE WALKS PURPOSE THERE IS A DEARTH.

Thanidiel is alone.

Not in the apartment; not in the City’s lights. She is alone somewhere dark, in the belly of this plagued city, the air pressing in and frigid with cold and sharp.

The chill numbs; she barely understands the compulsion that sends a hand outward towards a browline, dragging her to her knees.

Before her, an elf forsaken; the dead eyes of the Sin’dorei seem bright in the darkness.

There is the sense of acute, infinite loneliness; this disquiet goes on forever.

The dark is endless.

There is no more purpose in this elf.

All these things are dead.

The hand simply seals what has already been done.

The sickly sweet of rotted flesh is something that permeates more than a handful of the many nooks and crannies of the Murder Row. Little surprise thrums in Thanidiel’s breast; a mixture of warning and lack of care towards this District in particular makes it common place, for what would take an hour’s half to wipe away in the rest of the Capitol, to take much longer. With recent affairs, it is logical that this remnant of the Riot remains days after.

Such fact does not make it easier to push down the tidal waves of aggravation rolling in her gut. It does not ebb the ache tightening the muscles of her ribcage. It does not quell the sweltering disillusionment choking in the base of her throat.

Astute as always, Thanidiel had begun to conceptualise and learn well of the Capitol since her first winters: of its wickedness, of its depravity, of its disease, of its farce. She has always known. And she had always tolerated it like hound and prey-property of those above. She can no longer be so blindly obedient.

Where this had changed, she had struggled to pinpoint in earlier days. The work did not change. The duties she had sensed behind the appointment to the Watch: none of it was new. She knew. She knew the moment that Lightfury and Mace had approached her, that their goal was to awash the streets of Silvermoon in blood. She had razed estates, families, villages, provinces. What was a City’s culling, to several lifetimes over of dutiful reaving? Yet, it still caused grief to shake through her.

The night Elanya died was the first time Thanidiel had ever, truthfully, regretted her silence. She saw it, then. She saw it in Truefeather and Dawnstalker’s ignorance. She saw it in the Archon’s shock. She saw it in Autumnsong’s sorrow. She saw it in Lightfury’s hand, blazing with the Light as blood and melted flesh surged along his digits in outpour.

She had permitted it.

All of what had occurred.

She had permitted it as she has always permitted it; glancing the other way, allowing the story to be rewritten. Letting the shadows crawl and envelop what was truly there. She let the labels fall where they would from the Magisterium’s hands, wreathing what she had been.

Such permissiveness had brought sickness to her like bad air and bad grain, she realises now. A sickness that had always been there, like a plague wrought beneath scarring; flaring up like an ache on winter nights, then falling into dormancy with only a remnant feeling of what was there. The former Blood Knight feels as though this sickness had reached its apex, that something had rotted for too long in those old wounds, that it had burst through her blood.

That something had died.

Something, that had allowed the wolf to be masqueraded as a hound. The sword to be passed off for the kitchen’s knife. The Blood Knight Order is no Protector to Quel’Thalas. Neither was the Blood Watch. The City learned keenly of their truer roles as Headsmen. Killers. Butcherers.

She was not freed by her resignations. There is no redeeming qualities to be said on the matter, on her. She let Elanya die. She knew the woman would never leave the cells below the Hall of Blood alive the moment that little Phoenix flew from the Sunfury Spire, catching the eye of her and Lightfury that night.

The People lauded her as a hero for stepping away from the madness of it, and every warm smile and nod and ‘Lady Highdawn’ sunk into her heart like pins. There was nothing brave to it. Nothing heroic nor noble.

She walked away.

As she always does.

As she always has.

She just… didn’t want to do it herself. Personally.

What does passivity make of anyone, but as a useless bystander?

The letter from Captain Sunstorm came in just this morning, to the Infirmary itself where she had been. The word of the Archon Truefeather and his Uncle supplemented her extensive record of service. She had been accepted. Once her wounds had healed - it was off to basic all over again for her.

Thanidiel is more than unsure of how much she deserves such a thing. To distort reality once more. To allow the story to be retold. To continue to be retold. She is no defender, no hero. Nothing that constitutes a proper member of the Phoenix Guard.

So what is she?

…

...perhaps, the question is in the answer, as Ithanar might put it if she had asked him.

The Dragonsworn urged her to embrace this opportunity of rebirth; that all things burn and begin new. That the natural order relies in the deathly metamorphose of life from one form to the next. She would never admit it to the woman, but those words stuck to her breast and to her mind for days afterwards. Apparently, they still do.

Dawnstalker told her to find her own way, free of any of the bonds or shackles that have enwrapped her. Perhaps there was something envious there, in the perceived opportunity to do as such. He has never been one to see the nooses trail around the necks of others, so obscuring the shadows are.

Or, perhaps, she has never been one to notice when the restraints have all fallen away, so well she had once been trained.

The words of the Oracle revisit her, images swirling to the fore of her mind once more. The cavern. Ithanar, with the humour always at his lips. Bricini, wreathed in warmth. Varric, split apart. Cayvia, on her knees. Elanya, consorted in a scream. The Phoenix, dying. The hydra-beast; all things that sunder Quel’Thalas. The blood. The blood hanging from the exposed points of Varric’s ribs. The blood dripping from the blade through Cayvia’s body. The blood of the Phoenix. The blood coating the streets. The blood seeping from her bandages. The blood rolling in a fat, trickling, stream from Elleynah’s raw eye socket.  

“You bear chances now that none have yet seen; you, Breaker of Wheels. What was fate was overturned, violent in its death and birth. You are devoid of purpose, and must build. You must stand for this, with this choice made. You are interlocked into change.  Do not let the blindness of others blind you. Do not let the coldness you feel rot your feelings for what you once defended. Where you stand, change will come. Embrace, deny; it shall be. Be wise where you lay loyalty.”

So what is she?

…

Nothing. Empty. Lost. Devoid.

…

New.

Something to rebuild.

Truth rings to the bone on that: that Thanidiel Highdawn, as it stands, is nothing that constitutes a true member of the Phoenix Guard. She is no true defender. She is no true hero.

And what she was, detracts even further from the matter. The Lightward was the dark murmurs that would vacate entire streets when her banner hailed the sky, that would silence and darken homes when her footsteps would push towards residences. Over a century later, and still, she had heard the whispers of her moniker of Terror amongst the Order.

But there is room to change. The Wheel has been broken.

Embrace, deny; it shall be.

The sword had been driven through the Phoenix, and Thanidiel would see it reborn.

She would step into the new dawn shining before her.

The once-Knight takes in one last breath of the chilling night air. She, with as much quietness as she can muster, steps back into the apartment.

( Appearances - @jessipalooza @stormandozone Mentions - @rivendork @captainswingbeard @azriah @trained-trainwreck @felthier @erilihn)

@felthier @thesunguardmg