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jakkosisle · 6 years ago

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The Battle For Lordaeron: Part I - Battleplans

War horns echoed through Orgrimmar for the umpteenth time, summoning every able-bodied champion, adventurer, hero, mercenary, or miscellaneous within earshot to Grommash Hold. An ocean away, the Undercity was under attack. In retaliation for the burning of Teldrassil, a massive Alliance fleet had landed on Lordaeron’s northern shores, deadset on dethroning the Banshee Queen once and for all. Thus, Sylvanas is calling on every champion of the Horde to rush to the Undercity’s defense, for it is not only her seat of power and a crucial Horde foothold in the Eastern Kingdoms, it is the home to the Forsaken - a pillar of the Horde for years.

The line outside Grommash Hold was long. Everyone had a different reason for answering the warchief’s call. Some were genuinely loyal to Sylvanas, seeing her as worthy of the mantle. Others were loyal to the Forsaken, if not Sylvanas herself - the Forsaken had proven their commitment to the Horde time and time again, so many viewed it as only honorable to return the favor. And some were just happy to finally have an excuse to do away with all this “greater good” nonsense and just smash some Alliance skulls.

It was in this line that Jakko, Spritzie and Soozee Boomsprocket found themselves standing. Being champions of the Horde themselves (seems like the word “champion” has a loose definition these days), they too answered the call.

“Still can’t believe this is actually happening.” the goblin-raised troll druid (yeah, it’s a long story) muttered to himself as he looked up and down the line of Horde volunteers, which seemed to extend all the way into the Drag. “First Teldrassil burns down, now this.”

“You sound surprised that Alliance and Horde are fighting again.” Soozee observed.

“Well yeah, but usually it’s just a glorified slapfight over resources in some box canyon in the middle of nowhere, or somethin’ stupid like that.” Jakko explained. “But this? A capital city burns down and another one is under a massive attack? Shit hasn’t gotten this bad since the Siege of Orgrimmar.”

“Worse, actually.” Soozee replied matter-of-factly. “After the Siege, the Alliance allowed us to keep our city. I doubt they’re going to show us that kindness a second time.”

Jakko scoffed. “Fuck, man. We didn’t even wait for the Legion’s corpses to get cold before we started going at each other’s throats again. Then again, I should’ve seen this comin’, with Queen Bitch as our warchief.” Jakko commented.

“Hey!” said a Forsaken in front of the siblings. “Show a little respect to your warchief, dog!”

“Bite me, deader!” Jakko snarled. The Forsaken stomped over to the troll, but a tauren stepped in.

“Alright, break it up!” he said. “Save it for the Alliance.” With that, tenuous order returned to the line.

“Hey Jakko - if you hate Sylvanas so much, why you even in this line?” Spritzie asked. “I mean, technically, everyone here is a volunteer. You don’t really HAVE to rush to Lordaeron’s defense, yanno.”

“I’m not stupid, Spritz.” Jakko replied. “I know I’ve got a dog in this fight. If the Horde goes down, we go down.” He was at the Siege, all those years ago. He remembered Varian’s promise - that if the Horde failed to uphold honor, the Alliance would end them. After Teldrassil, he had no doubt that Anduin was planning to make good on his father’s promise.

He smirked at his baby sister. “Besides, you’re goin’. And someone’s gotta watch your back.”

A few years ago, Spritzie would’ve smiled at that. But not this time. She gave Jakko an oddly neutral look, then turned her eyes back toward the front of the line, barely even acknowledging the troll. Spritzie had been like this for a while now, ever since the Legion War started. She’d grown more distant, more prone to running off on her own, rather than faithfully stick by Jakko’s side like she used to. He wondered if it had something to do with Rikko’s death. He remembered that it hit her hard.

Slowly but surely, the line would move forward. Each volunteer champion was quickly assessed for battle readiness before being let through the portal to Undercity. The three siblings were well-equipped for battle. Jakko was wearing his usual leather gear, decorated with tiger’s claws and teeth, his two druidic swords strapped to his back. He sat atop his hippogryph, Stoneheart, who stoically kept its eyes facing forward.

Spritzie was dressed in her tight mail gear (which showed way too much skin in Jakko’s opinion) and was carrying her shotgun that she’d been using since Argus, as well as a small army of beasts, which took up a large portion of the line, much to the chagrin of other Horde champions in the line. The largest of which was her jade cloud serpent, Spritzie Jr., who she raised herself from an egg during her time in Pandaria.

Finally, Soozee was dressed in her signature “Void Suit”, and armed with a dagger/taser/thingy strapped to her belt as well as her void detector. She sat in the driver’s seat of a large mech that she had dubbed “The Void Buster.” Yet another product of her mad experiments with the Void. Speaking of which…

“You sure you’re gonna need that void detector, Soo?” Jakko asked. “Don’t see how much good it’ll do in the middle of a battle.”

“If certain rumors are to be believed, then trust me, this detector will DEFINITELY come in handy.” Soozee cryptically replied.

Jakko sighed as the line moved, Grommash Hold getting closer and closer. He didn’t really know how this day was going to end, but he knew one thing for sure - he wasn’t going to let anything happen to his sisters.

The first thing that Marbelma noticed was the smoke, which hit her nostrils like a steam tank. Tirisfal’s shoreline defenses fell quickly, and it was easy to see why - the beach was littered with black, smoking craters, as was much of the land further inland. As the Alliance landing force marched towards Brill, she looked up to Roniaar, her adopted uncle (yeah, it’s a long story), who was riding by her side.

“So, we came here to liberate Lordaeron, yes?” he asked.

“Aye.” Marbelma replied. A nearby farmhouse, ruined by bombardment, suddenly collapsed into a massive pile of bricks and wood.

“Then why does it look like we’re destroying Lordaeron more than anything?” the draenei asked.

“Lordaeron was destroyed a long time ago.” Marbelma argued. “It’s a rotten old house that needs to be torn down before we can build something new.”

“Hm.” Roniaar hummed. Tygoon, the wind drake he rode, huffed as it made its away across the ruined land, anxious from something brewing in the air. Marbelma’s hippogryph, Cinderwing, ruffled its feathers, scattering embers to the wind, as it got nervous. All of the mounts knew that battle was drawing near.

They eventually arrived in Brill. The Forsaken Town was almost entirely bombed out, the landing force having made a command post out of the town’s ruins. The statue of Sylvanas Windrunner that once stood proudly in the town square was now in pieces all over the ground. “We move out in twenty!” a worgen commander cried out. The group split up to make their final, last-minute preparations. Marbelma and Roniaar spotted a familiar face in the crowd, standing near a table filled with weapons, rations and other supplies, and directed their mounts towards him.

“Hey kids.” the void elf greeted as his two fellow Servitors approached. He was dressed in purple leather armor, bone-like spikes mounted on his shoulder pads and the lower half of his face obscured by a mask made from shal’dorei silk - a souvenir from his time on the Broken Isles, no doubt. Strapped to his belt was a pair of evil-looking daggers - straight edged with tips at the end, making the blades effective at both stabbing and chopping. But what really made the blades unnerving was they constantly exuded a strange, purple mist.

“Tendalel.” Marbelma curtly agreed. “How did the recon mission go?”

“Not great.” Tendalel said as he spilled out the contents of a sack on the table - the severed head of a night elf. “I tried to tell him. I told him ‘Look, buddy, I used to be a blood elf, I used to make business trips to the Undercity every other weekend, so I KNOW FOR A FACT that the Apothecarium is THIS WAY.’ But no, he told me to shut up, called me a void-addled abomination, and then lead the entire team into the Magic Quarter where Horde reinforcements were portaling in by the hundreds, and got himself decapitated by a big angry orc.”

He picked up the severed head and looked into its dead eyes. “You see what happens? You see what happens when you don’t listen to your good friend Ten?”

“Wow. Guess you could say he lost his head in there.” Roniaar quipped.

“Roniaar, a man died.” Marbelma deadpanned.

“Basically, that operation is officially FUBAR.” Tendalel said as he casually tossed the head over his shoulder. “Undercity is crawling with Horde now. Sending anymore SI:7 down there would be suicide.”

“Were you at least able to sabotage anything?” Marbelma asked.

The rogue shrugged. “I smashed a few important-looking bottles on my way out, but that’s about it.”

“So it seems we’ll have to win this fight on the surface, then.” Roniaar concluded. “Storm the ruins of Capital City.”

“What about the sewers?” Marbelma asked. “Can’t we get into the Undercity that way? It’s how Varian got in last time the Alliance was here.”

“No dice.” Tendalel said. “The Forsaken collapsed the entrance to the sewer tunnel long before we even got here. It would take days to dig through all that. Days we don’t have.” he turned and pointed to the Ruins of Lordaeron. “Everything that’s gonna happen today is gonna happen within THOSE walls.”

The void elf then walked away. He climbed atop his sable ruin strider, a purple talbuk courtesy of the Argussian Reach. “Where are you goin’?” Marbelma asked.

“Debriefing and hopefully heading back home - SI:7’s done all it can do for this battle. Good luck, kids! You’re gonna need it!” Tendalel called before he snapped the reins and the talbuk trotted forward.

“Take care of yourself, Shadestep.” Marbelma said. “It’s what you’re good at.”

“I’m VERY good at it, thank you for noticing!” Tendalel replied, choosing to take the insult as a complement as the talbuk disappeared into the crowd.

Marbelma turned her angry gaze to the ruins of Lordaeron City, where the Horde was holed up. She then looked around and watched as the Alliance constructed siege towers, tuned up the steam tanks, and sharpened their blades. She heard her shaman companion sigh. “After Pandaria, I had hoped that Alliance and Horde would never again clash like this.” he opined.

“The peace was never destined to last.” Marbelma opined right back. “Don’t let your feelings cloud your judgement, Roniaar.”

“My feelings aren’t-“

“Bullshit.” Marbelma cussed. “I know about your old orc girlfriend.”

Roniaar looked at Marbelma, shocked. “How did-“

“Rhyliaandra told me a while back.” Marbelma said.

Roniaar grimaced at the dwarf. “You don’t know the whole story.”

“You and some Shadowmoon shaman start shaggin’ back when you were a Rangari, she disappears one day, and the Horde start their war with the draenei not long after.” Marbelma said. “I miss anything?”

Roniaar had no response. He just turned his gaze to the gates to the Undercity. “Aw, what’s wrong? Afraid ye might have to fight yer old girlfriend today?” Marbelma taunted.

“She’s gone.” Roniaar darkly replied. “I’ve looked. In Kalimdor, in Outland, no one knows what happened to her since those dark days. She probably died a long time ago.”

Roniaar turned his gaze back on Marbelma and gave her a withering look that surprised her. All her life, she had known Roniaar as nothing but happy-go-lucky, so the sight of him angry like this was…unnerving. “Do not mistake my lamentations for hesitation…or weakness.”

With that, he puled the reins on his drake, and the two parted ways for the moment. Marbelma scoffed. “Whatever.” Roniaar’s problem was that he was an idealist - someone who still believed, despite all the atrocities that happened, that peace could still exist between Alliance and Horde.

Daelin Proudmoore said it best. Peace is like a dream. Beautiful. Ephemeral. Unobtainable.

And eventually, you gotta wake the hell up.

One portal jump later, the Boomsprockets found themselves in the Undercity. They were immediately hit by the stench of death - not the regular, slightly undeath that was the Undercity’s usual scent, but rather fresh death. The death of the living. The floors were stained with freshly-spilled blood. “They already got into the Undercity?” Jakko asked.

“SI:7 did.” one of the death guards replied. “The majority of them have already been routed. Undercity is secure for now, but the bulk of the Alliance forces are still above us.”

“They’ve taken Brill.” another death guard added. “They’ll be moving on the city soon.”

“Damn…” Jakko breathed. They were really walking into the heat of battle here.

The Boomsprockets stood in a crowd of Horde volunteers in the magic quarter, champions who answered the Dark Lady’s call, and were separated into different battle groups. A Forsaken death knight stood before the assembled group.

“Greetings.” he began, his death charger huffing. “I am Commander Johriah Lawrence. On behalf of the Dark Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, I thank you all for coming in the Forsaken’s hour of need. Your bravery today will neither go forgotten or unrewarded.”

He dismounted and motioned for a pair of death guards to bring over a table. He placed a map on the table, a map of the Ruins of Lordaeron and the surrounding Tirisfal Glades, the Boomsprockets realized as they gathered around for a closer look.

“Alright.” Commander Lawrence began. “You’ll all be on the first line of defense. Here, in front of the main gate. You’ll be meeting the Alliance head-on.” he said, pointing to the spot on the map. Several Horde soldiers smiled and chuckled at the notion of spilling human blood. “Should the line fall, you’ll withdraw back into the city.”

“Won’t the Alliance pursue us?” one tauren archer, Highmountain judging by his antlers, asked.

“That’s what the blight’s for.” Lawrence answered. “We’ll bombard the Alliance lines with blight to cover your retreat. We won’t have enough gas masks to go around though, so we strongly advise keeping your faces covered once we start blighting the area.”

An agonized scream echoed through the halls of the Undercity. “What was that?” a nightborne warmage asked.

“Just another SI:7 that got caught, pay no mind to it.” Lawrence casually answered. “Now, the hope is that the blight alone will deter the Alliance enough to call off their siege, but in the unlikely event they somehow get past the blight, we’re looking at two possibilities.”

He gestured to the entire northern wall. “First scenario, they try to break through the main gate, seeking the most direct route to the Banshee Queen’s throne. This would be foolish of them, of course, because the palace gardens is where the bulk of our forces will be gathering. More likely, they’ll seek to punch a hole in the walls on either side of the gate, entering into either the west or the east sides of the city. In either case, they would have to pass through here…”

He pointed to a large open space on the south side of the ruins. “The Southern Courtyard. Should the Alliance breach our defenses, that will be our first rally point. That is where we will make our stand.”

“And if we get overwhelmed there?” Spritzie asked, speaking up for the first time since the Boomsprockets arrived.

“Same as the front line - we fall back, blighting the area as we go.” Lawrence answered. He pointed to the fountain area, just in front of the Lordaereon Palace. “Second rally point here.”

“And then?” Jakko asked.

“…I don’t know.” Lawrence said. “All I was told was that we’re to wait there for further orders.”

“Which is code for ‘you’re fucked, good luck.’” Jakko huffed. This notion generated a few worried murmurs among the other Horde soldiers present. “This plan is bullshit.”

“Hey.” replied an offended tauren.

“You know what I mean!” Jakko snapped. “With all these back-up plans, it almost sounds like Sylvanas is EXPECTIN’ us to lose!”

“Fair point.” Lawrence said. “Change of plans, everyone. We’re all going to abandon our numerous contingencies and defensible positions and instead charge head-first into the waiting jaws of the invading forces all at once. Nothing could go wrong.” The death knight’s roasting earned some chuckles and even a few laughs at Jakko’s expense, which left the druid fuming.

“In all seriousness, I will concede that this battle plan is a risky one.” Lawrence said once the laughter died down. “Should the line fall, which it hopefully won’t, we would have to blight the area surrounding the city, effectively trapping ourselves. And if they somehow make it past the blight, which they hopefully won’t, our plan would then be to essentially invite the Alliance into our midst. A lot can go wrong. All of that said, we do have one advantage.”

Dramatic pause. “We are the Horde.” he simply said. Those words were enough to elicit an eruption of cheers from the unit. Nodding with satisfaction, Lawrence rolled up the map. “You all know where the elevators are. Make for the palace garden and wait for your cues there. For the Horde.”

“FOR THE HORDE!”

As the crowd of Horde began making for the center ring where the elevators were, they passed several Alliance corpses on the way. Jakko pulled on Stoneheart’s reigns as he noticed the nature of one of the corpses. The purple skin and long ears made it obvious that she was a night elf, but what really surprised him was her garb - long robes made of wood and leather. She was a druid.

A druid much like him. She was even a feral druid like he was, judging by the daggers still clutched in her hands.

Lawrence trotted up to Jakko’s side and nodded to the corpse. “Friend of yours?” he asked. Apparently, he could tell that Jakko was a druid.

“…Maybe.” Jakko replied. The night elf didn’t really look that familiar, but it was entirely possible that, just a year prior, they were fighting side-by-side against the Legion.

“Well, I hope you don’t have any other night elf friends. We can’t have you hesitating today.” the death knight said. “The Burning Legion is defeated and the truce is over. It’s back to basics.”

“…Guess so” Jakko said as the commander walked off. He considered the corpse for only a few more seconds before following the rest of the crowd.

He was able to catch up with his two sisters and board the same elevator as them. They soon emerged into the courtyard of Lordaeron, the harsh sunlight above nearly blinding them after they were underground just a little too long. The courtyard teemed with activity, crawling with Horde soldiers and mercenaries of every race and creed.

And off to the side, on top of a ledge, Jakko caught a glimpse of them. The leaders of the Horde. Saurfang, Bloodhoof, Theron, all surrounding the ‘Warchief’ Sylvanas, most likely discussing where to best place their defenses.

Jakko was skeptical of Sylvanas, to say the least. He’d been skeptical of her since the Cataclysm, when she first started raising her army of undead. Why Vol’jin used his dying breath to name HER of all people his successor was still one of the great unsolved mysteries of the Horde. Something about a vision from the spirits.

It made him wonder if maybe the Drakkari had the right idea - eating their gods and all.

Off on the other side of the courtyard was a mechanical monstrosity. It vaguely resembled a Horde Demolisher, but was much bigger, much more heavily armored, and seemed to somehow exude power. Jakko knew that power almost immediately - enough to make him pull his reigns on his hippogryph and stop. He had been in Silithus long enough to know that power very well.

“Is there azerite in that thing?” Jakko asked.

“Yes. You can feel the power from here, can’t you?” Johriah asked in turn. “It’s a prototype - a war machine unlike any that has come before. And according to the engineers, it’s just a small taste of what we can do with azerite…”

Something on the side of the war machine sparked and exploded, sending the goblins crewing the machine into a tizzy. One of them tried to put out a blue fire with a fire extinguisher. “Behold, the future of war.” Jakko deadpanned.

“…Growing pains.” was the only excuse Johriah could offer. “Are there any engineers among-“

The death knight didn’t even finish his sentence before Soozee hopped out of her mech and stomped over to the war machine. “You idiots! You misaligned the internal circuitry! Haven’t you ever worked on a demolisher before?!”

The goblins all shrugged. Soozee groaned and immediately started barking orders, which the other goblins took to following. “Ah, I see she’s on top of things.” Johriah observed. “The Dark Lady wants the war machine ready for combat within the hour!” he shouted. Soozee gave him a silent thumbs up before going back to work.

Jakko remembered how Soozee used to be before the Twilight Highlands - how she had once been a tough-talking engineer and leader of a tank crew. It was rare to catch a glimpse of the old Soozee like this. Even better, working on the war machine should keep Soozee off the front lines - at least for now.

“Joe!” cried a female voice. Jakko looked and saw a female Forsaken wearing leather gear and goggles came running over to the death knight. “I haven’t seen you since Stormheim! Good to see ya!”

“Ah, Dread-Rider Cullen. Likewise.” the death knight replied. “Any updates from the Alliance?”

“Nothing yet.” Cullen replied. “Outside of the occasional scout, they’re all still in Brill.”

“Curious. Thought they would’ve made their move by now.”

“That’s the good news - it doesn’t look like they’re ready to begin their siege yet, so we’ve still got time to set up our defenses.”

“And the bad?”

“We spotted more ships landing on the northern shore - hundreds of Alliance soldiers are still funneling in. When they finally decide to hit us, it’s gonna hurt.”

“So that’s why they haven’t attacked yet. They’re STILL gathering strength…” Johriah opined. “Can’t be helped. At least we still have home field advantage.”

Cullen looked over Lawrence’s group of volunteers. “I see some of your guys have flying mounts. We’re about to make a bombing run on Brill - don’t suppose you’d be willing to spare a few flyers?”

“Of course, my lady.” the death knight said with a bow.

“Aw, you’re still a charmer, Joe.” Cullen replied with a raspy chuckle.

“Horde!” Johriah Lawrence barked. “The good lady is requesting volunteers with flying mounts to join in her bombing run. Who among you will join her?”

Several Horde volunteers stepped forward, sporting mounts ranging from wyverns to drakes to cloud serpents.

Like the one Spritzie was riding, as she was one of those who volunteered. “Spritz, what are you doing?” Jakko asked.

“Volunteering for the bombing run.” Spritzie asked. “Duh.”

“You’re gonna be a target out there!” Jakko hissed. “You think the Alliance don’t have AA guns?”

“I was gonna be a target today no matter what.” Spritzie replied. “Come on, Jakko - if I can handle the Burning Legion, I’m pretty sure I can handle a bunch of drunk dwarves.”

Jakko growled in frustration with his sister’s inability to properly calculate the risks. He stepped forward, volunteering for the bombing run as well. Someone had to watch Spritzie’s back up there.

“Alrighty, looks like you’re all under MY command now!” Cullen shouted as she whistled for her bat. “Don’t worry, Joe. I’ll bring most of them back in one piece.”

Once Cullen hopped aboard her bat, she flew up to one of the higher towers of Lordaeron City, the volunteer bombers flying close behind. There, combat engineers, again mostly goblins, were attaching bombs to flying mounts, some of them being less than cooperative. A Forsaken engineer began affixing the bombs to Jakko’s hippogryph, about a half-dozen or so iron balls with pull-pins. “Alright, to drop the bombs you just pull this-“

“I know how bombs work, pal.” Jakko said. Having been raised by goblins, Jakko knew explosives far more intimately than most trolls. “Surprised these are just regular bombs though - ain’t we using blight?”

The engineer scoffed. “Damn apothecaries are being stingy with the stuff. Says they need it for one of their ‘contingency plans.�� So you’ll be bombing the Alliance the old fashioned way.”

“Works for me.” Jakko said. He trusted good old seaforium more than the green stuff any day of the week.

“Alright - once we’re all geared up, we’re gonna make a bombing run over Brill!” Cullen called out. “The Alliance have been spotted building siege towers, so aim for those!”

Spritzie’s cloud serpent was now laden with bombs, along with Jakko’s hippogryph. “Okay, everybody ready? One, two, three, for the Horde!”

“FOR THE HORDE!”

With that, the riders poured out of the tower like a nightmare, making a beeline for Brill.

#Jakko #Marbelma #Spritzie #Roniaar #Soozee #Tendalel #World of Warcraft #Wyrmrest Accord

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illapa-greybane · 7 years ago

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Azerothian Q&A

What is your full name?

“Lord Illapa Greybane -- of Duskwarden, if you have an eye for lineage.”

What do your friends call you?

"I am on a first-name basis with few.”

What is your favorite animal?

"I have always been fond of horses, and talbuks more recently.”

Where were you born?

"In Quel’thalas, in my noble family’s ancestral home near the Sanctum of Dusk in north-eastern Eversong.”

Do you have children?

"Two adopted children -- a daughter and a son -- and a little girl who is my soon-to-be stepdaughter. I have plans for more; traditionally, this time.”

Is there a person/people you love?

"My children, unequivocally. Solarine Fairlight, the May to my December, who I have asked to be my wife. Some few others who have earned my deepest affections.”

What is your favorite color?

"Black and gold.”

What is your full occupation?

“For centuries, I was an ordained guardian of the Sunwell. Presently, my more unorthodox talents have been put to use as an inquisitor of the kingdom of Quel’thalas. And of course, the suite of responsibilities that my position among the peerage entails: I have been a courtier, politician, and patriarch.”

Are you good at physical fighting?

"Better than most expect. I have trained the use of a staff for longer than many have been alive. I keep fit. I am swift and precise. My footwork is impeccable. But I know my truest strengths lie elsewhere.”

Which form are you best at?

"The staff is my weapon of choice. It plays to my strengths: its long reach only augments my own, its length works to amplify my strikes, and it doubles as a casting focus.”

What about magic?

"One does not become a lord of elves without mastery of magic; and I have had many years to become a master of masters.”

Which type are you best at?

"My magic is divine, sourced from primordial cosmic realms of Light and Shadow, given shape and purpose by fierce strength of will and practiced spiritual and mental discipline. I still wield the Light, but that relationship has never been exclusive. My affiliation for Shadow has... deepened over the years. I have done things of which few mortals are capable. I still do.”

Craftsmanship?

"I have skill in imbuing items with lasting magical effects, and a bit of magic scribing.”

Any other skills?

"I am a trained physician and surgeon, a master equestrian and accomplished pianist. I speak and write multiple languages, some of them obscure. And I have excellent taste in wine and spirits.”

Are you an only child?

"I have -- had -- a younger sister. She met a tragic end, and all too soon.”

Where do you see yourself in five years?

“Such a short time, but life moves so much faster these last few decades. I should like to see myself welcoming the first child of my blood. I doubt my sinister reputation will have faded enough to return to court, but I have been mulling over other plans for restoration: I still retain the Duskwarden title, and I have a lineage now to carry it on.”

Have you ever almost died?

"I came rather close thanks to a particularly insidious curse. Blood is thicker, it turns out.”

Do you have a secret, not just a secret, but like a really big secret, hardly anyone knows?

"My dear, I am practically made of them.”

Salty or sweet?

“A bit of both, preferably.”

Do you like yourself?

He blinks slowly.

Do you believe in the Light?

"It exists, just as the Void exists. We ascribe morality to them because the Light nurtures while the Void destroys, and we are fragile, destructible, mortal things. That is a failing I do not share.”

Are you religious?

“What I just said should give you an idea of my answer.”

Do you carry prejudice with you?

“Certainly. Most of my life was spent in elven lands, with only sporadic contact with humans and always in a state of war with trolls. I have had a relatively short time to develop perceptions of the other peoples, and if I may say -- despite that experience, I remain largely unimpressed.”

What do you consider entertainment?

"Reading. Learning. Exploring. Riding, the care of steeds and tack. Watching my children grow is endlessly entertaining.”

Favorite drink?

“Brandy. Tea.”

Do you have any family traditions?

Are you a good person?

There is a significant pause. “No. I am not without redeeming qualities. But a good person? No.”

Thank you for answering my questions.

indirectly tagged by @smith-hadeon

#character development

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marcusmettalus · 7 years ago

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What a Wonderful Dream (Part 3)

(Part 1) (Part 2)

Shan and Vaard looked between one another then back at the huge Orc who was in the process of cleaning off his knife, the butchered and quartered Talbuk set aside to be grilled later.

“You? A red dragon? Puh-lease, if you think you could fool us you might have come up with something a little more convincing. Quel genre d'idiot me prends-tu?“ Shan’h’tra scoffs softly, leaning on her staff gently, while Vaard has finally managed to sit up somewhat straight, resting an elbow on a folded pile of clothes.

The orc laughs broadly, the heavy plate armor clanking gently in time with his din. He slowly stands up and with a gentle snap of his fingers, his body begins to change under a gentle golden glow.

A small cloud of gold light and black flames rush down the green skin’s body and armor, peeling away the guise. Heavy plate armor gives way for flowing silk robes and embroidery, thick greying braids and hair giving way to long golden locks and chest length beard. The squared and brutish jaw line gave to the sharp lines of a Highborne elf, but those golden piercing eyes remain, the pupils simply black slits, deep and hungry gaze.

Shan and Vaard seem dumbstruck for a moment, as where once a huge Orc warrior stood, was now a High Elf noble in black and red robes. A majestic being, where once a brute stood.

“So, High Arcanist Shan’H’Tra and Vindicator Vaard, does this form seem more convincing? Or would you prefer I take on something more,, scaled?” The High Elf spoke now in Draenic, and barely a hint of an accent is found in his speech. The Elf glanced down, and sees some of the Talbuk blood has lingered on his fingers. He lifts up the long talon like finger nails, and with a short sharp flick of his forked tongue, cleans the nails of the intrusive blood. Once clean, he brushes the long thick beard with his manicured fingers.

“Wha-how, but,” Vaard starts before interrupted by Shan “You are a High Elf? No,, those robes and iconography, those are of the Red Dragonflight. But, who are you? Why would you not be among your people at Wyrmrest Temple?”She immediately switches also to Draenic, her emerald eyes glaring and examining the tall noble across the fire pit.

“Because I do not desire it,, and because my Queen does not desire me to be her mate again, not yet at least. I have not made enough amends yet. And,, she is still healing from the wounds inflicted by Neltharion. As for who I am, well.” The High elf grins gently, revealing those pearly white teeth, gleaming in the fire light.

“I go by the name of Tyranastrasz, The Scholarly One, Prime Consort to the Life-Binder of Azeroth. Though, most of the world believes I am dead, killed at the hands of Deathwing at Grim Batol. The Dwarves, in their audacity, think that my skull resides in their capitol of Ironforge. Ha! The nerve,,” Tyran grumbles softly as he waves a hand, the dimming flames of the fire pit flaring up again.

Vaard gapes at Tyran, still trying to put things together in his mind. Here, in the same room as him was a Red dragon, but claiming to being probably the oldest dragon who isn't even an Aspect. Vaard recalls Senegos from Aszuna, who is millennia old, who was seemingly at the end of the life cycle of dragons, even with the aide of the mana pools and ley-lines coursing through the Broken Isles.

“Then what are you doing, masquerading as an Orc warrior?” Shan asks the obvious question hanging in the room. A Red dragon who died at the hands of corrupted orcs and Deathwing now being a part of the Horde.

“Twas not the form I chose. Twas what the Titans gave me. To humble me and teach me an important lesson. Judge not the Mortals by only a select group of individuals. Were I to judge your people as a whole, I would call you fel-addicted heathens who aide the Burning Legion in the conquest of the Stars. But you aren’t. You are a proud misplaced people who want to try and save your new, and old, homeworld.”

“And, despite your thoughts, I do not serve the Horde. I aide those who try and better the Horde, not to turn it into the war-mongering people they once were. If Garrosh was still alive, Id be putting him on the chopping block. But I also aide, in a part, the Alliance. I curb those who would try and fan the flames of war, but I fear humans are a mortal race who enjoys stirring the pot and up-ending tables.”

Tyran grumbles gently, toying with his beard with his sharp nails, while Shan sputters and scowls at the dragon who dared call her people fel-addicted heathens. “Why you little,,” Shan looked ready to drop an Arcane Bomb on the man before Vaard speaks up.

“Wait so,, you have been living among us, and tried to help both Factions into co-operating? To what end though?”

Tyran stops and looks at Vaard, blinking a few times before doing the ‘Are you serious face’. “To what end? To. What. End? To save this sorry excuse of a planet! To make a world safe enough for my children, my children’s children, and their children and their children to live in it of course! I am the father of almost an entire dragonflight, and spouse to the frakking ‘Life-Binder’. Why would I not fight to save this world and it’s people? I have seen the wars you mortals fought, the tyrants and abusers, plagues and the undead, demons and Man’ari. This is my home just as much as the other creature on this world. To what end. Aman’Thul’s Beard!”

#Tyranastrasz #vaard #Shan'H'tra #wow #World of Warcraft #rp #fiction #lightforged au #part 3 #Finally made it!

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baelar-maeranar · 7 years ago

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~ Layers ~ The Kaldorei Valarjar

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name: Baelar Maer’Anar

Eye Color: Bright Silver - with a hint of blue

Hair Style/Color: Deep midnight blue, so dark it’s nearly black. Cut and styled with the sides and the back shaven close to the skull, with the top left to do as it pleases.

Height: 6′7

Clothing Aesthetic: Simple tunics and trews, when not in his armor. Usually seen in deep blues, purples, or greens, with trims of gold or silver.

Best Physical Feature: “If you were to ask me? I’d say nothing. However, I do know that my huntress, is partial of my tattoos.”

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Your Fears: “Losing the people I love, and being lost in the rage in my heart, and not being taken to Elune’s grace.”

Your Guilty Pleasures: “Valarjar mead, and every now and then a good pipe full of this tobacco mix a friend of mine has offered me - which usually helps me relax..”

Your Biggest Pet Peeve: “Humans who think it is adorable to ask me ‘how is the weather up there’? Whenever they see me.”

Your Ambitions for the Future: “I want to take my huntress away from this war torn land. I want to build us a sanctuary and a home far away in the forests of our homeland, and finally know peace.”

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

Your First Thoughts Waking Up: “Not getting up…”

What You Think About the Most: “Lately? Things I’d rather not speak of, if you do not mind. I often do not share much of my personal life.”

Last Thoughts Before Bed: “May the stars whisper how much I love you, as you lay your head to rest.“

What Do You Think Your Best Quality Is: “My tenacity.”

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or Group Dates: “Single.”

To be Loved or Respected: “Loved.”

Beauty or Brains: “Brains.”

Dogs or Cats: “Cats, specifically sabers.”

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

Lie: “White lies to ease tensions with my compatriots.”

Believe in Yourself: “No.”

Believe in Love: “There was a time I didn’t. Now? I can’t believe I doubted it.”

Want Someone: “Every moment of every day.”

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on Stage: “Never”

Done Drugs: “Yes.”

Changed Who You Were to Fit In: “As I had to to survive.“

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

Favorite Colors: “Blues, purples, greens, and silvers.”

Favorite Animal: “Inaara, my talbuk, holds a special place in my heart.”

Favorite Movie: OOC: I think Baelar would love westerns, and thrillers.

Favorite Book: “A Song of Ice and Fire - A Game of Thrones”

Favorite Game: “I don’t often play games, however, the others at the war camp have enjoyed knife throwing - and I am currently the reigning champion.”

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

Day Your Next Birthday Will Be: “I believe the humans have named the month ‘April’ and the date is the tenth.”

How Old Will You Be: “Not as old as Faeindal.*”

Age You Lost Your Virginity: “I was young, and she was my commander. I had no choice.”

Does Age Matter: “Age is not something my people think about it. Truthfully, I do not think it matters.” A pause, “However, I think it matters when my people fall in love with the younger races - heartbreak of losing someone to age is a hard one to handle.”

LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

Best Personality Traits: “Honest, fierce, independent, and compassionate.”

Best Eye Color: “Does not matter to me.”

Best Hair Color: “I am partial to silver, if I am being honest.”

Best thing to do with a Partner: “Raise an unruly feathermane cub.”

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love: “… my Huntress.“

I feel: “… lonely.”

I hide: “… the rage and the sorrow within me.“

I miss: “… Ahnvae, and Tiuvae.”

I wish: “… see her again.“

Tagged by: @dae-shadowvale

#Baelar Maer'Anar #Kaldorei Valarjar #meeeeeeme thing

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aelnii-blog · 7 years ago

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Gratitude

It was not to be understood – the gratitude between savior and saved. Aelnii could stand tall – proud –knowing that she'd not understand the worth of dawn glittering beneath the eyes of those she'd sacrificed to allow to persevere. Argus – a place of war, sorrow, and a thorn to the heart of all draenei – held true to this thought. She'd not know what those on Azeroth thought of their near-suicidal venture to reclaim 'home' – did they even know? - nor would she be aware of what the broken people of this shattered land thought of her efforts to stem the tides of loss; the efforts of the Sha'tor, the Lightforged, and all others come to slake their fury and batter their tenacity against the walls of Antorus and across the desolate remains of Krokuun. Petrified remains of an arbor – bathed with searing tar and choked with the dead arid air that permeated the Legion's throne – found her standing there. An unmoving stance held between two stone trunks that had long collapsed against one another while clutching a leaf of parchment. Chitinous talbuk flesh tanned to a degree of expertise she'd scarcely expect to be rewarded with here. Ink glimmered from that page – black, cold, and smeared by a shaky hand. Legible though the message was – her eyes seemed unable to mark the worth of this document.

I found myself – as you appeared – as afraid of you as I was of the hound that came chasing after me. A cloaked figure that left the darkest crevices of Krokuun's forest like some panthara stalking prey. I thought that you'd as soon kill me as you did the Legion's hound. You didn't. You offered a hand – one that passed no judgment. Parsed no words. You simply offered a hand. I... the scrawling trailed off – smeared beneath a palm shaped blotch of ink that found a shimmer from the radiant glow of her narrowed eyes. She felt her fingers tighten against the rough texture of the hide paper analogue before catching the scrawls halfway down the parchment – began anew with resolve. Children could offer clearer calligraphy than that which she read now – and, yet, clarity and emotion poured from every illegible flow of the script.

… I know not why you did – but you reminded me that there's hope here. Our souls have been torn and our bodies forsaken by the Light – bearing sins of the past for the Legion has taken our future. They may plague this – our home – but you... you teach them the meaning of righteous scorn. I only wish I could feel the warm touch of the Light as I felt from your hand as you pulled me to my hooves and led me to a place away where I could entrust that I may have a tomorrow. I, I am poor with words. I've never felt such a presence... the other slaves had told me that – while one of the ancient ships crashed, another arrived. I hated you both for leaving us to this plight. Repeated torture and suffering and madness and murder at the hands of those who thought us nothing more than... than beings given life so that they could die...

The rangari's hand shook. She'd concluded that above all else – they fought here on this desolate place of ashen stone and slate for the Light. They fought for the Light – for all that was good and that harbored a hatred of malice at the core of their heart. Not for vengeance – not for the simple value of retribution – but for the ability to make sure they could at last stow their swords; knowing well that the evil that had done this had paid recompense... and could threaten nothing more with their Burning Crusade. She turned a keen eye to the shifting – corrupted – form of the familiar broken draenei as they departed this gorge – this forest vale tarnished by stone-like bark and soot on every outcrop. They'd wrung their clawed hands together upon handing this note to the draenei – she knew not how the krokul had managed to track her down – like some anxious adolescent youth handing off a letter to their hero – perhaps that wasn't so inaccurate a description to lend.

… so, so I thank you. For showing me that not all of you outlanders are here to destroy your foe and leave us to our fate. Maybe there's no hope for us within the Light's embrace... but at least some of you still show virtue and... and I thank you for that.

Aelnii never expected to have this – to feel a thorn piercing the heart blossom to a rose against all odds. The back of the krokul – pallid and sickly – disappeared beneath the shadowed veil cast by the ridges flanking her. She never thought her work thankless... but to actually be thanked by a member of her malformed kin that... that her people had left behind for millennia; that considered her nothing more than a heroic outsider? That felt... astounding – especially for a gesture that she thought so little of. Butchering a fel hound slavering after the broken like a predator hounding prey – and she did so out of a hatred that burned at the back of her mind for this demon and all others. It reminded her that people beyond them had to persevere here – to survive here... and that this wasn't another battlefield to them. This – Argus truly was home to them and not the forsaken fel-blasted backwater the Army of the Light and the Vindicaar had come to find. It was a dead land full of tenacious things that refused to die with it.

… so she set about rewriting this missive as best she could. Between exasperation and exhaustion – her hand steadily made the script legible to those of a more common tongue. The parchment – that gift of gratitude – ever present; folded and tucked within her satchel on scouting voyages... or left astride the leaves of paper she used to transcribe the details of this krokul's thanks. Maybe they'd not care – the rest of the Alliance. Yet – they ought to know what was here... and she found herself oddly compelled to ensure that they had some modicum of an idea.

#wra rp #shator #rangari #draenei #wyrmrest accord #short story #world of warcraft #world of warcraft roleplay

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rudra-writes · 6 years ago

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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.”

#draenei #Pallas #Telurin #Grigore #Motaanos

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confusedkain · 6 years ago

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30 Day World of Warcraft Challenge: Day 10

Day 10 — Your favorite mount.

Oh, this one is tough since I collect them..

My favorite that I own is the Dark War Talbuk, I worked my ass off to collect those tokens in BC and I love the early talbuk model.

My favorite that I WISH I owned is the Firey Warhorse.. AKA Midnight, AKA Attune the Huntmans horse, the first boss in BC Karazhan..

My mains favorite mount is Jumba the Black War Raptor. For RP reasons lol. His favorite treats are gnome bits :)

#30 day world of warcraft challenge #wow meme

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rudra-writes · 6 years ago

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Pellurin: Ambush (Part 3)

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

Grigore gives Motaanos a sharp look, then gazes up at Tel. “Please forgive my companion’s lack of hospitality. We have had unfortunate experiences with death knights.” The soul priest continues to watch Telurin for a moment. Tel would become aware that Grigore is psychically looking him over - Reading his surface thoughts and emotions, if he could, the way someone might read body language or expression.

Telurin notices the scrutiny of course, being so long acquainted with Belaar who does nearly the same thing to everyone he meets. As such, Grigore is able to read that though the death knight takes a perverse pleasure in needling Motaanos, he doesn’t truly mean any of them harm. Telurin’s unease at the Soul Priest’s presence doesn’t include this mental intrusion and must stem from some other source, though he is careful not to think on it and bring it to the forefront of his mind. His whole reaction to the mental intrusion is of one who is used to this sort of thing, and as long as Grigore doesn’t press into older or more personal memories, he’s content to let the Soul Priest have a look for his peace of mind, especially as Pallas seems set on traveling with them. There’s a softening of Telurin’s thoughts when the death knight thinks of Pallas, as well as a fierce protectiveness that Telurin purposefully lets Grigore see. The Soul Priest should be warned of the consequences for harming his Anchorite.

Suddenly Telurin might feel an odd mental sensation, as the presence of Grigore is fiercely shoved out by the mental presence of Pallas. Back in the physical world, Pallas huffs at Grigore, who looks amused and not at all offended. "Oh? You are very protective of your guard."

"I didn't know what you were doing," Pallas frowns, looking vaguely annoyed.

Grigore raises his palm in a gesture of peace. "Please, forgive my lack of manners. You do not know me well enough yet to know that I mean no harm."

"Hnh." Pallas twitches his tail, but already he seems to be letting it go.

Motaanos, meanwhile, has been mostly silent, possibly biting back some sarcastic comment about Auchindoun being the kindest resting place for Telurin.

Telurin ignores Motaanos for the moment, focusing on his Anchorite.

“Peace, Pallas.” He soothes, finally stepping down from his seat in the saddle, though he leaves the reins loosely looped around the pommel rather than dropping them on the ground. he moves to stand at Pallas’s side, close enough to protect but far enough away to still be able to draw his runeblade. “Soul Priest Grigore meant no harm in it, and I am accustomed to such intrusions by Anchorites. It is rather comforting to know those of Auchindoun share similar habits.”

Telurin’s gaze flicks to Pallas. He still senses the Anchorite’s mind brushing his, so he thinks pointedly of Belaar giving those he had encountered similar tests, as well as Telurin’s pleased reaction to Pallas’s protectiveness regarding him, his amusement mirroring Grigore’s at how fiercely Pallas had reacted to the Soul Priest’s presence in his guardian's mind.

Pallas, at first, seems self-conscious that he had pushed Grigore away from Telurin's mind the way he had, when there had been no actual cause for alarm. Telurin's assurance that he is pleased by the behavior causes the little priest's embarrassment to dissipate, however, and his head perks back up.

Grigore seems satisfied, even intrigued, with what Telurin has chosen to show to him. He nods quietly in reply to the death knight's statement. "Although I have different responsibilities as a soul priest, much of my fundamental training overlaps that of an Anchorite. It is similar with Mot, here..." The priest gestures to his companion, who has been listening to the conversation but doesn't yet appear to have loosened up. "As a warden, he will have trained in techniques of pacifying restless spirits, in addition to the more traditional training of a vindicator."

Motaanos sighs and waves attention away from himself. Grigore turns to face him. The two hold one another's eyes for several seconds. Although nothing is said aloud, in the end Mot sighs again and turns to Pallas. "The orcs are an enemy to us all, and you have aided a very important person to me, Anchorite. As such, it is my honor to ask you to travel with us."

He makes a formal, neutral bow to Pallas, and then another, rather unwilling bow to Telurin, his face looking as if he's tasted something that did not agree with him in the process.

"Then it's settled. We will accompany you as far as our routes overlap." Pallas looks cheerful for the company, particularly Grigore's.

The soul priest, Motaanos, and accompanying lower-ranked vindicators return to their mounts, preparing to move out. Pallas climbs back on top of Akos. -I am sorry I am causing you to have to endure that vindicator,- he apologizes to Telurin. -We should not be in his presence long.-

Telurin swings back into his saddle after Pallas returns to his mount. -I do not mind his company,- Telurin replies, and lets Pallas see the pleasure he takes in needling that sort, in using his nature as a diversion to irritate. -Though I doubt he will rise to the bait my presence brings now that his priest is aware of the situation.-

The death knight lets Pallas pick where they are in the group, and for the most part is silent when the Anchorite chooses to ride near Grigore to converse. The rest of the Vindicators seem to be split on Telurin’s presence, and without strict instruction from their commander, choose largely to follow his example and ignore the death knight’s presence as much as they are able.

For the first hour it’s quiet and they meet no one on the road, not even another traveler or peddler. The vindicators around them relax and begin to talk amongst themselves, leaving only Telurin and Motaanos to ride in silence, on either side of the two priests.

"I wish your Commander could relax around Telurin," Pallas muttered to Grigore, as his white talbuk rode alongside the soul priest's black one through the morning mists. "Is not the fact that I choose to travel singly with him enough of a show of trust?"

Grigore did not respond at first. "Motaanos has seen first hand the terrors of Northrend. As have I.”

"What was it that was in Northrend that was so terrible? Telurin refuses to tell me anything about it."

Grigore sighed. "Something we can only wish never manifests in the world a second time. All who were turned by it, were corrupted irrevocably."

Pallas furrowed his brow. "Surely it is not so absolute as that?"

“We live in a world composed of many shades of grey. This much is true. But this is also true, Pallas: The terminus of those shades, the Light and the Dark, are indeed very much light and very much dark. Motaanos and myself witnessed the fall of one of the greatest lights into darkness." Grigore shut his eyes.

Pallas watched him, wanting to understand, but Grigore had seemed unable or unwilling to speak more about what he had seen.

Finally Grigore opened his eyes. "Although we are Auchenai, we serve the Light in our own way. To return to the Light upon death is the natural order of things. To prevent a soul from being able to rejoin the sacred life force is a profound upset against nature."

"Telurin isn't evil! He’s protected me steadfastly. Don't his actions and decisions count for something?"

Grigore looked at Pallas sympathetically. "That death knight cares very deeply for you. But you mustn't refuse to see what he is. A tiger that sheaths its claws is still a tiger. He is now both a draenei, and a monster. I do not say this to be callous, or cruel. It is an irrevocable truth for death knights. Some, like your guardian, live with the burden of this truth. Others are unable to accept it, and lose sight of themselves."

Pallas seemed to take some offense to Telurin being called a monster, for he fell back to ride sullenly alongside Tel.

Grigore turned his head to look back at the Anchorite. He offers mentally to Pallas, -It may be that his devotion towards you, in spite of what he is, causes his actions to manifest all the stronger.-

Telurin had only been half listening to the pair, and since they rode within the protective circle of the elekk-mounted vindicators, had not been paying too much attention to the road ahead as he had been when he and Pallas were alone. Not until Sugarfoot flicks an ear to the side and snorts as he senses something, that is, and then he casts his senses toward the direction of Sugarfoot’s ear and finds a bright spot of life to their right, enough for a small caravan of lost travelers, or a warband of orcs. The way Sugarfoot has gone tense underneath the saddle suggests the latter; in death, the big horse relished the chance for a fight as much as his rider. Habit born of thousands of years of command has Telurin raising a fist in an order for silence.

The company comes to an uneasy halt at Telurin’s command for silence. Talbuks stamp their hooves and shake their heads, while elekks slow to a standstill, flipping their tails. Motaanos, not surprisingly, reacts with displeasure. “Why are you stopping us?”

#draenei #Pallas #Telurin #Grigore #Motaanos

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