Son of the Scorpid

IC tumblr for Ammon An'Diel. A young ruler of a desert sect of elves and the bastard son of Kurel An'Diel. All posts are IC. WrA - Horde. FC: Avan Jorgia

[ammon-andiel]

With Regards...

Her scream was so piercing. It sounded like her soul died and it turned the blood of every man in that camp as cold as a Winter’s Veil eve. 

“Crone.” 

Ammon had sent guards to collect her from the sect’s temple. They paraded her through the streets, calling for all denizens of The Black Mirage to congregate at the gladiatorial coliseum known as the Sand Pits. On a dais above the champion’s gate, Ammon watched as Severin walked Mags into the center of  the dirt floor pit. The old woman put up no fight and looked up to the young boy king with conviction and rebellion. 

“Within our walls!” Ammon shouted. His voice ricocheted off of concrete pillars so that the crowded stands could all hear. “Are more than traitors, they are subjugators. What they want, is to dismantle the strength of this sect-- the very strength that you,” Ammon pointed out to the crowds.”And I have bled for across two decades to build from the rubble and ash that my father left us all in. 

“I have made it my purpose and my promise to restore the ferocity and power of this nation to what it was when my grandfather ruled and to wipe out of history the era of my father’s reign and the crippling weakness he brought upon us all.” Ammon walked to the edge of the dais and there his body turned to a shadowy rolling mist that swept over the edge and formed back into himself on the floor of the arena. “For longer than we know, the Crone, Mags and Ambassador Dawnseeker have been conspiring to undo all that we have accomplished. Some of our people.” Ammon looked up to the crowds and pointed at them once more. “Some of your family members, have turned turncoats and gather in a cavern to the eastern ridges, with weapons and food and water that they have stolen from you to use against us! They are hundreds, but we are thousands.”

From a hushed silence in the grandstands erupted a roar of support and belief. Beneath this ready for battle chorus, Ammon looked down on Mags as Severin forced her to her knees. “There will be no pyre for you.” Ammon spoke softly and coldly only to her. “No releasing of your soul for Mueh’zala to whisk away for all your years of service and loyalty.”  Mags had all of a second to spit on the ground at Ammon’s feet before he took his sword and cut off her head.

There was a loud silence that ripped through the spectators in the stands above. They all seemed to stare at the bloody scene below. In fear. In awe. In all confusing sense of emotions as witnesses to the execution of a long and high ranking member of their society by their sovereign.  

Ammon looked straight to Severin who seemed himself pensive and uncertain of what had just happened or what was to follow. “Collect your division and a third of the Blades. Bury her body in the sand and put her head on a pike thirty feet outside the opening of their cavern. Once they discover it, kill all the traitors, but bring Eronal, my father, and his trusted to me.”

Ammon walked away.  The crowds dispersed in hushed whispers and full silences, and Severin carried out his order. 

That bone chilling scream ripped from throat of Eronal Dawnseeker who walked outside the cavern entrance, peering at something curious in the distance. As the sun came up that next morning to shed light on the message Ammon had sent, at the behest of Zelphryin, she collapsed to her knees in tears. 

The hundreds of the rebels were roused from their sleep and other doings at the sound and among those in the front Kurel, Saeris, and Mavas all three hurried to Eronal’s side. Saeris helped her up to her feet, only for her to roll into his shoulder and there weep. Mavas, in tempered detail, described the presentation of Mags’ head on the pike.

Rage was what Kurel felt in the place of grief. 

As the sun continued to climb over the mountain ridge, at a greater distance was a wall of men in little armor with hammers, axes, swords and shields. The only warning before their charge was the howl of a bugle horn and Kurel’s hurried command for the rebellion to ready themselves for a war. 

@deadsunharbor

[ammon-andiel]

The Infiltrator

Eronal was not the only one writing letters from inside the old ruins. 

There was still a very archaic belief in the desert born society. They did not put spies into other clans to siphon information. They merely charged and attacked one another when paths crossed. It never crossed Eronal’s mind or even that of Mags’ that they ought to have installed a vetting process to those who came to join the rebellion. They took them at their word and allowed them in. Which allowed for Zelphryin to put someone on the prowl when rumors hit the air about a revolution of the sects echelon. 

Dressed in the pristine yellow sun patterned robe, he sat at the end of a long table alone with a plate of food he had barely touched and the letter in his hand. It detailed the location of the abandoned ruins. The number of watchmen on post during the day, during the night, and at what length they changed. There were a few extra pieces of paper which included the names of those who had defected. But most disappointing on that list was the name ‘Mags’.

“Dahk.” He swore under his breath and tossed the pages forward. The final statements made were a few lengthy paragraphs that described the arrival of Kurel and fifty some other odd men and women with him. 

There was a knock an hour later on Ammon’s door and he called for Zelphryin to enter. The young boy king was stretched out along his mattress, half dressed and in the company of some unimportant maiden whom he had brought to bed with him.

“Uncle.” He greeted jovially as his fingers brushed affectionately through the woman’s hair as her head lay in his lap.

“Nephew.” There was a small bow of his head that Zelphryin gave as he shut the door behind him and stood with hands clasped behind his back. “News has come. Those rumors are not exactly rumors. There is a rebellion forming that has every intention to remove you. It seems the head of this beast is the old Crone, Mags.” He paused. Stopping himself from clearing his throat and instead just waited out those first moments for his tongue to wet itself naturally. “Along with Eronal Dawnseeker.”

Ammon sat forward now at her name with a look of anger starting to form. 

“And your father.” Zelphryin added heavily at the end. “Along with fifty of his men.”

That anger on Ammon’s face slowly transitioned into a smile and then a laugh. He shooed the girl out of his bed then climbed out of it himself. “Fifty men.” He repeated through an airy chuckle. He moved about his quarters to find a more suitable garment and changed while he spoke. “Is that all I am worth to him? You tell me that he has an island devoted to him, full of ships and gunpowder, and magical trinkets of unfathomable powers and all he brings is fifty men?” There was clear insult in Ammon’s tone, even through his smile. “He must think I’m weak. Frail. Broken. Unimportant” He added as he walked to Zelphryin. His grin gone. “Maybe had he been here. He would know otherwise.”

“Yes.” Zelphryin said slowly with a hard stare that watched Ammon move and even as he approached, remained fixed on him. “In addition to his fifty are almost four hundred more-- some trained, some not, from this sect. You can try to salvage their loyalty by taking the merciful wa--”

“No mercy.” Ammon interjected. He moved past Zelphryin, throwing open his doors and started to walk briskly down the hallway; the bottom hem of his gold and blue robe billowing behind him. Zelprhyin followed. “Those who have defected are now traitors. Them and their families. Round up their wives, their husbands, their children, uncles, cousins, aunts, parents, grandparents. All of them.”

“Bloodline genocide is not the most effective response to this coupe still in its infancy, Ammon. I have witnessed your father do more with fewer men at his back.” Countered Zelphryin.

“Are you suggesting that I do nothing and wait?” Ammon gave him a confused and almost hateful look with the question.

“No.” Zelphryin stated clearly. “Waiting affords your father time to consider all outcomes of any action he may take. It also affords him time--  as we can’t be for certain -- for any oceanside allies who may be in route to arrive.”

“Then what are you suggesting, Uncle.” Ammon demanded in a questioning tone. One that was verging on a short temper. 

“Get him to make a compulsive reaction. One done out of emotion, rather than logic.”

Ammon slowed his brisk walk as they reached the bottom of a grand set of stairs where he came to a full stop and turned fully to look up at Zelphryin, who lingered a few steps higher still.

“How?” Ammon asked him.

Zelphryin smiled. “Send him a message. Let him know. That you know. That they are there and what they are up to. And use Mags to do it.”

@deadsunharbor​

[bralynaeversong]

Wolfsongs...

She sat among the tribe, in the great circle around the fire and she listened as each one told her a difrent tail than the other, smiling, laughing and drinking, until silence descended and her grandmother moved to the center, speaking the tongue of the tribe. It was time. Time for her to hear their story, and time for her to begin learning about her people. 

Uktene. The name no more than legend, whispered on the winds that blow through the sands at your feet. Or is it? Time long forgotten holds the secrets to the uttering of the sound again. Men, who could become wolves. They did not steal shape. No mimicking among them, the people were as much beast, as they were men, women, and children.

Long ago, before the stars held shape, before the great circle in the sky fell in love with the moon, offering her time in the sky as a gift of his love, the Uktene were born. Nytarr, a simple slave boy, working in the fields caught the attention of the she wolf, Sarama, the Wolf Goddess.  She saw in him the reflection of herself, yet enslaved and unable to nurture all the passion he held within himself.

She pleaded with all father wolf, Uktena, now the Main god of the tribe along with her, asking his permission to free the boy, and love him as her heart said she already did, He granted her request, but with it came sacrifice. The goddess would be bound to him, and the earth, for as long as he lived, never to roam the lands of the gods again, until death.

She accepted and freed him, carrying him away on her back, deep into the sands where they loved, laughed and lived long days and nights spent in dance, music, wine and work. And the arms of each other, her second sacrifice, Mortal form for the rest of her days.

One the wedding night,  gifts were exchanged between bride and groom. Nytarr offering her jewels he sought out himself, his own hands fashioning them into necklaces and rings, bangles of every size to adorn the beautiful body the gods had granted her, and him the permission to enjoy, as well as protect.

Her gift to him was a single kiss, The spirit of the wolf breathed into him, and the man joined with the beast that night, before he ever lay with his wife. His seed in her belly to consummate the union eventually grew into the first member of the tribe they would create together.

Three became thirty. Thirty became ninety and eventually the print of the wolf, that also walked as man became countless. Their beginnings were happy, peaceful, long days of toiling in the sun, longer nights spent by the fire, worshiping their king and queen, burning offerings, dancing to earn the joy of their people shining from their eyes when they walked among the tribes, far and wide.. A peaceful nomadic people, never lingering long, some may think was the very key to their survival, and for a time it was.

Until it was discovered just who and what the Uktene were. The fate of the king, his own queen helped him escape, fell on his people, time and time again, thrown into slavery. Brandished no more than animals, fit to kill for those that thought themselves stronger than the tribe. Each battle to free themselves left them fewer in number, but stronger in unison, the determination and will of the people growing with each throat torn open, and each cry of their brethren on the blood soaked field, littered with the chains their foes hoped to place them in.

Tragedy struck the people with the death of their King, a fierce fight to the death, his last, to keep his people free from yet another tyrant holding chains before them. His queen cried long into the night, on the eve of that battle, her howls carried on the wind to be heard by every tribe and people across the land, the last sounds the Goddess ever made with the breaking of her heart.

A darkness fell on the people, one the tribe had never seen before, for the loss of their king and queen came in the wake of a threat big enough to send terror into the strongest wolf that stalked among them.

The Scorpion King, sailing across the land on a river of blood spilt with his own two hands. The second mortal wound to the people who over the centuries dwindled to a tribe of one, their prince taken by his guards, sold into slavery… their princess gone, without a trace, and the woman to succeed her elders,The secret lover of the Prince of the Jackals, flayed and waved as a banner of warning to those that opposed his rule.  

Uktene. A word no longer heard in the desert, or among those born there. Pawprints in the sand, slowly shifting into the feet of men, the only thing left behind the howling of their dying queen heard throughout the land.  Once many, proud, and nomadic, the wolf people of the sands have settled, hiding among ruins no man even knows of yet, not daring going to wolf in the light of day. Waiting for the prophecy now set in motion.

A daughter of the sea. The son of the earth.  One would embrace his wolf early, living as beast, more than man. The other finding her wolf when she found her people.

Both finally finding each other and their way home in the wake of a new darkness spreading the land and a new fear for their people.

The Grandson of Vishak, his rule dark and terrible and already great, yet still not strong enough to bend the knee of a wolf….

(Markings seen on each wolf of the tribe, Left side of muzzle denotes Warrior. Marking around eye, the gift of the goddess herself, branding them her people. The scars are given by the elders, and both only seen on the wolf)

@rein-dragoon // @nekhiel​ // @bralynaeversong​

(Mention: @ammon-andiel) ( @kurel-andiel ) 

[ammon-andiel]

A Song of Blood & Sand

Their leader was a tyrant. Vishak An’Diel, The Scorpid King, would stop at nothing to claim or conquer anyone who roamed the endless sand.

Countless innocent people fell to their blades. They were murdered. They were pillaged. They were enslaved. If he thought them weak or valuable, they were doomed. All across the bottom of Kalimdor, from Tanaris to Silithus, Vishak was feared. The very word ‘Mirage’ created wary glances.

Within their walls, their own children were thrown to the palace door for Vishak to do as he pleased. And he was pleased to throw them into the sand pits. To fight for life or die trying.

They have a new leader now. The Black Mirage collapsed years ago, but Kurel’s bastard son, Ammon, continues their dynasty. Already he is reviving their strength. He is young, but just as merciless as his grandfather. Maybe more.

My people were clever. They knew the power of the Black Mirage, and so they were quick to become allies long before even Vishak assumed rule. We are known to the Tanari as the Shafise. Weavers of the Eclipse. We are peaceful, but formidable. Nomadic trade, cunning, practiced diplomacy, illusion magic, shadow melding, the scimitar, the sacred spring, the sun and the moon… That is the way of the Shafise. The Black Mirage had long ago agreed to a truce with us in exchange for trade. And our secrets.

The children of the eclipse have trained their shadow melders, Shades, for thousands of years. They are slippery, invisible, and deadly. Never let down your guard.

Their mages, Tenders, worship the Loa Mueh’zala, and have divulged the Sandfury’s enigma of blood. Do not invoke them.

Their warriors, Blades, are strong. To underestimate them is to die.

[As so beautifully & originally told by @beamgully]

[rizzythemonk]

Voices on the Wind

“Tell us the story again!”

“Again! Again!”

The contortionist gave the trio of children a tired look. He had been working all day setting up the newest tent act and still had to limber up and lock himself tight in his cinch before bed… but it was hard to deny them.

“Pleeeease Rizzy?!”

He sighed and sat down to a shower of cheers. “Fine but I’m stretching out while I tell it.”

“Once, long ago, before the sundering in fact, there was one caravan ran by three sisters and their kingdom spread across Azeroth in a vast network of nomadic groups, each with their own specialties. Like us, but they were whole villages from the littlest members to the eldest and they all held the tenants that are so important to life on the winds. They prayed not to the sun or the arcane or even the loa, but to the wind and the voice of their people. They spoke with dragons, and rode ancient woolly kodos. Trusted one another as stories came out in tales like this and in song, because…”

“Because only the voice carries on!” The three girls answered in unison. Because the voice always carried on, but even then most faded with time.

“So these three sisters, over the years apart their ties to each other faded. Differences grew and changed them and with the sundering they were suddenly even more separated than before.

“One sister became the paragon of our caravan. The once leader of our family and her line leads down into each. one. of you.” He poked them all in the nose to emphasize his point, making them giggle.

“The second sister lost her caravan and took to teaching others the nomadic life. She helped build the darkmoon faire, she taught the tauren to graze and travel to avoid the centaurs, she even tried to teach the trolls the meaning of the nomad, but as we know that didn’t go over very well…”

“Most important of all was the third sister. She was bitter jealous of the other two’s happiness within their own lives. She wanted one family again! One trade group. She imagined a vast network monopoly that crafted such gold to make a dragon blush. And she set out to make it happen in the most insidious way.”

“Her and her demons spook around caravans, each and every night, still to this day! Looking for their prey. That’s why you have to stay in the wagon circle at night or she’ll snatch you! away from your family!” He grabbed at the youngest girl pulling her into his lap and inciting screams and giggles from all of them again.

“More importantly…” His tone changed, ever so slightly, more serious as he drew the image in the sand, “You have to watch for her symbol… the snake eating its own tail, because she seeks to destroy the very caravans she helped to create with the watching eye in the middle. And for all the good they do you must also question your leaders. It is not just the young she takes, but those destined for greatness, she taunts from their safe spaces and replaces them with her own demons. Monsters bent on doing her bidding and not the greater good of the family.”

“Is that why we have all the passwords and rules around council meetings?”

Rizzy nodded, knowing all too well those passwords were useless against the power of the witch, but they brought these people, his people? the people… comfort to think they couldn’t be invaded with such inventive protections.

“That is why, but we also must watch those in power. Always. When they change, when they do something that does not strike well with the caravan as a whole we much ask ourselves why. We must ask, not just if the Baba witch has taken then… but their real intent and whether such radical changes are for their benefit or the benefit of all.”

The monk thought over the old story. He knew the truth, the coin in his hand a visible threat to Colpeia, the symbol of the ouroboros surrounding an open eye on one side, the wagon tent on the other. The tale was one of mythical caution to keep children of the caravan safely home at night; a warning to respect, but question your leaders… but also so much more.

Now it was his turn to question his own leader. This was a man not but a few weeks ago he was writing a proud funeral song for: ‘Say ‘hey Kurel!’ for the battle call… united we stand… divided we fall…’ The man he trusted to bind them together, and they all agreed he was changing. Different. Perhaps not because of Rizzy’s witch… but dark forces often took other forms. It would not be the first time it took the shape of a powerful woman and this Lucia seemed to fit that bill. So what was his real intent?

He spun [the coin] like a top on the table, “I have two interests in Tanaris, an I wish I could pin down his tribe before meetin ya, but I was wonderin if you had heard anythin bout a Kurel or Kur'eleth An'diel? I was also wondering wha’ y'could tell me bout a place called the Mirage.”

@kurel-andiel @willowgust

@dancesinshadows @crimsynlotus @aesonissa @phoenixadmiral

[kurel-andiel]

Do you know why Vishak called him The Omen?

No. Why?

Because by removing his name, he removed all of his humanity with it.

[colpeia]

Colpeia eyed the coin, pinching her brows as she examined its spin into a spherical blur. 

The very -second- the name Kur'elnth An'diel left his lips, every muscle in her face fell.

And she froze.

Keep reading

[ammon-andiel]

Unknown History

When I was a boy, she liked to tell me how terrible my father was. How he never loved her. How he used her. How he never cared for me, never asked for me. My uncle took better care of her, of us, than he ever did. 

In his absence. In his neglect, betrayal of us, and abandonment of our people, I will see my homeland raised back to the power and the might of what it once was when my Grandfather ruled. From the edge of the Great Sea to the mountain sides of Silithus, the desert will again tremble in fear of the power the Mirage possesses. For those who do not swear fealty to me, the new Scorpid King, will decorate the walls of my kingdom; their flesh flayed from the muscle and skewered on the ends of pikes for the whole of my would be enemies to look upon. 

I will do more than rule.

I will conquer. 

[aitorcardones]

I have returned.