#a haze. simply nearly losing hours at a time. and then the big crash

[femmefaggot]

hmm

[sunjaesol]

and in the haze you see colours

juke | human soulmate au | title: 5 am // amber run

The first colour she ever saw was purple.

When someone was born, they got to see one colour. To each it was different and often a reflection of one's aura. Julie's aura was purple and, naturally, it was the colour she could see. Which was unfortunate, as there weren't many purple things in life - not naturally, at least.

And so, her entire bedroom was purple. Purple walls and purple sheets and purple stationary. The rest were varying shades of grey. Often times, she asked her parents why some were lighter than others, and they told her about green and blue and red. It sounded like a fairy tale. Red was warm, apparently, and blue was flexible and green was fresh. Despite their best attempts, she couldn't visualise it.

It didn't matter. Once she met her soulmate, she would see all the colours imaginable.

Befriending Flynn was easy. The girl had purple ribbons in her hair and that instantly attracted Julie. Vice versa, Julie's orange dress was a plus for Flynn. Through their deep bond, oranges slowly infused itself in her cornea. Orange, like a child's laughter.

With Carrie came pink. Pink, like the fiery moves of a dancer. It was close to purple, so it wasn't a huge shock to see a bouquet of roses suddenly come alive with colour.

In retrospect, gaining orange and pink wasn't that amazing. Not when she lost her mother while doing so. Placing pink dahlias on her grave was just another punch in the gut.

Years passed and people around her found their soulmates. In freshmen year, so many students gasped and fainted as they crossed eyes with their One. She went to parties and someone would start randomly kissing the other. She went to open mics and watched as her soprano voice accompanied two people finding love. It was as beautiful as it was tragic.

Julie was seventeen and she still hadn't found her soulmate. Statistically, most had by now. Had she not gone to The Orpheum that night, she might’ve waited even longer.

Flynn urged her to go to this new and upcoming band, Sunset Curve, as their sound was someone she’d vibe with. Julie wasn’t really feeling it, drowning in homework and song ideas, but her friend was persistent. They needed a breather from everything and a concert was the perfect remedy. After a quick Google search, she realised they were her age. Curiosity swelled in her chest, wondering how they moved up from open mics or school assemblies to the iconic stage of The Orpheum. The only thing she could note about the band was the drummer’s pink hoodie. That was it.

The venue was packed when they arrived. Boisterous chatter, antsy for the band to come on stage and fill the spaces between the instruments. Glasses chiming of sodas and beers being filled and passed around, the soft hum of pop music blaring from a speaker. Most of the crowd were kids from neighbouring schools and all dressed more alternatively. Though she didn’t see most colours, it was clear as day the band tees were vintage and the trousers were ripped or checkered or both.

She shot Flynn a look. “Are you sure this is our thing?”

“Yes!” Propelling them to the front of the stage and consequently shouldering kids in the ribs, she added: “Their biggest hit is, like, insane. And you’ve been in a funk all week, so you need some insanity. To like, counteract it. I don’t know.”

Julie withheld a pout. She’s been ‘in a funk’, because while she was at Eats & Beats grabbing a coffee, two strangers fawned at the sight of each other. RIght in front of her nose, another couple found. It normally didn’t affect her that much, but it did this time. The girl was sick of hearing about romantical love instead of experiencing it herself. Sure, she had Flynn and Carrie and her family, but…

But she wanted that. She wanted more. And with each ticking hour, it felt less and less viable. Where was the One for her?  

The lights dimmed and the pop music stopped, smoke drifting across the stage as the audience began hollering and whistling. Egging the band to get on and give a performance worth watching. The hyped-up teens pushed everyone to the front, now Julie and Flynn forced to crane their necks to watch.

The drummer came on first, all applauding for him as he took his seat and started a drum beat that quickly upped in tempo. It swept them up in an atmosphere, heads bobbing and feeling that rise in anticipation.

Then the bassist came. His dark jacket glittered in the overhead lights, the flannel peaking beneath almost hinting at orange but remaining grey. He added to the beat, bringing in a bassline that had feet bouncing and more people cheering. The mic at the front remained empty, teasing its explosion of lyrics and electricity.

Finally, at the crescendo of sound, the frontman stormed on. He was all charm and smirks and cut-offs and blazing purple shoes. That caught her off guard, eyes dropping to the ultraviolet sneakers. A shock of colour amidst the grey.

His raspy voice belted out lyrics, a grin pulling on Julie’s face at the musicality. Grabbing Flynn’s hand, they jumped around with the other people. Their music was insane. It was fast and clashing and aggressive and raw.

With her neck in its odd position, she observed the singer for a beat. He was… hot. That was all Julie could think. He was hot. His hair falling perfectly right, big eyes, the smile breaking all lines in his face like a beautiful mosaic. Humming like an undercurrent was a buzz right beneath her ribs. Snug and warm, which could’ve been the vibrations from the amps, but it felt different. A good different.

They were in their fourth song when it happened. The band was kicking and jumping around, singing about making it big and not looking down, skyrocketing to stardom, when it happened.

The lead singer dropped to his knees and let the guitar riff bleed to the front row. The audience hollered, Julie laughing in delight at the expert playing, when her and the guy’s gazes met.

He yelped, music stopping short as he careened over the edge and crashed to the floor. Simultaneously, Julie felt the air knocked out of her lungs, losing balance and falling into Flynn. Her eyes were shrivelling with heat, as if hit with the embers of a campfire. A hammer slammed down on the buzz in her chest, electrifying the feeling till it was nearly unbearable.

Her eyes shot open. And then there was colour.  

The crowd dispersed in fright. Gasps and gawks echoed to the back, curious murmurs carefully watching the guy and the girl come to their senses.

“Flynn,” she exclaimed, grabbing for her friend. “Flynn, I can-”

Except she wasn’t there, joining the rest of the crowd further back. The bassist and drummer were watching on, baffled.

Oh. Her stare drifted to the squirming boy on the floor. Oh.

Luke scrambled upright, instantly coming face to face with Front Row Girl and all the colours he has wished to see forever. His eyes were burning from shock and euphoria, greys and whites bleeding out of his bloodstream.

Her hands grasped for his face, worried, lips forming words he hardly registered but vaguely processed as ‘asking if he was okay.’

“Y-yeah, yeah,” he stuttered, his gaze racing across her features to wholly take her in.

Warm skin and wide, brown eyes and dark lashes and curled, pink lips and a pointed chin and glossy, long curls dancing against her cheeks and soft hands and red - she was wearing red. His colour. His soulmate.

He laughed. “Hi.”

She matched it, giggling. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he sighed, still in disbelief that she was his soulmate. His soulmate. His soulmate. The One.

Her trembling smile softened, thumbs swiping across his cheekbones. “You have really pretty eyes,” she whispered.

Her own were shining with unshed tears and he felt himself choking up too. Never in a million years did he think he’d meet his soulmate. To him, it had always been music. Sure, it sounded nice, but he knew he shouldn’t be yearning for it. He had his friends - his aura was red and he gained pink from Alex and yellow from Reggie.

But suddenly she was here. She was really here.

“You’re- pretty-” he stumbled, causing her to laugh again.

Yeah, there was no way he’d be able to continue the gig. The Orpheum was a big deal, but meeting your soulmate? Most monumental moment of anyone's life.

There was so much colour now. So much life. There was so much more than just music and red and pink and yellow to enjoy. (Songs swirled in his mind though, exciting him to the bone as his hands slid to grab her own. Winking all coy, like the best was yet to come.)

“Do you wanna talk?” he rushed out after.

She nodded. “Yeah. You- uh- your band-”

Their fingers intertwined, warmth dancing in his heart. “Doesn’t matter,” he chuckled. “Really does not matter right now.”

The light of a camera flash and exhilarated screams of ‘soulmates!’ ripped them from their bubble. The bassist jumped offstage and clapped Luke on the back, whispering at him to go to the alley. Leading her away, there was no sense of doubt in their steps. Luke didn’t know her name, she maybe didn’t know his. None of that mattered. There was colour now.

From the alleyway, they found themselves wandering around the Strip as they talked for ages. Her name was Julie, his was Luke, they were musicians, they were seventeen, their auras were purple and red, he decided he adored her smile the most and she his twinkling eyes.

“I think they’re green,” Julie said, peering into his eyes. She was impossibly close and it sort of took his breath away. “They’re fresh.”

“Fresh?” he grinned.

She didn’t lean back - she didn’t want to, his soul simply enigmatic - and asked him the same question. “What are mine?”

His expression softened, a smile twitching on his lips. They’re beautiful. “Brown, I think,” he said instead. “Not sure though. You wanna figure it out tomorrow?”

Her stride halted, their grasp on each other nearly yanked apart. His brows raised expectantly. It was there - that invisible, innate, sense of understanding. It wasn’t just colour. It was the refusal to look at colour alone, ever again. It was insane for the both of them, how their rushing thoughts slotted all puzzle pieces together without a hitch. It had that satisfying click-click-click sound, like dominoes.

Luke found himself coming back to her, the space between them disappearing till their arms pressed together and there were no forces tugging them together. It was all themselves.

“I have a book about colour,” Julie eventually said. “We can learn them all.”

He smirked. “I can tell you your lips are pink.”

“Yours are too.”

“Yeah?” he teased.  

But then she lifted a finger and pressed against the plump skin. His heart stopped short at the sensation. Before he gave into the instinct to pucker them and kiss it, her hand dropped.

Julie grinned. ��And now they’re red.”

When Luke kissed her, hers were red too.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

@blush-and-books​ @bluefirewrites​ @unsaidjulie​ @willexx​ @unsaid-emily​ @ourstarscollided​ @pink-flame​ @constantly-singing​ @stydixa​

[imhereforbvcky]

To Steal A Kiss

Summary: As a mild criminal, you make a bold move to pick-pocket a suspicious looking stranger, but you may have picked the wrong target. (Bucky x reader)

Request/Prompt(s): Can you do this "I kissed you as a distraction while stealing your wallet" with Bucky x reader? Thanks!

Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 1933

A/N: Ok first, I do not condone theft. Second, I’m so glad someone picked this one!!! :D This was such a fun idea!

“We’ve been here for over an hour!” you whined, pacing the small empty room, dust particles swirling up into the sunlight with each step. “When do we make the drop?”

“When I’m ready,” your partner hissed, clearly annoyed with your impatience, “We’re the ones with the goods, they’ll wait and right now I’ve got a lurker that’s been hanging around at the corner for too long.”

“Lemme see.” You pushed your way to the window, picking up the heavy binoculars from the floor.

“Big guy. Army green coat, and black hat, northeast corner.”

“Got him.” You looked him over carefully. He didn’t exactly stand out, apart from the way he never seemed to move more than 5 feet in any direction while the rest of the market bustled around him. But if you had any money to bet with, you’d wager he was well armed under that jacket. Who the hell wears a jacket in heat like this? “How long?”

“He’s been there about 45 minutes, hasn’t really moved, keeps watching our buyer’s cart.”

“And no bags from the market.” Despite your impatience, you couldn’t help agreeing with your partner’s assessment: this man was watching for something very particular. Watching for you.

“Well obviously this was a bust,” your partner sighed, beginning to pack his things.

“No, no, no,” you protested, “Let’s at least find out who our creep is.”

Your partner’s eyes snapped to you while you packed up your binoculars and lifted the heavy sidearm from your belt. Next, you fluffed your hair and ran your fingers under your eyes, sweeping away any smudged make-up.

“What the hell are you going to do?” he asked as you rolled the hem of your tank top a few times until it rested exactly where you wanted. “You think he’s going to tell you who he is? And what if he figures out who you are? He’s massive, he’ll snap you in half.”

“Sounds like a party,” you grinned, slipping out the door with a mostly empty purse crossed over your chest.

Bucky had been stationed on the corner opposite the target location for nearly an hour and the hot sun and thick crowds were making him irritable and fidgety. Nothing had happened apart from Sam’s divergence from the plan to buy a kebab from a cart on the way to his rooftop position.

“I don’t think this is it,” Bucky complained again into his comm as he lifted his hat to wipe some sweat from his brow.

“The intel was good,” Nat insisted in his earpiece.

“Okay, then we missed it,” he snapped under his breath, “Or your guy had it wro--”

“Excuse me?” her voice cut through his conversation, clear and insistent. He stepped back, and ducked his head, hoping she’d pass him by. No such luck. “Excuse me?” she asked again, gently resting her hand on his arm to force his attention.

She held her phone out in front of her and stepped closer to him so her shoulder brushed his. God, she smelled nice, and she was so at ease beside him. It was too easy to let Nat’s voice in his ear drift to a buzz in the background.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” her eyes fluttered up to his, and shit, when she smiled at him he froze completely. “Could you tell me how to get to Victoria Fountain?” She pointed to the map open on her phone but he just stared at her for a moment until she laughed softly.

“Barnes!” Nat’s voice snapped in his ear. “Lose her.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, finally breaking his gaze from her smiling eyes, “I’m not from here, I don’t know.”

“Oh that’s okay.” She slid her phone back into her purse and stepped in front of him, her hand sliding down the length of his arm. “My phone has GPS anyway, I’ll figure it out. I kinda just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew he needed to focus on his mission, that something was off, and he should really stop staring at her lips. But the way she blinked up at him, half nervous, half smiling confidence, he just couldn’t focus on anything.

He must have been silent for too long because she was talking to him again and he had no idea what she’d said. “Huh?”

She giggled, and bit her lip. “I said, I think you have something on your jacket.”

His eyes followed her hands as she reached forward to thumb at a smudge on his coat that he didn’t remember seeing earlier.

“Oh! I’m making it worse.” She pulled away slightly, rubbing at the dark inky substance that stained her fingers. “I’m so sorry!” If his brain hadn’t short circuited when she stepped so close his training would have kicked in and he would have noticed that she had far more ink on her fingers than on his jacket, she was the very source of the stain. But she was so damn close and spoke so softly...

“S’okay,” he managed, and without thinking he had her worried hands in his. She stepped closer, eyes flitting up to his. He kept his gaze locked on their hands, wondering why the hell he’d taken her hands like that. What the hell was he doing. There was a reason he worked from a distance with big rifles, who’s idea was it to put him on the ground like this?

She simply waited, watching him cautiously, careful to keep a warm and timid smile on her face. When he finally looked up, she let her smile grow. It wasn’t hard, he really was handsome. The second his gaze darted to her lips she took her chance, crashing her lips to his, reaching on tiptoes to get to him.

For a long moment they both froze like that, Bucky shocked and unmoving, her terrified and hoping. When she felt the tension ease out of his body and his lips began to move against hers, she pushed her hands forward, sliding over his sides and stepping closer into his space until she was nearly leaning against him, hugging his waist to hers.

As his hands slid from her hands over the length of her arms up to her shoulders, she slipped a few fingers lightly into his pocket. After dropping his wallet silently into her nearly empty purse, she tapped his chest lightly before pulling away.

“I’m sorry!” she breathed, making sure to look shocked and embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I was thinking. I should…” she pointed over her shoulder and then disappeared into the crowded street market.

Bucky stepped forward to follow her before Nat’s voice sliced through his whirlwind haze again, “Barnes! What the hell was that? Stay in position!”

Shaking his head slightly, he glanced back toward the target, still at his cart. “Sorry. I just…”

“What the hell was that?” she asked again.

“I-I have no idea.”

Back at your small apartment that night you sat staring at the contents of the wallet sprawled out on your coffee table, trying your best not to panic. You were clearly in way over your head with this mystery man, and no closer to knowing who the hell he was.

On your table lay 4 different photo IDs from 4 different places with 4 different names and at least as many credit cards. You’d happily pocketed the thick stack of cash first upon opening the wallet, but now staring at this puzzle before you, you were downright terrified that you’d just pick-pocketed Jason Bourne.

You were so tuned up, staring at the face of the same man on the IDs before you that you screamed and cowered on the end of your couch when your door flew open with a bang.

“I’m sorry! Just take it! Just take it!” you cried, cowering on the end of your couch with your hands above your head, face buried into the armrest.

You heard heavy footsteps approaching you and jumped when you heard the soft scraping of the items from your table sliding away from you as Bucky picked them up. Daring to peek over your knees, you saw him smirking as he stuffed each piece back into the wallet.

“Look, I have no idea who you actually are,” you tried, your voice quiet and pleading, “so you can just… just take your things and go. You don’t have to…” You shuttered as you glanced over your shoulder, noticing the agile woman moving through your apartment with her gun trained unrelentingly on you. “You don’t have to kill me.”

His attention snapped to you with a confused and almost hurt wrinkling of his brow, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah? What about her,” you asked bitterly, nodding towards his partner.

He glanced over his shoulder and gave a sharp huff, rolling his eyes, “Nat, would you take it easy? She’s obviously not a threat.”

“I dunno,” she shrugged, lowering her weapon, but not holstering it, “She managed to blow 4 of your covers in one night.”

“Well that’s why we’re here,” he snapped, before turning to you with a softer look, “instead of burning these aliases.”

“What do you mean?” you asked tentatively, still on edge, more tense than you’d ever been in your entire damn life.

“He means, not everyone can pick-pocket the Winter Soldier,” she grinned, clearly enjoying his snafu. “You’re good. We’re interested.”

You watched her for a moment longer, looking for any signs of deception. When you found none, you looked to him, eyeing him up and down. You’d heard of the Winter Soldier, but he seemed far too… soft? Not in the way that would make you think he didn’t have a layer of ruthlessly hardened muscle under that jacket, hell he was almost certainly the reason your door was splintering at the hinges. But he’d had a soft way of looking at you, and he’d molded into your touch so gently earlier in the day… Certainly not the image you expected of a half frozen assassin from another time.

“Interested how?” you asked, feeling just slightly more at ease.

“Well, you’re coming with us either way,” she murmured, sliding onto the couch beside you, setting her gun on the table in front of her with a heavy thud. “You can come in handcuffs, or you can join us.”

“What?” The word fell out of your mouth faster than your brain could process this. You stared at her, mouth agape, before turning the same look to Bucky who shrugged one shoulder and offered you a reassuring smile.

“You’ll have to give up the smuggling though, or at least only do it under sanctioned missions” she continued, “Tony’s got a thing about following the law these days.”

“Tony? As...as in Tony Stark?” you stuttered, “As in come with you to be…”

“You don’t really have a ton of options here, doll,” Bucky reminded you with a sympathetic look.

“I guess not.”

Nat jumped up immediately, holstered her gun and pulled you to your feet. “Good! Now tell me your secrets!” she slung a duffle bag at you and lead you to your room to pack, while glancing over her shoulder at Bucky with a smug grin. “That must’ve been one hell of a kiss.”

You couldn’t help but smile at her ribbing as Bucky turned three shades of pink and pushed a hand into his hair anxiously.

“I thought so,” you teased, before disappearing into your room to pack for a completely new life.

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[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 4)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

“Be on your guard, we may be attacked from the right.” Telurin unsheathes his runeblade - he’s back to his long ice-covered sword these days - taking Sugarfoot’s reins loosely in one hand. The others barely have the time to get a hand on their maces before the howl of worgs can be heard from the right, and the orcish war party crashes upon their tiny group like waves upon the shore. It’s double to one in the orcs’ favor, including the Anchorites that both Motaanos and Telurin push in front of, sharing an uneasy glance at the other when they realize their mirrored movements. After that, no further thought can be spared for such trivialities, the fighting is on them in earnest.

It’s brutal, quick work. The worgs are fast, even compared to the talbuks some of the vindicators are on, too fast for the elekks to get a grip on with their trunks. The vindicators are not accustomed to working as a group while mounted, and get in each other's way, enough to leave themselves open for the orcs and their hooked spears that they use to drag them off their mounts. Telurin will remember afterwards the feel of slicing through the elbow of an orc that was trying to do the same to Motaanos, only to turn and freeze half of the one that had come upon him while he wasn’t looking. The battle was a haze of the pain and death of the living, a desperate scramble to keep alongside Pallas who was equally desperate to keep Akos from bolting, and trying to keep the both of them from being trampled by panicked elekks.

The vindicators fought bravely, fiercely even, but they were outnumbered and caught unawares. They went down by ones and twos, those on elekks going first, the great beasts not trained for such a skirmish and panicking when they lose their rider, either to run into the woods or lash out wildly at anything that came near. It made forming any sort of cohesive counterattack impossible.

Telurin finds himself on the ground with no time to think of how he’d gotten there, Sugarfoot a ways away still fighting without him, lashing out with hooves and teeth with devastating effect. They’d been pushed off the main road and into the dense forest, herded against a steep ravine with a small creek some thirty feet below. They rallied around this meager defense, at least not having to worry about attack from the rear, when one of the orcs in a wolfskin headdress raised her arms and said a word that cracked through the air like a lightning bolt, and half of the ground beneath their hooves gave way, crumbling into the ravine. Telurin and a handful of the remaining vindicators fell along with the crumbling rocks, Telurin reaching out with his dark magics to take the shaman with him as he fell, snapping her neck with the sickly purple energies.

It’s a tragic rout for the tiny Commandry. There’s simply too many orcs to fight, and they have the element of surprise. The orcs herd the draenei with their backs to a sheer ravine, preventing them from being able to escape.

It’s by pure chance that Pallas is not caught in the crumbling cliff face along with Telurin. The Anchorite turns around on Akos at the calamitous uproar of noise. He thus sees the harrowing moment the ground falls apart under the death knight’s feet, sending his guardian into the ravine below with a dreadful crash of boulders.

Pallas screams as Akos rears and whinnys in terror. “Telurin!”

___________

The next thing Pallas can remember is hitting the ground hard, having been finally thrown from Akos’s saddle. He opens his eyes just in time to see his beloved talbuk fleeing the scene of the carnage, its shining white coat disappearing into the darkness among the trees. At the very least, Pallas thinks with grief, Akos might escape being slaughtered by the orcs.

He pushes himself up from the ground with his hands, relieved to find that although he is bruised, no bones appear to be broken. Stumbling in a near-panic, the priest then runs to the broken edge of the cliff. He falls to the ground at the cliff’s edge, staring downward at the catastrophic avalanche of boulders that have fallen into the ravine.

Although Pallas realizes Telurin is undead, and therefore not subject to many of the same kinds of hurts as the living, he feels certain that being crushed by boulders is one of the things that might feasibly destroy a death knight. The priest screams Telurin’s name into the ravine, desperate for an answering call. The only sounds he hears in response are the faint, cracking tumbles of smaller rocks, and the echo of his own voice. Urgently, Pallas casts the touch of his mind wide, seeking about for any sign of the death knight’s thoughts or emotions. Either due to the distance, or because Telurin has fallen unconscious… or worse, he is unable to find his guardian’s mind.

He is gone.

“Telurin! Telurin!! Oh Light, please!” Forgetful of the dangerous situation he’s still in, Pallas falls to the earth wailing and crying, his tears pouring out in hot rivulets. “Telurin…! No, please, no...”

A sharp cry of his name behind him snaps the Anchorite back to reality. “Pallas!”

Pallas starts, turning around. Coming towards him slowly is Grigore. The soul priest is bent nearly double, gasping for breath with the effort of moving. On instinct, Pallas scrambles to his hoofs and runs over to Grigore, helping him stand.

“You must not yell,” Grigore gasps in-between labored breaths. “We must escape before the orcs notice us.”

Even as he speaks these words, however, the dark, looming shapes of orcs can be seen approaching, forming a ring around the two priests.

Grigore straightens, pulling Pallas to his side with a thin arm protectively. His eyes become firm of resolve. -We are too late.-

___________

Hours later...

The first sensation Mot is aware of as he returns to consciousness is how much pain he’s in. Everything feels like it’s on fire. The stars twinkle overhead as he lays prone on his back. A horse’s large head partially obscures his vision, its lips muzzling all over his face.

Sugarfoot snorts air into the vindicator’s face through his nostrils, causing him to wince. He raises a hand to his face reflexively. That must mean that his arm isn’t broken. This is good. Slowly, Mot takes account of the state of his body and his injuries. He can move his head. His gauntleted hands discover a large scorch mark on his armor. His ribs underneath sear with pain. He guesses he’s been hit with a bolt of shadow magic - Shadowmoon orcs, necromancers perhaps. Still lying prone on his back, Motaanos starts to channel Light into the wound, grumping at Sugarfoot whenever the charger nuzzles his face again.

Eventually, Motaanos heals himself up enough to stand. He places an enchantment of the Light on the end of his mace, causing it to give off radiance, so he is able to survey the aftermath of the battle in the near pitch black of night. Carrying the weapon like a torch, Mot does some examining of the grounds near him. He finds two of his men, tragically cut down in battle and left for dead. Anything valuable has been stripped from their bodies. Motaanos closes their eyes, murmuring a hymn of the Auchenai that existed for this purpose.

He finds no sign of Grigore’s body. Grigore...

Sugarfoot seems to be trying to nose him somewhere.

“What do you want, beast?” Motaanos is at first irritable, sick with the thought that he may be the only survivor. The massive horse refuses to allow him to walk away, corralling him back towards the ravine.

“Your master fell down that cliff.” The vindicator replies bitterly. “With any luck he died quickly.”

Sugarfoot makes a horsey noise, and does not relent, continuing to pace around. Motaanos raises a brow, then peers down the ravine again. It yawns into impenetrable blackness.

After a few more moments of deliberation, Mot nods at the deathcharger. “We will take a look. We can get down to the river this way.”

Motaanos leads Sugarfoot down away from the cliff-face. He takes a long path around, following the sound of water tumbling over rocks. The way is slow-going with only his makeshift torch to see by, but eventually Mot arrives at the river’s edge and the pile of fallen debris.

The big undead horse follows without having to be lead as soon as Motaanos heads in the direction he wants, and when they reach the level of the creek he pushes past the vindicator, leading him now to where Telurin lies half buried in the rubble, his plate crumpled in places. Sugarfoot noses Telurin the same way he did Motaanos, until the death knight lifts his hand to the horse's nose before gripping his bridle and letting himself be pulled up, at least to sitting.

Motaanos’s eyes widen as he sees that the death knight has survived a fall that would have been deadly to most anyone else.

“You should not have survived that.” He sounds accusatory, as if Telurin’s having lived through his ordeal violates some natural order. Even though Telurin is sitting, and seems to have been injured, the vindicator seems uneasy, unwilling to get close.

Telurin knows upon waking that the recent break in his leg has splintered once more, just as his ribs on his left side complain when he takes a break to praise his stalwart steed. The quiet of the surroundings only confirms what he already senses: That of the dead, the draenei far outweigh the orcs, and the only living soul nearby is the vindicator that would rather see him dead.

“Commander.” Telurin rasps, voice sounding pained even to his own ears. “You’ve caught me at a disadvantage. Tell me you can heal, and that you saw the direction the orcs took their hostages.” Neither Anchorite was among the dead here. They must have been taken.

The question of hostages brings his focus back to the present. “I was unconscious, and did not see their flight. However their tracks are easy enough to read. And I can heal.” Mot narrows his eyes. Did he trust this death knight well enough to heal him?

The vindicator dithers for several moments as he considers this quandary. Finally, he steps closer, still lit by his mace torch. “Grigore trusted you… But, I do not understand the reason you accompany that Anchorite. What is your motivation for doing so? Explain that to me first. I cannot work with a man I can’t trust, whether he be living or dead.”

Telurin laughs, a harsh sound that ends in a harsher cough. “As I was in life, so I am in death. I would not harm an Anchorite, or any servant of the Light, no more than you. As to why I am with that particular Anchorite, well, I also suspect it is similar to your reasoning for following Grigore, unless I mistake my mark.”