#Thoridath Greenstorm

[julesvalebright]

Verdancy: Before

(( This story took place about a month ago now. I’ve just been that terrible about getting it out. Previous post is Verdancy: Prologue. CW: Some graphic violence, Void Stuff, minor character death ))

“Be sure to bring this delightful trinket with you to Pandaria, gardener. I’m sure it will serve you well there.” Ather’s roughshod baritone was met seconds later by the displeasure in Julrien’s reply. 

“You’re hilarious,” he smirked, launching a fistful of freshly revived soil at his comrade. Bits of earth bounced harmlessly off Ather’s moss-trimmed vest, just as Julrien’s reaction had, so he ventured on: “We can’t all get by on edgy pot-shots, you know. Some of us actually want--” 

A larger fistful, this time with a bit of finely hewn mulch, spattered the front of Julrien’s tunic. It was met with gritted teeth that slid into an easy grin as he waved about the soil knife still loose in his grasp. A recent purchase of beautiful Dwarven craftsmanship, the ‘trinket’ had replaced many of his usual tools, and had proven invaluable in their downtime at Silithus.  

“Will you two shut up already? I’m tryin’ ta pretend m’not surrounded by children,” Laures’ annoyance drifted like the desert nightfall through the mouth of their tent. She added the heavy toss of her plate boots against its stretched-hide wall for emphasis, which was of course followed by Lucan’s unmistakable laughing sigh. “The same goes for you, ya pig-witted prat,” the half-elven woman snapped, and Julrien could feel her exasperation from there. It was not unusual for the temperamental Laures to take out her frustrations on her twin, just as it was not unusual for there to be plenty to frustrate her. Lucan, for his part, was a deep well of patience, ever gentle as he pushed back. 

“You’re cross ‘cause ‘o the early summons this mornin’,” he spoke softly, his Westfall Common accenting the Darnassian they tended to use at camp. “‘Cause ‘o how you’ve been sleepin’…” Because of how they’d all been sleeping--or not, as it were, Julrien inwardly agreed. Ather grunted beside him, edging away with his back to the tent while the Sin’dorei listened on, his own weariness remembered.

“Lucan! Just let it go, will ya? I’m fine!”

Laures was in no mood for gentle talk. Of all of them, she had come closest in their trials to achieving affinity beyond the flora with which they worked; as such, she was as spirited as the nightsaber whose tattooed paw prints marked each side of her neck, and just as difficult. A heavy silence fell over them, drowning out the crackle and quiet laughter at neighbouring campfires and the distant--constant--clash of stone and steel. Every so often they could feel the swell of the Source at work, their magic welling up from the deep secrets of the earth and its Emerald counterpart in tandem. It was the nature of their work, that connection that spoke its inimitable truth and bound them all to the knowledge. Julrien felt it in that silent moment, listened to its whispers as he’d been trained to do. 

It came as it always did, like sunlight flowing to the tips of his fingers, shot through with ivy tendrils sown in his veins. It used to leave him giddy, intoxicated at the sensation and long after it had passed. It still did, to an extent, though he’d grown used to the vitality of it all in his time with the others. But there was something else to it this time, some subtle difference he couldn’t quite place. A voice, like Laures’, echoing her words… Let it go… let...go… let-... Sylvan ears perked, Julrien kept his focus inside himself, listening hard in hopes of determining what exactly he heard. It was Laures, until it wasn’t. He recognized it changing, felt his chest tighten as aching familiarity crept into its timbre. There was the ghost of grinning teeth in it- their tender pull at the dip of his hip bone, the inside of his wrist; he was sure he saw a smattering of freckles along an upturned nose… felt it pressed into his neck as he strained to listen, still... 

He was scarcely able to breathe by the time Ather’s sudden movement drew him to the present. Behind them, he could at last hear the strangled cry wrenched from Laures’ throat. It took him a moment to recognize the subtle change within had somehow found its way without, falling like great shadows over the open space of their encampment. It couldn’t be… here?

But it was everywhere. Behind him, screams raised the fine hairs at his nape, his bare forearms icy in spite of the desert air. There was no wind. It was the absence of it all that moved on them. The Void. They were under attack, and yet as he and Ather tore back the leafy canopy draped over their tent, it was only Lucan they saw inside. Lucan, with his fist clamped tight about his sister’s windpipe, squeezing with an untold rage, even as he stood calmly in the act. 

Laures’ eyes flew open, glassy and wide, pleading with them not to hurt him, as she made another valiant attempt to find her footing and gain some leverage. The hunting knife at her belt was well within her reach, and yet she hadn’t taken it, couldn’t, Julrien knew, bring herself to end this sudden horror at the expense of her brother’s safety. They were well past that though. Ather had already taken it upon himself to intercept, heavy-handed as ever as he grasped Lucan’s arm with a force to rival that around Laures’ neck. 

“Leave off, Lucan… this is not what you want,” he growled at their comrade, seeming in that moment to tower over them all. Julrien was quick to take advantage of the diversion, only a second or two wherein Lucan--but it wasn’t him, not really--glanced up at the demand. Laures gave a half-hearted shake of her head, hindered at once by even more pressure at her throat, until she all but hung from Lucan’s grip. “Let her go,” Julrien hissed, face turned towards Lucan’s pointed ear as he pressed the serrated edge of his soil knife to the underside of the half-elf’s chin. Lucan, for his part, remained impassive, unblinking at the dark clouds flooding his gaze. He glanced from Ather to the Blood Elf tucked in behind him, unmoved. “Why do you resist us?” he--they--asked, making a mockery of Lucan’s gentleness. Lucan was undoubtedly viewed by many in their group, as well as the larger body of Druids, as soft, even simple. His all-too-Human appearance, and downright cherubic features aside, set him apart along with his sister, who communicated her value through clenched fists and a wicked tongue. Lucan used neither, preferring to defer to louder personalities in most matters. But those in their unit knew him to be the very best of friends: loyal, unassuming, and gifted when it came to soothing both ire and injury. Julrien’s racing heart seized, the chill wrapped around it like a fist as he watched Laures’ red face turn ashen. Lucan’s voice went on: “We are already here, as we always have been. You need only let us in…” From there, it all happened so fast. First came the sickening crack of bone, silencing the strange sibilance spilling from Lucan’s tongue and wrenching from him an anguished, all-too-familiar cry. Next came the rush of stricken air that flooded Laures’ lungs. She spun, gasping and sputtering, away from her brother’s limply hanging limb, which Ather released as soon as she was free. From there, it was easy for Julrien to draw upon the entangling vines of their ken. The soil knife fell to the earth, shifting along with their meager bedding and few, small comforts from home as the thick verdancy split the ground beneath their feet, slithering between them to wrap Lucan in a stranglehold of their own. 

Julrien’s fingers still curled into his palms, still trembled with the effort of keeping this… version of Lucan… in restraint, for long seconds afterward. He exhaled for what felt like the first time since rushing into their modest tent, slumping against the wall with a kick of a heavy, straw pillow. Ather’s steely silence in the wake of his violence had him gritting his teeth, especially set against the twins’ pained wheezes and whimpers. But one look at Laures, and he knew better than to get into it then. 

“Laur…what happened-” he began instead, seeking backstory for the unlikely scene. A toss of his head swept sweat-dampened locks over his shoulder as Julrien started towards their friend. Laures, for her part, uttered a cracked, “M’fine,” alternating between gasping and gaping at the face of her twin held fast by coiled greenery- and something else entirely. It was hideous, this likeness of their half-elven comrade. His saucer eyes no longer held the golden fields of Westfall in their depths; amber irises were eclipsed by darkness as they darted from the towering Ather to the rustling door of the tent. His mouth...at first it was contorted in agony, only for a slow, seething smile to split his lips, exposing too many teeth to the dim light of their oil lamp. Everything flickered, the lamp, that grin… 

The wind had returned, carrying the sounds of pitched cries and clashing weapons, and with it the unmistakable stench of… charred hides? There was only a second when Julrien could swear he heard it, a voice of warning, as familiar as the vacant spot in his mattress. It rang in his ears, urgent under the cackling of Lucan’s stolen voice:

RUN.

But he was too slow to react; they all were. An explosion sounded mere yards away, rocking the encampment as it fed on nearby azerite and blew through the neighbouring tent. The trio were flung to the far wall as the flames roared to life, flashing gold and sizzling into slick blackness beneath. Julrien choked on the scream that ripped through his chest as his hold on Lucan, his magic, burned through his tendons. The strong vines he’d summoned, brimming with Light and Life, languished in his grasp and, and in their stead, the deep well of nothing threatened to swallow them all.  Such a heavy burden… Soon you will see…

Ather’s fingers felt like claws dug into his shoulder as he shook him from his daze, but Julrien could no longer make out his words. He gagged, bitter ash in his mouth as he registered the colours bleeding around him. Thick, dark tendrils burst through the flames, spreading like oil over everything they’d worked for, slowly devouring the Life at his fingertips until he couldn’t hold it any more. He could no longer hear Ather, just as he could no longer see where Laures went, but Lucan--their gentle Lucan--was everywhere at once. His head tipped back...his flailing limbs, grasping and wrenching and filling Julrien’s sight. His laughter... dripping madness like ichor, down Julrien’s spine--

Our time has come… Let go and be free… His world shook, swirling around him in fire and shadow. He couldn’t tell whose hands were on him anymore, couldn’t breathe a word of what he felt as the cackles and crackling faded into his own unsteady pulse. Run, the voice had warned. And he should have- they all should have run from this place. It was a festering wound, a sickness they were not equipped to deal with. His world shook and he shook with it, writhing as it threatened to feed on him like every one of his tangling vines…

...until the very moment his mentor’s palm struck his cheek. A moment passed, and another, and eventually he could sense the solid ground once more. Ather held him from behind, and he felt the desperate press of Laures’ nails in his forearm. Thoridath…their leader stood over him, taut brows belying the stern line of his lips. “We are out of time,” he confirmed, taking just one step aside and jutting a calloused digit in the direction of the portal. Ahead of them, the camp was ablaze with chaos. The Earthen Ring scattered, with enraged elementals bearing down upon their numbers, and the Cenarion crew were scrambling to aid. But Thoridath could not risk their little group; what remained of them had to make it through to the other side, if they ever stood a chance at curbing the assault. “I have Lucan,” the Kaldorei added hastily, and Julrien swayed a little beneath that fervent gaze. He finally nodded, pulling free of Ather’s grasp. 

One arm hooked around Laures’, dragging her forward as they all darted after the Arcane rift. As they neared its shimmering borders, and the promise of safety on the other side, he couldn’t help but pause and chance a look back. Behind them, in the charred remnants of their tent and pieces of their belongings, Julrien could still make out the slender figure of Laures’ twin. The half-elf faced the great Sword of Sargeras, his mutated body trembling with horror… with glee… or some terrible blend of the two. Ather saw quickly towards pulling a struggling and shrieking Laures through, as it suddenly became all too clear that this was the last they would see of her twin. 

Julrien alone lingered, one hand poised to help his friends even as they disappeared through the portal, the other clenched hard at his side. Thoridath, true to his word, had moved towards Lucan, arms outstretched as he seemed to speak to him, the way one might speak to a frightened animal. Lucan, if he heard him at all, did not respond, instead lifting a pair of blades in malformed hands, the ‘fingers’ too long and too monstrous to be recognized. Before Julrien could call out, before his fear could bubble over into words at all, he watched as the soft soul of his friend who once held golden fields in his eyes… plunged each of those daggers into their depths. Someone slammed into Julrien then, with an impact he felt in the centre of his chest. He didn’t see Lucan fall, didn’t catch even a glimpse of Thoridath through the violet-black murk and scorched soil. As he sank backward, there was nothing but liquid flames trickling through to iridescent light, and the scent of sunflowers tickling his nose. 

[julesvalebright]

Verdancy: Prologue

They were sixteen in all; the product of Thoridath Greenstorm’s vendetta against stinging air and oil-slick waters. The druid order called them his Green Knights, but in reality they were always hers. Creeping vines transplanted in a ruined desert. They had joined the others within earshot of her staggering heartbeat only after their leader had given his blessing, when trials and training had cross-bred their abilities into something wholly new. They were saplings, stirring, and while Julrien Valebright wasn’t the first, he had grown into their finest. How to explain them without sounding insane? Thoridath was used to being called an extremist, and worse, for his ideas. But as the shrewd Kaldorei would tell it, something had long ago sliced up the land, their loyalties, and longings. Azeroth was made up of walls and warfare, where even belief, and the way you wielded your undeserved gifts, were cause for conflict. By this point, it was as if there was some great evil in meddling between the barriers. Schools and sources of magic, especially, were meant to be separate. Inviolate. Thoridath knew this was a lie, just as he knew that his student was born for this. He’d seen the fragile and devastating forces of Nature leap to Julrien’s call, with one undeniable truth: that even the most quivering, tenuous life, with leaves unfurled, was safe in his hands. But Julrien would never be a druid under Cenarion’s care. The boy’s adolescence had seethed into early adulthood, where he was forged into a vessel for the Light. His talents were honed in exacting retribution from their enemies- ‘they’ being the ‘Blood Elven’ order who made him. The Light was a blazing greatsword used to desolate those who stood against the ones he loved. Small wonder he’d struggled in the beginning. Thoridath had stumbled upon him in the cultured oases of the Netherstorm, those flashes of paradise illuminated beneath a crackling sky. That the boy had a gift for knowing was obvious; his volunteering with their land crew was a boon to them all that season. But there was more at work there, something primal and poised, like a summer storm taunting the rolling waves that surrounded his beloved Darnassus. Darnassus. Thoridath’s lungs ached to think of it, though the elder druid had not been present when the city died. In his weaker moments he imagined he had been, that he had roared at Mother Moon and leapt upon the flames. His arrogance told him there may have been a way to save what his people had built. But he had been sworn to Cenarion, and it was not his place to mourn for a city, so much as the living earth on which it stood. Nor could he look upon his Tauren sisters and brothers as though they were anything else. He would not build another wall. They were sixteen in all, then, wading into the thick lifeblood still seeping from Azeroth’s wound. The desolation was deep, and it pained him to see it on his students’ faces. The steely-eyed Laures, hard as the cracked earth, looked on in silence while her brother, Lucan, wept openly at the sight. Nothing they had seen in their Westfall home or beyond could have prepared them for this. Behind them, the Laughing Sister, Daphra, was propped up under Ather’s arm- Ather, whose secret kept him at a distance from the others, but who closed his eyes rather than watch them collapse. And then there was Julrien, without the luxury of impassive guise, whose white knuckles soon gave way to empty hands. Months passed, in dread and disarray. In quartet crews with a dedicated healer each, his Green Knights- hers, now, more than ever- fought to stem the bleeding. Nature was in their nature, tempered by a golden Light and primal order such as the paladins preached. But as they gained, they lost… at once sixteen, then fourteen, even before the Whisperer came. And now...

This was not the Nightmare. Their foe subsisted on sanity and shadows, its believers moving like oil on water as they gathered. Black clouds that blotted out the sun. It was time for his saplings to leave, to take to the forefront where the intersection of Light and Life manifested most. It had been some time since Thoridath had visited the Vale- not since he’d last taken a team of novices to share in the regrowth. And as he pulled back the heavy canvas door, ducking under stretching vines that sighed at the effort, he held fast to the image of fresh water, dappled gold.

[julesvalebright]

Taking Root

“I don’t know if I could survive another war like that.”

He was rambling, a trait that rarely reared its head, given his tendency to go quiet in times of great distress. Actions over words, the bigger the better to satisfy his pain or fear. But there was no outside danger where he was; seated in the middle of their lush, tangled greenery, only the limits of his own mind and body could pose a threat.

Twin tendrils, working in tandem. Find their centre. But there was a method to this mindless chatter, one he’d been committing to memory from day one. In this case, the quiet questions and half-there answers served the to temper the severity of his internal efforts with a bit of outside distraction. For with this kind of work, as with anything worthwhile, there was always that risk. All at once, his heart could fail to pace itself accordingly, or his lungs could simply forget to breathe, and everything could simply give way to the flow of  raw energy coursing through his veins, even over his own frantic pulse. The words on his lips anchored him elsewhere, providing that all-important Balance to which they all aspired.

Thoridath Greenstorm had proven to be a sharp-tongued and wild-eyed teacher. But he was not without his patience, murmuring distraction and direction in his silvery baritone from beneath a shaggy, fur-lined hood.

“And why do you think you would not survive?” he spoke in neutral, broken Common, the piercing argent glow of his gaze, wide and all-encompassing, fixing on Julrien’s own. The Knight swallowed, shook his head at his verbal misstep, instinctively delving deeper into the vibrancy curling about his fingertips.

“I asked you a question.” It was a warning, Julrien knew, though the Kaldorei’s tone did not waver. He would not repeat it again. A low breath left Julrien at last, soft and shuddering, while the brittle sapling cradled in his grasp slowly stretched along his palms. Dry roots twitched and trembled, while leaves unfurled with the promise of renewal.

Work with it, alongside it. It knows where it’s needed. “It was too much. I lost too much.” Trust, in himself and others. His senses of security and self. Sanity, sweetness and sleep. Things he’d never thought he could lose and then some, leaving him hollow and wanting, with sorrow lingering behind every smile. But Thoridath did not allow him to dwell too long on these external things either, one rough and dirt-caked hand firmly tapping against his student’s chest. “And you gained nothing in return?”

The Knight began to shake his head, a distant action beyond the borders of his concentrated efforts. Pausing at the last second, he stared down at the life in his hands, his focus carefully measured and split down the middle. Argus had been a husk of a world, with no hope left for Life, let alone a sort of Balance. It was the stuff of nightmares, and he’d dwelled inside of them, wading through tainted pools and breathing poison air, even before his heart had been ripped in twain.

Steady now. Mind your place in between all things.

Lore. It took Lore from him, and now he could hardly stand to exist without him in arm’s reach.

But hadn’t he grown stronger too, fighting everyday for countless souls who couldn’t? Hadn’t he found wells of courage when he thought he’d run dry, friends where he never expected to find them and Lore… hadn’t he’d found Lore again, even through all the obstacles set in their path? Just as the life-giving force rushing through his limbs knew to find where it belonged. It came quickly this time, that final swell of energy coursing through him as heavily as the Light itself, and he swiftly helped guide it, as he knew to do. Seconds passed, and he eventually registered the deep, celestial quality to Thoridath’s quiet reassurance, the weight of his teacher’s hand slowly lifting and leaving him light as air. The grass whispered beneath the druid’s movements, sinewy limbs shifting to allow some space. Julrien gently shed his concentration at last, his work for the moment complete. In his hands the once-brittle sapling yawned and stretched into thriving Life once more, its very roots aglow with a fresh, green thirst for it. Fingers tingling and a wild note of laughter on his lips, Julrien made quick work of returning the fledgling tree to the earth, tenderly tucking it into the rich soil between Thoridath and himself.

When he sat back, grinning drunkenly as he reached with trembling fingers for his water-skin, taking a sip before committing the rest to the freshly planted earth, the man offered a rare curve of his lips in return.

“Just as I thought.”

(( @artificers-magic for mention <3 ))</p>

[julesvalebright]

💔 What was my muse’s first heartbreak?

Julrien’s first ever ‘real’, long-term relationship was with a nobleman named Vaeris. He was so young, and the relationship was so ugly. It never really became a source of ‘traditional’ heartbreak, having gradually- and then suddenly- descended into an abusive situation. He was well rid of it, in the end. Years of discovering himself and what he wanted followed, until one day, when he least expected it, there was Lore. 

He changed Jules’ life from the moment they first met. In some ways, he thinks now, love like they shared strikes like lightning… boundless, evanescent. And no matter how intensely you feel it, how powerful and beautiful it is… it isn’t meant to exist here for long. 

The trauma Lore suffered on Argus, and the fact that he was born with so great a burden as he carried, turned his existence into an embodiment of this. In the end, he couldn’t be here, and be whole, any more than lightning could be captured in a bottle. And try as he would, Jules couldn’t do this for him. It very nearly broke him to try.

But they each have their own paths to take now. While Jules’ experimental work with Thoridath Greenstorm of the Cenarion Expedition keeps him grounded in the fight for life on Azeroth, Lore’s has taken him far from this place, this plane- to places Jules can never go. And though he may never see him again, he’s finally come to accept that this is how it’s meant to be. He’ll always love Lore, but he has to go on living, and if his work has taught him anything it’s that life is now. 

Thanks, @smith-hadeon! @artificers-magic for mention, whom I also love.

[julesvalebright]

Julrien Valebright

Appearance -

Gender: Male

Race: Sin’dorei

Height: 5′10″

Eye Color: Blue-green

Hair Color: Darkest brown/black

The Facts -

Birthday: March 23rd.

Occupation: Former Blood Knight, presently affiliated with the Cenarion crew and specifically the Expedition; florist.

Sexual identification:  Homosexual.

Romantic identification: Homoromantic.

Alignment: Lawfulish Good.

Criminal History: Minor bar brawls/fist fights.

Documented: None since schoolyard fights!

Undocumented: A handful of times, spread out here and there. None really recent.

Relationship Status: Single.

Favorites –

Favorite food: Juicy steaks, kebabs, fresh apples, greasy Faire food, the lemon bars at Fancy Cakes.

Favorite drink:  Coffee.

Favorite artist: Do poets count as ‘artists’? He does love those. Traditional art-wise, he enjoys pastel watercolour scenes, especially featuring sunsets and the like… or else crazy, loud and even obnoxious ‘pop art’. 

Favorite scents:  Lilac, fresh coffee, cinnamon, the forge.

Favorite person: (Lore), Thoridath Greenstorm, his Kaldorei mentor, @gloamingdawn, @melisandemeadowshine, @inerris-ianthine. 

Randoms –

Ten facts about your muse:

⚫  He has a half-sister less than a year younger than himself. @feywren  is head of House Evenlight, based in Eversong.

⚫  He has never had a pet, not even when he was little. He and his best friend Saerie, the little girl who lived next door, used to rescue birds and the like, but that was as close as it ever got. 

⚫ He regularly sings in the shower. It’s probably nothing to write home about, but he can carry a tune well enough!

⚫  His mother’s family has always tended gardens/worked with plant-life, for generations before he came along, and even generations before that, in the earliest recorded days of their people. He would probably have gone on to do so at the Evenlight estates as well, had he been raised there and circumstances been different.

⚫ Julrien’s hair is super thick, and he undercuts it so he can keep it long, the way he likes it, without the literal headaches that can result.

⚫  His mother claimed she always knew he was gay, even if he mostly rolled his eyes at that. Her acceptance and support were unwavering and very welcome, however, as he figured himself out.

⚫ The news of Ysera’s death struck him oddly hard. He had perhaps revered her, but her presence was never a part of his life outside of where the Aspect’s dealings intersected with the Blood Knights’ work during events of the Cataclysm, and since. All the same, he was oddly preoccupied with it for a good few weeks when it happened.

⚫ He likely had a bit of a ‘reputation’ for getting around as a new recruit among the Blood Knights. It was probably well-earned, at the time.

⚫ His first ‘real relationship’, if one could call it that, was with a very abusive, wealthy noble whose family owned a textiles company. It lasted right up until the Scourge invasion, and when their holdings were destroyed, he disappeared. Presumed dead.

⚫  He has slept in his greenhouse a few times since the spring weather rolled back into town. The glass ceiling makes for a really gorgeous sight as he’s settling in for the night.

Five Things -

Things they like: - Flowers - Running - Sunset - Sex - Writing

Things they dislike:

- ‘Stuck-up’ noble-types - Cooking for himself - Snow/cold weather - Being pitied - Judgmental people

Good traits/habits:

- Loyal - Protective - Open-minded - Quick-witted - Nurturing

Bad traits/habits:

- Impulsive - Short-tempered - Outspoken - Reckless - A little disorganized in his living space

Personalities they gravitate toward:

- Passionate - Clever - Playful - Honest - Open

Personality types they avoid:

- Elitist - Judgmental - Manipulative - Cruel - Apathetic

Fears:

- Abandonment - Failing those he loves  - Betrayal - Being physically tied up/bound- a work in progress. - Doomguards aren’t great either.

Tagged by: @inerris-ianthine

Tagging: You, and you... also you.