#embersoftheorder

[embersoftheorder]

DWC - August - Day 5 - Wild

The Green Son wandered the lands of Drustvar with an easy smile upon his face, the air cool go skin and the sun setting into dusk. It honestly was how it always was in the woods, but he loved it and likely would beyond even the end of his service. Beldwin Storm was not a native to these shores but over the last few years he definitely was no longer a stranger.

Beld would slowly come to a halt near a small copse of trees, his gauntleted hand coming to gently caress the bark of one of the old oaks. He could hear a soft hum in his head that could be considered unpleasant but had become a song that he could more feel than understand. It was a gift that Athair had bestowed upon him to hear the natural wild words of the land he had adopted as his own. The land had been ravaged for so long by the terrible powers of the Coven that its soft song had been drowned out in the silent screams of agony as the druid death magic warped it. The Crimson wood always made him shiver at the cacophony of agony that never ended from the wicker beasts that were drawn forth. He leaned his head to rest on the oak letting its own hum drown out the memory. He didn’t need that today.

Today was a good day that needed not the dour notes from the western provinces of the country. Birth was the note, not death, this day.

Releasing the tree, the knight continued on his journey making his way with ease but still with purpose. There was time yet to make it to the pool where his patron waited and there was much to rejoice with the wilds about him.

A new prince would be born this day.

There were many of the lineage of Athair but each had a purpose to fulfill. Some were short lived and bright, others long and steady like a bountiful season. Beld prayed for bounty but knew it was not his decision. The Word willed and spoke, the ending was already being written.

Storm would finally break the tree line and find himself before the mighty falls of the white stag.

Athair, Heart of the Forest, stood silent before the waters. White fur shone bright and clean in the waning light as it cascade to bring a silver sheen to the might crown of horns upon his head. Eyes black as midnight would stare at Beldwin, the stag lord’s demeanor calm and face regal as he tipped his head to welcome his wayward gallant.

Beld would stride forward and gently drop to one knee, the ancient bronze mail clinking softly with his motion of reverence and respect to the king. No words had been spoken as Beldwin would never be able to speak the language of his lord but honestly it was never needed. Emotions, thoughts, and dreams were the humans guidance to the will of the forest. It made it hard to question some of the motives of the lord, but the knight had yet to be lead astray by Athair’s will. This was a just lord and he was glad to have been found worthy.

The final streaks of evening light had slipped behind the mountains bringing the evening and darkness of night. Where Drustvar was a land plagued by the nights terrors in most shadows, it was not truly something to fear. It was just a part of the order of things and the will of the Word as it had written long ago. So too was there heralds and protectors of the night, as from the shadows crept the stout boars of the wood, courageous wolves who maintained balance, and even the black eyes ravens who always kept watch. But the night had one lady and she was as much a soul to the forest as she was consort to the heart.

Athainne, secret keeper of the forest.

Made of starlight and moon shine, the doe was beautiful in her own right as the violets of twilight were intertwined in the black coat of night. She was of smoke and shadow as she stepped across the waters to stand with her lord. Tenderness was easily determined to match the love the two beings felt for one another as eyes closed but a moment in honest trust.

As the grand gathering proceed a hush fell upon all the unsettling silence of the wild as it waited with bated breath. Even the waterfalls came to silent half, the rock below their pummeling drive growing dry as the river waited.

Beldwin would bow his head in reverence as did other subjects to the forest monarches, all in silence as they awaited the ceremony of the moon.

Ages passed in seconds as night fully came and the moon shone full far in the heavens above. As the moonlight struck the pool, the heart and keeper of the forest turned to the pool of sparkling water of the still lake.

Stories would speak of thunder crashing or a flash of great light or perhaps the heralds of the night screaming with horns of glory. But that was not how it was done. It was subtle, it was peaceful, it was instant.

He was beautiful.

Upon the lake the faun had come to be. Born of moonlight, strengthened by starlight, guided by sunset, and welcomed with love. His eyes shone with brilliant blue, the gift of the mother, while his white coat brilliant white shone with the majesty of his father. He stood shaky upon the mirror surface of the lake, searching amongst the audience for some reaction. Fight or flight was all the newborn would know at this moment.

The Green Son stood. He would draw away his gauntlet to reveal his bare flesh, brown as the earth and rough as the oak’s skin. His hand raised as he spoke with not a cry or yell, but a smooth even voice. The reason he as chosen and granted this station among the forest. “Hail. Hail unto the Prince of the Forest. Welcome son of the heart and secrets, we welcome you.”

The prince would raise his head. He would stare at Beldwin. The knight would look back.

The prince would step forward onto the land that was called Drustvar.

The waterfalls cheered once more.

@daily-writing-challenge

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Inquisitor Eldridge Candrell

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[GARLIC] The sender hangs garlic around the receiver’s neck. - @embersoftheorder

"So, believe it or not, but this technique is actually very new to me. I'd personally would love to know the science behind this, if any." He said as he raised his cowled visage and idly plucked the bottom most bulb of deliciousness up to observe. The other hunters couldn't have been more disdainful of his presence without drawing blades, but at least they too were adorning themselves in the twisted garlands. So that ruled out hazing ritual for the outsider playing 'pretend monster hunter'. "Too bad we're short olive oil, we could have used the salt I brought." He tried to joke. But one surly looking Kul Tiran who looked like the backend of the docks who wouldn't know what a joke was unless it came off the manual for monsters hefted a pouch off their belt labeled 'salt'. It made a degree of sense he had to admit. Garlic was well known to have antibacterial and antifungal properties. Just as the silver in their specially tipped crossbow bolts and blades had the same germicide properties in the needles they used to stitch wounds close. And when fighting the Drust and their constructs, even the smallest puff mushroom, poisoned leaf, and rusty nail would be a weapon.

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[embersoftheorder]

DWC - August - Day 3 - Journey/Fatality

Light dappled through the spread hand, the noonday sun shining bright and warm despite the forever autumn chill of Drustvar. Rachel's skin would prickle from the cold breeze off the mountains, but the warm body beside her made her feel all the better as she snuggled deeper into the broad chest. There was a rumble of a chuckle as the hand would lower back down to wrap about her.

"Easy there, love, yer cold as ice," the voice deep and baritone, the perfect pitch of a man of good salt and iron. She smiled into the hair chest, her eyes closing as she breathed in his scent. Rum, iron, cigars, and fry. She loved it all.

"Why else ya think I can't keep my hands off ya? Sides, yer the one who tossed my clothes far off Mister Dewitt," she cooed into his skin as he planted a few kiss among the dark strands that mixed with her own blonde. She could feel another rumbling laugh from him as he held her closer to him.

"Only cause ya loosed my own trousers, Mrs Dewitt" Christoph Dewitt replied back to her as he rubbed his rough calosed hands across the map of her life that dappled her back and arms. His fingers would gently trace the intricate tattoo between her shoulders depicting the Tidemother, patron of all people of the island. "Tides woman, ya got such a lovely canvas."

Rachel would look up from the nook she'd be hiding in to study his broad face, the walrus mustache doing nothing to hide his warm smile. The bald head also kept it clear to see Christoph's warmth of his eyes just the same light as his smile. She loved this man. More than words could say, her hand gently reaching up to tug softly on the right wing of his fine stache.

"Ouch," he whispered in fake pain as he feigned it further with a fake frown. "What was that for?"

"Making sure you were still real," Rachel whispered, leaning her head back to look up at him again. She could see the heart tattoo over on the top of her right hand bearing the large designed 'CD' in the middle of it. His own large left could come to cup hers, showing his matching heart with an 'RD'. He would draw her hand up and kiss the heart on her hand as he spoke softly.

"Don't go losing my heart now, love."

"Never."

He would smile still and nod. "Time to wake up."

The loud banging jolted her awake, eyes blinking back in the dark as she laid in the bed. She was alone. She hated waking up alone.

Another bang to her door received a groan of an answer from her as she laid her hands over eyes a moment, her mind drifting back to the dream as she whispered. "Tides just give me five more minutes."

"Witt, wake up." The voice was familiar and grim, it had to be Candell. It was always Candell at these hours.

A growl rumbled from her as she called back to the door. "Candell, do you not sleep?"

Like a pair of onry dogs, the old witch hunter would growl back. "It's nine o'clock."

Rachel would sigh again as she pulled her arms up to rest against her head, her right hand raising as it had in the dream to stare at it in the warm dark. 'CD' staring right back at her, his heart always with her. It was darker now, a bit faded with time but it was always there. And always would be. 'Time to wake up'.

Dewitt would sigh as she began to rise, her body aching from sleeping too long and probably too much of the green bottle on her nightstand. She would run her hands over her frame, an old habit of checking she was still all in one piece. Rubbing at her face again she would call to the inquisitor at her door. "IS there something pressing this morning?"

There was a long pause as the door did not answer her. Her weary face already souring into a grimace as she waited for him to say something, eventually snapping out at it. "Well out with it, damn it."

"We got another one."

A deep breath was drawn in through her nose as he said the words. She should have known. "Give me a minute to get dressed."

"I'll get the coffee." And she knew he was gone.

@daily-writing-challenge

[embersoftheorder]

DWC - August - Day 1 - Melee

Blue light blazed across the wet stones of the claustrophobic tunnel of Stormwind's sewer system. Light was a valued and rare commodity down in the depths of the city, but it was thanked and enjoyed by those who tread it's foul waters. Tonight's wanderers included the Inquisitor Cheryl Duun.

Her green tinged goggles glowing with soft translucence as they cut through the dark to light her hindered sight, as much as she wished the glowing blue axe in her hands would brighten the darkness more. Her armor was tightly pulled to her muscular body to keep from snagging on anything, a piecemeal of chain and plate to protect as much as offer her speed. Her boots, soles tight and thick to keep from slipping into the slow flowing muck below her, gripped to the stone floor as she swung the stone blade of her weapon into the body of another kobold.

Most would consider the kobolds an easy foe, if even that as above the ground they were considered more of a minor inconvenience to the small folk of Elwynn and beyond. But here, here they were something different. Sinister, strong, and cunning in their movements and plans. Wielding weapons far superior to the crude stone or stolen steel, these were forged with a knowledge that they should not have. It was unnerving to see at first, but now after so many months of this vicious dirty work it was dangerous.

Beside her Cheryl heard Ramses give the order to hit the wall, the soft hum of his charged up weapon roaring to life behind her. The inquisitor gave a nod, not knowing if he saw it but she focused hard into the Tre's energy and caused it to flare bright watching the rats raise their hands at the sudden flash. Her own vision dazed from her bang, but she knew what to do as she flattened against the slimy stone wall.

There was a whine, a burst, and then the cheap smell of ozone as the arcane cannon went off. There was no fire or heat, but there was force and it was enough to hammer into the clump of foe rats ahead of the small band of catchers. They didn't even scream as they were blown back and smashed into the walls, the bodies gently folding and thumping down into the murky depths below them.

"Tides," murmured the woman as she blinked a few times behind the frame of her goggles. Her hand reaching up to pull them down and around her neck as he looked back to Ramses. The draenei smiling as he stood up and shouldered the cannon, even though he needed to duck a bit to keep his horns from scrapping the top.

"I think I got them," Ramses added with a hint of humor as he smiled with his softly glowing blue eyes.

Cheryl let out her own laugh as she tried to blink her vision clearer, not daring to touch her face down here again as she had when she first started. "I think so too. Come on, we got tunnel 17-C to go."

"Always, commander."

"Just Cheryl, Ramses."

"Very good, Just Cheryl," the draenei replied back, a wide smile on his face at his own joke.

Cheryl Duun rolled her eyes with her own smile before fishing her goggles back up before they pressed on into the under dark.

@daily-writing-challenge

[embersoftheorder]

DWC - August - Day 7 - Victory

"He's been down there a long time," murmured one of the miners as the pack of workers stared at the cave with worried glances. They shouldn't be this frightened but after so many years of torment by the Coven, Hexsworn, demons, and Tides knew what else had climbed out the gloom they had every right to be. Things in the night rarely didn't bump.

Foreman Strohnev crossed is arms and shook his head at the miner's whine, a loud 'hrmph' coming out from under his thick walrus mustache. "We jus gotta give em time."

For weeks things had been going well at the silver mine. Resources plentiful, work steady, and morale high as the profits that lined their pockets. The New Lion Mining Corporation was on it's way to becoming one of the most successful business ventures of this new Drustvar. A small work town had begun to spring up nearby in hopes of perhaps beginning an actual settlement as money was pumped back into the community.

Then the wailing had begun.

Most had hoped it would be some kind of soft cooing in the depths of the mine, something that would cause the willies and startled heads to rise thinking something was over their shoulder. This voice would have none of that. As a pick had struck rock, it came sharp and clear as a meal time whistle exploding through the carved tunnels to reverberate against stone and into flesh. High above in the upper corridors of the mine, men and women had cast aside tools to clutch at their ears in shock as they looked for the source. All eyes had traveled to the elevators further into the depths, whispers of those who might remain below.

None had come back up.

A search party was sent to investigate, the supervisor a hardy dwarf who had been down in the dark for years in the old country hills of Ironforge and Dun Morgh. Troggs, trolls, and beasts had plagued his life since he was a young beardling. He could handle a wail in a cave with a few other muscles to help him out.

The New Lion Mining Co was now short 12 men and had put up a posting for a new supervisor.

They hadn't had an interview yet.

Since the initial wail and disappearances, no one had dared to go down into the mine and memorials had already been scheduled along with letters of condolences to the families of those lost. Sad letters and pocket watches did not fill bellies or pay for supplies though, and word was sent east for aid from House Waycrest. Perhaps the guard would come or maybe a wizard to blast out the mine for the growing tragedy of New Lion as it was being whispered about. Foul moods, broken hearts, and no profits were stunting the fragile growth of this new colony.

The inquisitor arrived on a Tuesday afternoon upon an old black horse with a matching silent crow astride his shoulder.

He was an older man, his hair thin and gray to match the shabby beard he wore but his eyes spoke of a steel that ran deep and true despite the feet at the corners of them. With a crooked nose, chapped lips, and a voice to make men grimace as hard as him he had come to the office of the foreman. Broken leathers, tattered tabard, and an eclectic assortment of Tides knew what clinked among his carried belongings. The Order of Embers was always in dire straights with finances, but in service of Drustvar and House Waycrest there were none better to handle this sort of thing.

This inquisitor said his name was Eldridge. Eldridge Candell.

On Wednesday morning, the inquisitor had tied off his old horse and gathered his assortment of oddities to make his way into the mouth of the mine. He hadn't said anything to anyone, only asking for extra oil and a couple of lanterns to match some rough travel rations. With an old axe strapped to his belt to match an even older bayonet, Candell had swung a pack over his back and entered the mouth of terror.

The crow had planted itself in silent watch as the inquisitor disappeared.

Wednesday came and went.

Thursday passed without a sound.

Friday the miners began to murmur.

Saturday they gathered a watch.

Sunday broke with burning red sunlight and night fell with a spring storm.

Monday came with talk of what to do with the horse.

Tuesday was gone with the wind.

A week had gone by. No work. No news. No sound. No money.

No hope.

The crow sat silent in it's vigil. Was it waiting for the inquisitor's return? Or was it guarding the mine from the miners going in?

Or from what might come out?

Strohnev rubbed his mustache as he ordered the workers to get back to work. What work they would do, he didn't know but he wasn't getting anything for his coin having them worry and fret staring at a hole in the ground. He was not looking forward to writing to the Stand about needing another inquisitor or for them to at least come pick up the remaining effects of the missing man. Another man dead for this, what the hell was he gonna tell the authorities?

The crow let out a sharp croak, that made the foreman nearly jump out of his skin as he looked back to the mine entrance.

"Tides preserve," came a whisper that Strohnev was more shocked came from him as he stared at Inquisitor Candell.

The man leaned wearily against the frame of the door, his face grim and coated in thick layer of coal dust as his grimace caused the wrinkles to crack white lines across him. His pack was missing, his tabard was black and indiscernible of the colors of the Order. His knife was in his belt and a broken lantern hung loosely from the same. The man looked like hell had given him a proper chewing and spitting like he was the bitterest chew.

The foreman strode forward as the other miners spotted him and began to call out at the return of their 'savior'. A sick wet thud stopped him in his tracks as a stained leather sack flopped into the loose gravel.

A few tentative steps forward brought him to the sack as he leaned down to gently peer into the rank leather bag. The torturous withered face of an eyeless woman stared back at him, her face pockmarked with holes like a termite ridden floorboard. Her tongue languished out of her mouth, stained with black much as the stump that might have been her neck.

Foreman Strohnev shuddered as he quickly covered the bag back up and looked up to find the inquisitor standing over him looking grim. The older man grimly reached up to his shoulder and growled as he plucked something from his neck, a soft high squeal much like a piglet. It was insanely unpleasant as he felt his hands come to his ears, holding them tight as he looked in the inquisitors hand.

Squirming in his gloved hand was the oddest bug he'd maybe seen in his life. Bulbous red eyes, black body, orange legs with crystalline orange wings to match. It buzzed and flitted a bit in his hands as it struggled to right itself in his palm, the flecks of the old man's blood still shining on it's pincer mouth as it continued to wail.

It didn't last long as Candell closed his hand around it and squeezed hard enough to shake with as much violence as it took to snuff out the insects life.

Strohnev gaped at his hand and looked up into the inquisitor's face as he finally spoke with a dry cough and hoarse growl.

"Get back to work."

@daily-writing-challenge

[embersoftheorder]

EMBERS OF THE ORDER

A World of Warcraft Roleplaying Blog

From the personal journal of Captain Rachel Dewitt, Order of Embers Operations Manager and Liaison to the Alliance: Stormwind Division (All notes and stories within these journals follow the calendar of initial joining of the Order of Embers until present date.)

27th day of the 8th month, Summer of Year 6 The world changed again.

Dalaran has fallen. Again.

Is it really surprising? I'm not sure. I would like to rely on old prejudices against the magi, that they keep to their towers and secrets like rats in a hold but that would be a lie. The Kirin Tor had truly been nothing but doing their best to be guardians of the world as much as we are to Drustvar. But we can't rely on old prejudices and old ways of thinking. Have to keep moving forward and we have to adjust.

I have to adjust.

As we had done before during the Shadowlands, House Waycrest and my superiors have authorized me to allow my team to go to the aid of Dalaran in hopes of creating a better relationship and positive atmosphere between our communities. I am still rolling my eyes at that statement from Albot. I know what he really wants. Clout. Power.

Gold.

I'm glad that Candell is such good friends with Reese, cause I don't know we could continue to afford to rent this place in the Pig and Whistle with the meager funds that Drustvar can spare to us. Rebuilding a country isn't easy or cheap but you'd think they could afford to give us a little something more to make us appear to be at least respectable. Hell Duun's been moonlighting as practically a guard around here to make her ends meet. Honestly I think she makes more clearing kobolds and other things down there than she does as my assistant. I feel bad for her, this was not what she was expecting when we came here four years ago. But granted I didn't expect to lose Candell on some weird 'death' campaign into another world. And Nubern. I can't forgive myself for that man. No one should. Least of all me, though I know Eld has been eating it up as well.

I shouldn't call the Shadowlands weird considering what we do here and what we have faced in the past, but the whole debacle is just strange. Thinking about it just makes my head hurt as much. Might be the rum as well.

We have dragons. I don't know a damn thing about dragons, except how to possibly kill them and that for once is the last helpful thing around here. Maybe we should set up a meeting some of their people. They could know some tricks or ideas or have some gold to help the Order out. I'll have to make a note for later.

The circle comes round again to the big news of this entry. Dalaran. Another tragedy in the world's history. I don't know if we're gonna make it better, but I do know that Candell is hardly going to be one to sit around while there's something going on to the west. He never does. His apprentice or rather partner now is just the same. I wasn't supposed to babysit heroes, just soldiers. I guess they die all the same as well.

I miss you Cristoph. Every day. Your heart is mine, and I hope you know mine is yours. It just hurts.

Candell says it's like a war within. He should know especially with his history. Tides all of us do.

I love you.

Witt

OOC:

This is blog for characters created within the realm of World of Warcraft involving generally the protagonist/hero concept that has a lot to do with the Order of Embers from the Battle for Azeroth. I had cultivated a lot of these characters for a long time on an alternate blog, but since returning to the game and with a new expansion arriving it felt right to build a new and better place to continue to work on this concept. I love all of them even if I get lost some times trying to keep them going creatively and in gameplay. So please if you'd like to interact, collaborate, offer words of support/critique, or just say 'hey'; don't hesitate too. Thanks for reading this and I hope I make something you come to enjoy here.

Below you will find links to the basic information of the cast of characters for this blog (which knowing my level of alt-aholism, will be ever growing cast).

Dramatis Personae

Eldridge Candell - Inquisitor of the Order of Embers Cheryl Duun - Inquisitor of the Order of Embers; Ratcatcher Rachel Dewitt - Operations Manager of the Order of Embers

Beldwin Storm - Gallant of Drustvar; The Green Son

More to come…

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Beldwin Storm

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Cheryl Dunn

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Order of Embers

Inquisitor Eldridge Candrell (top left)

Sir Beldwin Storm - "The Green Son" (top right)

Inquisitor Rachel Dewitt - (bottom left)

Cheryl Dunn - The Ratcatcher (bottom right)

@embersoftheorder

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Captain Rachel Dewitt

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