The estate’s door is locked by the same wards that have protected it since she was a child; she remembers her mother teaching her how to unlock it - which runes to touch of the schemata in order, and then a quarter turn to the left. Of course it was left - Momma had been left-handed. It made things just barely strange for her or for anyone else to unlock the estate’s doors. No doubt that had been the point, when they had been locked into the wood. It kept the family within safer. When Melori finishes the sequence, the spellcircle sends a light purple glow washing across her features.
The halls are quiet and dark, lingering with memories over two decades old by this point. They’d been happy, hadn’t they? The four of them, and then the five when Tanni came into the world - wiggling and screaming. Whatever had happened to Momma after, it had come so suddenly. She’d go quiet or disappear, and then she was gone.
Momma’s not coming back, sweetling. I’m so sorry.
She’s never sure in the memories who had told her - which of them had been the one to take her face into their hands and kiss her hair and apologize. It was fuzzy, she’d been so young and none of it held the way her later memories did. Sometimes things about Momma were hazy. Ma Vhelas’an and Wren had helped in ways: piecing memories held by so many people into a more perfect picture of her mother, one that she could replay and was less subjective to her own doubts.
Momma had been beautiful, and a good person, and there had been so much reassurance of that. Some of the things she had learned didn’t connect to those pieces perfectly, but it just meant that her mother had been a person, all her own - flaws and virtues and so many other things. It at least made her more real than an idealized aspect of motherhood; even if she was stained by the knowledge of her darkness or melancholy.
Melori’s footsteps echo in the silent walls of the estate as she moves. It’s kept clean, perhaps too clean - sterile, almost. It’s near exactly as they had left it all those years ago when Minn’da had taken her and Tannisal to their new home. Smaller, cozy - “It’s just the three of us now, we don’t need all of those things,” - but maybe it wasn’t as much home; sure, it would grow to be, but it wasn’t the estate. She runs her fingertips along shelf in the hall, adjusts her bag at her shoulder, and continues to the study - to find that it’s just as immaculate. Even the bookshelves - lining each wall on both floors of the study, are perfectly kept. Her mother’s desk is empty (too neat, she remembers piles of papers and books at almost all times, and her mother hunched over the desk late into the evening).
She settles on the floor at the center of the study, spreading the contents of her bag around her. A hawkstrider skull, the jar of Eternal Waters - glowing a bright golden from her work with Wren in the dim room - her scrimshaw tools, all placed within easy but significant reach. The skull is placed against her lap, careful in her examination.
Once it had been a strider of Dawn’s Reach - bred for speed and agility and unique coloring. She couldn’t tell that from the skull, but she’d found the remains of the creature on a visit to the Reach - ranging near the edge of the Aldmarsh to report its findings - and the leg bones that she’d find other uses for could have told her that even without the context. It must have escaped the keeping grounds further north and fled south, content with its freedom. A piece of the skull near the lower jaw was missing, as if something much stronger had ripped the poor thing apart. Near the Aldmarsh she didn’t find that surprising.
The last moments had been terror, and she feels that so deeply that it resonates in her own bones and heart and soul. Fear. But no, before that - it had been joy, overwhelming and engulfing as the creature found its freedom in the sprawling fields and hills of Dawn’s Reach. That brought a smile to her face, settling then on clearing the memories in the skull - leaving a blank canvas to work with. It made the runes stronger when she retrieved her scrimshaw tools to carve them down the center of the skull.
The water was next with the skull set aside. Refinement of magical substances to an essence wasn’t something she was exactly trained with, but she had seen it done by her mothers - in labs and through alchemical and magical processes. She didn’t have the labs - Momma’s lab had been cleared just like the vault - unless she wanted to head back for the Ridges or Embertree. She did have magic, and the will to make things so.
Li had asked her about that - how she drove her enchantment. Melori had answered the only way she knew how at the time, she simply did it. Magic felt internal and ingrained and natural to her, even without academic study she knew how to take what she wanted and make it so. Refinement of the Eternal Waters to one precise essence, glittering gold and warm to the touch when it rested in her palm and full of the joy and radiance that they had imbued in it, was simply something that she worked for. Magic did the rest, even if the how’s weren’t quite so clear to her.
The small essence fit neatly into the curve of a rune on the skull - slotted in as if it were made to go there. A small hum left the elf, pleased with her work.
Still, for all her sureness with magic, some things could still surprise her. Perhaps it was the touch of Ma Vhelas’an’s magic - where Life and Death and Memory all intersected - or perhaps it was the power of the Eternal Waters. Maybe it was both. She couldn’t have anticipated the flowers that wound out from the skull, dropping from the sockets or slipping from cracks in the bone and hanging in cascades of bloom as if they had always grown there.
Day lilies, lilacs, wisteria, prarie-fire, and - amongst them all - a small sunflower. Flowers she’d grown in the garden for each of them, for her family.
There was joy and sorrow in the memories here. Perhaps before she would have fled from anything but the joy, but she’d been reminded that in all memories there was a power to be held.
the sudden movements from the grass, as cackles and giggles surround the person, all dressed in beautifully crafted flower crowns and long silky dresses
Waves of crimson and gold held in front of the glimmering spires of Silvermoon - the final stand against the encroaching forces of the Black-Blooded armies.
Melori watched from a nearby hilltop, fiddling with the fletching of an arrow. It was an idle task, something to keep her occupied as she mulled through her thoughts. This was it, this was the end - for whatever good or bad that meant.
She’d never seen battle before this, not true battle. She’d trained and trained on how to fight for when battle came, but she knew a time of peace. She had never fired an arrow against someone with the intent to kill before this war. Inexperience had made hope easy in the beginning - when she first stood up to inspire those who would listen.
But she’d fought alongside these soldiers and these armies all the same. Melori had held in battle beside some of the greatest, she had built their pyres, she had sang of their victories and defeats and memories. She would do so again now, not as the bard, not as the beacon - but as any other enlisted. Lightward Bronzeblade. Was that enough?
There had always been a doubt, in all of this. That she had strayed from the path she’d come her to set - that she’d fought in the wrong fights and not done enough where she had wanted to.
Something tugged at her, a reminder of warmth - blazing warmth in a maternal figure - who always knew what to say. You don’t win a war by fighting to the death in every battle. Pick the fights you can win, remember your goals, and do nothing that does not further them. Remember the goals - safety and a brighter future for the people that she loved, a world that would hold something so precious as hers had not.
The choices had been right, they had been true. Every road had led her here, to do everything that she had set out to do. This wasn’t the time to doubt herself. She could still be a beacon, she could still hold hope. She could still make sure that everyone was safe, that the branches of hope took root, and that this world would be everything she hoped it would.
The hilltop stood high enough that she could overlook most of the armies - that they could see her in return.
Melori sucked in a breath in a rush - muttering a spell to expand and amplify her voice, more than loud enough that she could be heard across the fields. The resonance of comfort and hope that surged in every moment of her magic and being joined with it.
She’d be damned if she didn’t get one last word in.
“Oathsworn!” Her voice rippled, high and clear across the late afternoon. She was no commander, no veteran of the order - no one had any reason to listen to her words, but she had to hope something stuck out. She curled her hands into fists, taking a long breath before she spoke again.
“There is somethin’ monstrous comin’ right at us, and if I’m honest - I’m terrified.” It took something to admit that, a stronger and yet more vulnerable piece of her. “And I’m sure some of you are, too. We’ve fought and fought, and fought until there’s barely anythin’ left. We’ve drove back enemies for months now. They thought they’d won, but we have been fightin’ back again and again - and we’ve been makin’ up the ground that they took. It all leads to here, it all leads to now. Right here, right now - in front of our city.”
Teal eyes turned onto Silvermoon - onto its glory. It was a symbol, if nothing else - a symbol that they had never given up.
“If we fail, it’s catastrophic. But see, I know that we won’t,” She continued, shaking her hands a bit at her sides - to release nervous energy no doubt. She’d started to pace back and forth, black and gold and crimson cloak trailing out behind her. “And I know that because I’ve fought alongside so many of you - through good and bad. When the Dawnspire fell, and then when we took it back. When we put all we had against the enemies on Quel’danas, so many times over! What I know is that even when we fall down, every single one of us pushes to stand back up!
“And we’ve lost so many soldiers - so many good men and women, friends and siblings and parents and children - and I thought, too, for so long, that it didn't seem worth it. It’s horrible and devestatin’, but they will always be remembered. Everyone who’s fallen to protect Quel’thalas will always be remembered, I know that! They didn’t fight and fall and die so that we could fail here and now!”
Melori thought of the dead, of the pyres she had burned for them, and of the injured. She thought of the people she cared about. She thought, again, about how the world she wished for would never come if they failed here. She wasn’t going to let anyone fail.
“I’m not givin’ up, no matter what; and neither should you. It’s - it’s fuckin’ scary,” The spellbow couldn’t help but laugh, a quiet and surprised sound at her own language. “But every single one of us is goin’ to fight as hard as we can for what we stand for, what we believe in - whatever that is. When you fight for somethin’ like that, fight with your whole heart, then you have to win. And every single one of you will make a difference and matter, and that’s somethin’ that will be remembered long after we’re all gone - whether that’s today or tomorrow or in a hundred years. Time will remember what we fought for, what others died for - and that’s somethin’ that’ll never go out. That’ll echo in eternity.
“So, I’m gonna shoot every last one of those creatures in the head if I have to. Who’s with me?”
Everything about this would be remembered, and she would make sure to weave it into the passage of time herself when she made it out.
The rumors came with the retreating troops from the east. But they had seen everything. It was more than just rumor. Another forced retreat.
Death, she heard. Though she was afraid to ask who.
Melori darts through the crowds, looking for familiar banners. The Redarrow banners, the Ridges forces, they had to be somewhere. They had to be. Her face twists into concern.
Ithranicus had her phoenix feather. She'd given it to him for luck. The same feather that she'd trekked up Flametalon Peak for, in a particularly bleak and cold winter. It'd taken two weeks, foothills you summit and back down. By the time she made it back, her feet had nearly collapsed out from under her.
He'd been so proud of her. Her Ith, not this one. This one didn't know her, barely trusted her, but it'd been enough. It'd been enough in the same way that lingering in Thinariel's presence was enough. Not the same, not what she knew, but something.
When she'd stumbled back down to the foothills of Flametalon Peak with the red feather clutched in her hands, he'd been so proud. She would never forget that look for as long as she lived - and she'd nearly cried for it. It had taken years, but she had done it.
Every moment that she searches amongst the retreating forces for Ithranicus bloomed panic in her chest. Was he - no. No, she couldn't think about that, she couldn't -
Look for the green and red banners.
She'd always thought the Redarrow crest was ugly, atrociously so - and hadn’t been afraid to express that. Melori's opinions had always been forward, even from the time she was a teenager. It was why she was constantly at odds with the Elders, why she'd snuck Wren out of the Grove to watch the stars - why her Ith had said he would have gray hairs early. She teased him for that often, but he always had his barbs back.
“You're as loud as tree struck by lightning, Finch.”
“Who taught you how to shoot, Finch? Any half-dead, mostly blind ogre could shoot better than that.”
Finch. It'd mean green, a trainee, an amateur; at first at least. Eventually, she'd grown to recognize the tilt in his voice, the fondness. He'd toss an arm over her shoulder when she was shorter than him. (Later, she'd take over in that respect - when she'd hit her growth spurt enough to finally beat him out in height. Oh, how smug she had been.)
Green and red. Melori breaks into a sprint, reaching the forces; jostling others to do so. He should've been there. Worried and glowering, but there. Her head snaps from one side to the other.
“Where's Ithranicus?”
(She never called him that. Uncle Ith, or just Ith. Never Ithranicus, never Lord Redarrow. That wasn't him. Not to her.)
“Bronzeblade.” She turns at her name. She didn't recognize the soldier, just someone from.the crowd. “The commander - he was injured.”
(No. Melori's skin lights up with heat. All at once she can't breathe and can't focus on what's being said.)
“Where is he? I can take him to the infirmary, he's light enough for me to ashin’ carry.” It's an attempt at levity. She smiles.
No one else smiles. Hers immediately drops off.
“The Alliance overran us. He didn't look well off. I don't think he was moving, but they took him before we could figure out if he was de -”
Everything tunes out in her ears. It's as if she's shoved cotton into her ears and muffled everything out. The soldier's still talking. Melori cannot hear him.
No.
Someone had once mistaken them for father and daughter. It had happened dozens of times. No one in the Ridges, they knew better; but it wasn't hard to assume. Melori had Redarrow features - freckled and redheaded and lean - and better with a bow than most. Her Ith had been quick to deny. “No, the Finch isn't mine. I'd teach her some better manners if she were.”
He had been though - the closest she had ever had to a father.
She'd made him proud when she brought the feather back from Flametalon Peak. He'd hugged her. The sunlight had reflected off the copper in his hair. She'd finally done it.
(Later, Melori will know that thought is the moment where her legs went out from under her - where all comprehensible thought stopped.)
Now, she only recognizes standing and then the ground. She only recognizes her fingers digging into the damp ground and the burning in her throat as she weeps so hard she makes herself ill.
She’s bad luck. She’s thought it before, and she thinks it now. Maybe she’s like her long-dead (no, not long-dead, but she can’t think of that in the moment) mother in that way. Everything she has touched has burned.
Melori’s barely made it from the field when she feels the heat rolling behind her in waves, and the reverberating crash that comes from unmistakable falling rock. A sharp turn is enough to set her into a panic that grips her chest like a vice. The abyssal lies in a crumbled pile of smoldering rock, and the broken body of its controller lies to the side.
“Thinariel!” She screams, immediately turning to try and dash back. She’s fast, she can get to her, she can’t leave her there.
A hand catches her arm, stopping her in her tracks. Who - Sa’theas, one of her Oakvale troops. Melori struggles. It isn’t something to discredit, that. She’s strong, and it’s easy to wring her arm nearly from grasp.
“Let me go, I have to help her!”
“You’re not going to help anyone going out there and getting yourself killed, Bronzeblade!”
Seht (he was out of reach - but could she have done something?), Zarannis (she could have stayed at her side or healed her further), Thanidiel (she was supposed to keep those troops going), now Thinariel - she hadn’t been able to stop the turn of the tide. It had caught up with them like a beast at their heels. It throws her back to the Dawnspire. She hadn’t been able to stop it there. So many times she hadn’t been able to -
Thinariel. She didn’t know Melori. This wasn’t the woman she knew - the one who’d taught her the Farmight spell, and the woman who gave her advice; the woman who told her that she should worry about what furthered her goals, who had always been there even when they lived halfway across Quel’thalas, who called her songbird.
But she cared. She cared about everyone on that damn field, no matter what. Bleeding heart.
She’s so tired of watching people get hurt.
Somewhere, Melori loses her focus - her place in the whirl of activity. It doesn’t come back until a sunwalker brings the scout’s unconscious body amongst the retreated forces. She looks down at Thinariel - whose face she has known so well for so much of her life - and she can’t make her mind pull apart that this is not the Harbinger, the almost-mother.
Healing, she needs healing.
Sanarissa needs to know.
It all falls into place as she scoops the nethermancer into her arms - infirmary bound. The world buzzes out to a distant sound around her. She barely recognizes it.
“You can’t feed soldiers on hope. Well, unless you’re Bronzeblade.”
The skirmishes on Quel’danas had sparked almost as soon as footfalls were made on the island. To the east, the blues and golds of Stormwind - to the west, greens of Kul Tiras - clashing against the crimson and gold. Formal battle had not yet begun, but it didn’t stop fights from breaking out. It didn’t stop blood from spilling.
It was exhausting. Watch was kept every hour, rest was short, tensions were high. The chill of winter was subsiding, but it did little for the spirits of the soldiers. They were running on empty in every way possible. If this war went on much longer...well, that was something she didn’t want to consider.
They had to keep going, though. She had to keep going. If they failed on either front, then the main armies would be overwhelmed at the Sunwell. She was there. Melori couldn’t let that happen, let anything happen.
The evening had given way to rain - though what earlier in the evening had been an unforgiving downpour, heavy sheets pounding down against the grass and washing away more of the melting snow. But by now, it was a light mist and soon, it’d no doubt give way to nothing but the lingering smell of petrichor and the mud underneath her boots. Melori drug a hand through her hair, taking the time to wring excess water from fiery curls.
“Bronzeblade!” Came the uproar from the gathering of troops - gathered under a makeshift shelter until the worst of the rain stopped, giving everyone the opportunity to pitch camp. Despite the dreary mood, Melori turned as bright and beaming as ever - a spot of sunlight amidst the horrible weather, a point of hope and inspiration. Even as tired as she was, she had to keep going. “Spot anything?”
She came to a stop amidst the troops. A few she knew by name, including the one speaking - Faevia Sa’theas, Velenthar, Freevale - but most she hadn’t had the chance to meet or know. It didn’t mean that they meant less - that her duty to these soldiers meant less.
“Nope, nothin’! I think we finally scared ‘em back to hunkerin’ down in Dawnstar.” Still, she doesn't loose her quiver from her hip or remove Bellanaris from the place on her back. Just a moment's touch of hesitation is enough to keep her armed.keep her armed, ready for an ambush. They can’t know she thinks that way, though.
“Who’s goin’ out for watch next?” A short, stocky woman raised her hand - think, Melori, think - was it Anthenis? Anthenis Embershard? “Well, you ain’t goin’ anywhere yet. The rain’s clearin’, and we need to set up camp, get a fire started - well, that’s the easy part with me here.” She earns a roar of laughter from the troops, which brings her a glimmer of inspiration - she can bound off that. “C’mon, let’s get it together - last one to pitch their tent has to make dinner for everyone else!”
It doesn’t take long before tents are set, before wood is gathered for a fire. She can try the ground easy enough with her own magic - the heat pillowing out from around her - and flame is lit just as easily, roaring up to a blaze enough to provide warmth, comfort, heat. Melori rests with her hands to her hips, the warmth washing across her face.
The conglomeration of troops - mostly Oakvale-hailed, Avengers who will follow her to Dawnstar - are quick to eat and chat, set to their tasks and plans for the evening.
“Oi, Bronzeblade.”
The spellbow turns on her heels. “That’s my name, don’t be wearin’ it out.”
Sa’theas steps up beside her - the druid’s flax-blonde hair woven into intricate braids to keep it back from her face. “What’s next? Inspiring stories, grand and epic tales to keep us going?”
“Well, I was gonna play a song once everyone got settled - but if stories are prefered, I got plenty of those, too.”
Faevia laughs - and it’s a barking, loud sound; though not as cheerful as Melori expects, or hopes. Her ears waver a bit, flickering back and forth until the druid continues speaking. “You never let anything get you down, do you?”
“Well, yeah - I try not to. That’s kinda my whole job, y’know?” She looks around the troops scattering and milling about the camp, her arms crossed loosely across her chest. “I got my own special kind of magic - and I’m not talkin’ about the kind the Flame gives me. Inspiration keeps people goin’. We’ve been fightin’ for so long. It’s easy to get discouraged or down about it. Everybody just wants this war to be over, so we can go home to our families, and the people we love. I understand that, too, just as much as anyone.”
She thinks of Wren, curls a hand against her chest - and her sister, her mother, of everyone waiting for her.
“I can see how discouraged everybody’s gettin’. We can’t afford to give up now, though.” Melori squares her shoulders, looks out over the camp again - to all the soldiers, her troops and those under other command - but most of all her fellows. A few have stopped meandering about with their evening duties to gather by the fire - to chat and murmur, but most of all to listen. She knows this. “If I can keep people goin’ for just a little longer, let them know the can keep fightin’ just a bit more - that’s worth it to me. It means we can survive this.”
The spellbow inhales, moving her palms to rub them together.
“It’s about more than songs or stories, though.” Faevia is quick to quip back. Melori’s shoulders roll up into a shrug - and a laugh comes with it.
“Well, o’course it’s about more than that.” She pats a hand against the quiver of arrows at her hip. “I don’t keep this around for show, y’know. I know how to fight - my teacher taught me how to use everythin’ from a bow to short swords.” Melori pauses, clears her throat and lowers her voice - in what is clearly meant to be an over-exaggerated mocking of this mentor. Her accent is thicker than his ever was, but it’s meant in a parody. “Finch, you have to know how to fight with everythin’ - if someone knocks that bow out of your hands, you still have to give ‘em hell.”
The moment earns a few chuckles from those gathered about listening, and Melo rubs a hand against the back of her neck - pleased to have earned that. It eases the air around them, which is always what she wants.
“The point is - I’m not just standin’ in the back waitin’ and playin’ songs and tellin’ stories - that’s not my style. I wanna be in the battle with everyone, I wanna share those victories and defeats. It makes the songs better, y’know. I wanna be there with every other soldier when we kick this freakin’ Alliance out of our home and deal with the monsters tryin’a bust down the gates to my home.”
Faevia gives a low sound, almost like a laugh, and an approving sort of nod. Melori beams, her cheeks flushed a little pink under the swath of freckles.
In that moment, though, there’s no time to cheer and tell stories. A horn call rings out behind them and the spellbow’s hands grab for Bellanaris instantly. Alliance forces, another skirmish. She stands for all the height she has, radiating warmth and bronze tinted flames at the tips of her arrows.
Wren had said once that she was a force of change - that she happened to things, not the other way around.
When she speaks again, it’s loud and bright - a call to every soldier about her.
“So, how about we go show ‘em what we can really do, huh?”
The breeze was warm as it flitted through the gardens, stirring the leaves on trees hanging overhead the courtyard and on the multitude of plants around her. Alive, vibrant, bright; a change from where she had spent so long in the cold, amidst the dead earth. The flowers were in reach where she laid across the grass, and she tangled her fingers amidst them to feel the petals under her fingertips. Laying on her back, amidst the flowers and herbs and grass, the sky bright and blue overhead - this was right, this was home.
She was supposed to be here.
But she was supposed to be there, too. Amidst the battles and the soldiers, inspiring, keeping people hopeful until the very last. She’d built a pyre for soldiers she didn’t know, she had fought for the Dawnspire twice over - once to fail and once to succeed. Getting caught up in a war had never been part of the plan of saving her. Much less anything that had happened in the Dawnspire.
A long, heavy sigh rolled out of the archer.
Never in her life had she ever considered something like that - considered that going back on your word could be better. Before now, she would have fought for keeping word, honor, everything like that. It was their way, it was what she’d been taught through her training with the other Arrows - and even before. Word is law, promises are meant to be kept, never besmirch that.
She’d never been in a situation like this, though; faced with so much death and pain. She’d thought about the knights and the way their blood spilled in the streets of the Citadel, the innocent refugees she’d seen - hungry and freezing and desperate. She’d thought about what was important to her, and how that would matter if things changed.
There was one thing that the bard cared about: making sure she survived.
If this war went on, she’d never be able to do that.
Curls stirred and flew across her face with the shifting wind, tickling over freckles on her cheeks and nose. Her flowers were gone for now - hair free, of its own accord. Her spider lilies rippled in the breeze, delicate and bright crimson against the softer colors of her garden. It reminded her of -
“Dork, come inside! Lunch’s almost ready!” Tani’s voice rang out across the garden from the door, but her sister was gone again in a few seconds. She’d asked for time to herself in the garden for a while, and so far her family had been accommodating. This was something so large and new to her, sorting through her decisions felt so strange.
The words still rang true with her though. The Alliance has invaded. Starved people, murdered innocents. First aggression did not matter to her. If they would attack, if they would show no mercy, why would they be afforded it?
She idly plucked one of the red spider lilies, turning it over in her fingers - squinting in the mid-day sun where it warmed her cheeks; pinking the skin across the bridge of her nose. How much longer she laid there, she couldn't say - her mind on the battle, the paths laid before her.
“Sunflower,” Eyes stayed on her flowers and the sky above until a head of blonde hair appeared above her. Apparently, long enough to send her mother out for her. “What’s keeping you? Food’s ready.”
Sunflower, Minn'da always called her. Always reaching for the sun even in the darkest of days.
“Sorry, Minn’da. Just thinkin’.” The young elf reached up for her mother's hand when it was offered, hauling herself out of the grass, up from the flowers and dirt and earth. These things were what would return if they won the war.
The sun, the warmth, and the flowers.
Her mother placed a kiss down against her hair as they walked back towards the estate.
Safety.
There was fire in her veins, and she had long used it as a shield to protect her family. Now, she would use it to fight back. No one would touch her family, not those here or then. They would have to go through her, and she would never allow them past.
There had been no bodies to recover for a pyre, not with the expediency that they had run from the Dawnspire. Still, it only felt right to Melori - to build a pyre out of the sticks and straw that she could. They gave their dead over to the flames in her home. It was the best place they could be. Ultimate, unending protection and warmth into the beyond.
A grunt as she tossed another large bundle of wood onto the pile.
Flames this tall were dangerous in this winter. Not just for the smoke that might lead the Alliance right to her, but for the chance to spread the flame across dried grass and catch a whole blaze. She knew well enough how to keep things under control. It had been in her training, after all. What kind of spellbow would she be if she couldn’t control her own element?
In this moment, in the evening dark with the snow packed high and the air sharp in her lungs, the only thing she could think was of the battle. Blood and clang of steel, the roar of fire as her arrow struck into the oncoming Alliance. The broken bodies of the knights of the Dawnspire.
Not days before, they had laughed and drank together. She had sang songs and played the violin, lit their spirits. Anything to keep their hopes up and keep all of them going. All of them including herself.
It stuck in her mind; vivid and angry and too strong. Still, Melori wanted it this way.
She wanted to remember.
She couldn’t forget them. If she forgot them, they were gone. If she forgot them, they had died for nothing.
A thrum of power echoed under her fingers as Melori set an arrow to her bow; the bow carved from the remnants of Ma Vhelas’an. The Tree would have remembered them, if it were still alive. It wasn’t. If she forgot what had happened, even for a moment, some part of that memory would die.
She had to remember. The blood and the pain and the fear, it all had to ring true in her. It had to propel them forward. She couldn’t let their deaths be pretty words lost on the wind.
The arrow snapped forward, runes glowing and flame lighting at the arrowhead as it flew. Within moments the point where it had struck the would-be pyre was alight and spreading; a beacon in the night. She watched it burn for a long moment, until her bow was settled; traded for her violin, one weapon for another.
A mourning song - sad and heartfelt, played against the roar of the flames. The music stretched out into the night; unceasing even when her fingers felt numb from the cold. The wind strung against the tears that caught on her cheeks.
If no one else would remember the loss, Melori would. She owed them that.
[Reach: +5ft range to basic attacks/healing and abilities]
[+2 to Max damage/healing on basic attacks and abilities]
[Nature’s Grasp: Roll 1d3 when dealing damage with a weapon or basic offensive spell. If you roll a 1, then the enemy takes 1d7 damage and is rooted in place]
Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity.
At the base of Flametalon Peak, in the Silver Ridge Mountains, lies a grove of white and golden trees - stark contrast to the evergreens of most of the forests; the home of Ma Vhelas’an, the Tree of Eternity. Once renowned over Quel’thalas for its powers, the tree now lies in ruin. [Bellanaris] holds some mote of power, or is believed to; woven from one of its fallen branches. Whether Ma Vhelas’an is the only thing that imbues the weapon is unclear.
[Takes place prior to the events of the Turn 3 War Meeting.]
Ma Vhelas’an was dead.
Melori had known it would be; with the state of the rest of the Ridges - the land she had known as lush and teeming with life was nothing more than a charred, desolate ghost. This time, this place, it was all wrong to her. But to see the Tree of Eternity was a different story - still reaching high, high above the treeline but parts of it collapsed and all of it decaying.
This was one thing she could not blame herself for; in all of this mess.
One captured - or dead, one a traitor. None of these things were right.
Even dead and decayed and empty, the Tree towered over her. Standing in the grove was a fresh memory; she’d visited with Wren before she left. She hadn’t discussed what was in store, what her thoughts and plans were - it seemed like the Keeper would have known even if she hadn’t told them. It was always just like that.
Fingers touched to one of the exposed roots; and a low noise of sadness left her. Nothing. She could have been in the grove before and felt the power humming around her. Now, there was nothing. She’d come here for guidance, or to feel something, but there was the same doubt with nothing left to take away from it.
“You’re supposed to listen, right? I mean, I always talked to Wren, but it’s supposed to be about the Keeper helping the Tree talk and remember and - all the stuff, I don’t really get it. I guess I’m just not smart enough to get it. Can you listen without a Keeper?”
She’s talking to a tree, a dead tree. It registers briefly how stupid that seems. But it’s like a latch on something has been poured free, and there is no slamming that gate shut.
“It’s not right. None of this is right, none of this is how it’s supposed to be. I keep trying to help too many people to try and make sure everything happens the way it’s supposed to - Velo thinks that’s wrong; he thinks different things happened because it’s supposed to - that I came sideways instead of back. I don’t - I don’t know if that’s what happened. I just came to help and now everything is bad.”
She flopped herself down to sit on one of the roots - as if that isn’t more proof that there’s nothing left in this tree. Anytime she tried to climb on it, she always found herself back on the ground. Now, nothing stirred to force her away. She smacks a hand against some of the snow piled up, as if it will help take out some of her frustration.
“It’s just stupid. Nobody knows me, nobody cares. Maybe Ith would have but -” But he’s gone. She can’t even bring herself to say it. He can’t be gone. “I told him I would be there to help, and I wasn’t. I made my choice like the Oracle said - I picked one thing, one place - and now that’s messed up too. She’s not supposed to be a traitor. That’s not what people always said.”
Melori made a quiet, strained sound and pressed her hands up over her face. Don’t cry, don’t cry; there’s no point in crying.
“I miss Tanni. I miss Minn’da. They’d know what to do, they always know what to do. The only thing I’m good at is making people believe things, being hopeful - and it all feels so heavy and bad; I don’t even know if I can do that anymore.” She looked up, peering through the boughs of the tree. It’s easy to remember it golden and alive - visited and loved; instead of this empty, lifeless husk that she sat on now. She can remember the song, the music - how warm it felt, how it brought peace and positivity - and she never felt odd or out of place.
Now, it was silent.
Long legs were tucked up closer to her chest, chin coming to rest on her knees.
“I already messed so many things up. Maybe I should just go - just go home. Vidormi will be mad, I don’t know if she’ll ever talk to me again after this one. Tanni will be disappointed, I think, that I couldn’t do it. That I couldn’t help. Maybe that’s better, though. Better than messing up everything mo -”
Her train of thought crashed to a halt, ears twitching forward. Something - song? It was strange. Low, slow and deep; not like she had heard it sing before. Melori scrambled to her feet, turning this way and that. No - there was no way. She sprung into action, scrambling across roots and boughs; ears perked forward. Where was it coming from? There was something there - she could feel it. Was there still some power?
The huntress tumbled with a misstep, landing hard against the limbs of the tree. “Ow…” She squeaked, taking a moment to reassess now that she was stopped. It was coming from...nearby? Below? She slipped off the roots with a soft oof as she hit the snow packed ground. The source was easy enough to find from there. A piece of a branch - that had no doubt fallen at some point. Half buried in the snow, but radiating some kind of power. It had held it, even disconnected? That wasn’t so strange; she’d heard of relics and pieces. She turned it over in her hands, slowly. The song was near deafening now; but it seemed discordant.
Perhaps it was only the current state of the tree?
Was this some sort of sign?
Maybe - she should take it with her. It was almost like a nagging voice at the back of her mind.
Take it.
It could be of use. Hewn, made to something powerful. It wasn’t so bad for her to take it. No one else would use it. Melori could use it to help, to fight, to continue on.
To save her.
Something loomed in her shadow. Something great and dark and fanged -
Melori turned her head quickly, sure that she felt breath on the back of her neck; hot and wheezing - like an animal. Nothing. Nothing by her and the tree and the snow - where a new fall had begun. It reminded her of the time; that it was getting late - getting dark. Enough wild beasts lurked in the Ridges she knew after dark, and she did not need to tempt them.
Beasts only needed enough luck to catch you o n c e.
@pyrosophist for Ma Vhelas’an and all related lore + @jonathan-nevermore-smith and @veloestian for other mentions
I reblog this every time I see it, because the part that makes this so horrific to me, is that the room is a direct callback to Goodnight Moon. It takes this memory of safety and security and turns it directly upside down and I love it.
hey so Emily Carroll is my absolute favorite horror artist and her stories are some of the greatest things i’ve ever had the ghastly pleasure to read. many of her comics are free online, such as the classic His Face All Red
