#eldwin

[altherei]

A Good Soldier - Pt. 1

CW: Death by execution

Preceded by No Good Deed during the War of Thorns…

“Eldwin Darkwind, this court finds you guilty of the charges of insubordination and high treason against the Warchief, abandoning your post, and colluding with the enemy. You are hereby sentenced to execution by firing squad in one week’s time.”

Bullshit. It was bullshit and they knew it- he knew it. He knew they knew. They didn’t care. Sylvanas’ war machine never did. Bitterness wasn’t an emotion that came easily to him, but ever since he’d been arrested after the battle in Stromgarde, the taste of bile never left his mouth. His mother would be disappointed in that, no doubt. She’d always maintained that bitterness, grudges- all of it- was like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die.

It wasn’t the charges that bothered him, not really. It wasn’t even the idea of dying. He was a Farstrider, had been for over a century or more now; death was something he’d gotten just a touch too close to a few too many times for his own liking. It didn’t frighten him. He’d go wherever souls went.

What bothered him was the knowledge that by dying, he could no longer protect his family. His father. His brothers. Altherei. His wife. His son. He couldn’t protect Arathaer- guilt he didn’t need to carry and that was never his to begin with, but he carried it all the same. If anything happened to any of them because death had stolen him from them?

That, he could never forgive himself for, afterlife or not.

But what was there to do? The trial was a sham, a mockery. A kangaroo court of the finest degree. The only witnesses called were those that could damn him. His family was only notified of the trial and charges- and would no doubt be notified of its outcome. Allegedly, they were called to testify, yet when his father made the attempt, he was turned away. None would be permitted to attest to his character. He was certain they’d be forbidden from attending his execution. Maybe that was for the best.

Having inevitable death loom over him left him far more introspective than he was initially comfortable with. His son would grow up never truly knowing his father. His wife would be widowed. His family- his father- would bury another child before their time.

Eldwin had always prided himself on his priorities- family first, then the Farstriders and the city. Everything else could be sorted later. Staring at his calloused hands in the discomfort of his damp, dark cell, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done enough. Would they be all right in his absence?

A gravelly voice called from beyond the bars, and the groaning of the iron door as it slowly swung open paused his questioning.

“Darkwind. It’s time.”

The march to the range was uneventful. To pass the time on a walk he was sure they made longer on purpose, he counted the cobblestones as they walked. He reconstructed the faces of all his loved ones, feature by feature, searing them into his memory as if he could take it with him.

The deathguard directed him to a wall- one he could tell immediately had seen use for this purpose before. Far too many pock marks and bullet holes- cracks and breaks- littered the stone wall. A faded bloody smear on the grass reminded him he was far from the first to die here. Sadly, he felt he’d be far from the last.

His commanding officer- the one he’d fought against to protect that mother and child in Stromgarde- walked up to him with a burlap hood and the grin of a man with no conscience and entirely too much pride.

“This is for you, if you’re too afraid.” He was enjoying this.

Eldwin didn’t give him the satisfaction of fear- or any emotion. He just stared. “No. I’d rather you all look me in the eyes. You’ll get what’s coming to you eventually.” It wasn’t a warning. It was a promise.

The commander laughed. “What a pity you won’t be here to see it,” He mocked, gruffly forcing the elf to his knees.

Eldwin smirked. “I won’t need to be.”

With a roll of his eyes, the deathguard returned to the line. He lifted his arm.

“Ready!”

The line of executioners raised their rifles, eyes to sights.

Sylenne.. Estra…

“Aim!”

He heard the cocking of half a dozen hammers.

Ann’da.. Oraen.. Salaras.. Altherei.

“FIRE!”

I’m so sorry.

The shots rang out. The pain was only for a moment. Eldwin never felt his last breath leave him, or the gentle embrace of the Silverpine grass as it received him.

[afterdarkwhump]

59 and 37 for Eldwin! - Elfwhump

Thank you! From this ask game

[37] How would they spend a lazy day when they have nothing specific to do?

He would try and get some real sleep, really, he would. It probably wouldn't work. Maybe if it's at the point in the story where his cat Aconite is there (after repeatedly following and breaking in) he'd have better success, but let's say he can't sleep. He's probably badgering Clyde for something to do. He doesn't do well with lazy days - if he has nothing to do, he's bored, and if he's bored, he has thoughts - never very good ones. So, he'll be desperate to keep busy.

[59] What would they want to be remembered for?

He'd like to be remembered as a good brother/son, if nothing else. He did give up everything to protect them. He does not believe that will happen, though. The best he hopes for is that he'll be remembered as someone powerful, who has achieved a level of magic unprecedented, and endured things many could not. He doesn't want to be remembered as a victim, gods no, he doesn't see himself as such, and he would not be granted such pity; but he would like his strength to be recognised. He'd like his defiance to be acknowledged, rather than swept aside in place of the worthless warlock who was nothing but a toy and a tool.

[tetranocturne]

i fixed that picture of eldwin bc it was bothering the hell out of me 

if u reblogged the last one id love u forever if u deleted it and reblogged this instead cause im in physical pain looking at the original

[bugpond]

Page 2 of the double update today, there will be more pages of this short story to come so look forward to those!

[hamigakimomo]

Practicing poses from references with one of my fave OC subjects, Eldwin Earwig! It dance time.

[afterdarkwhump]

30 for eldwin and 24 for vivruh!!

Thank you! Ask game here

Eldwin:

[30] What are their most healthy and most unhealthy coping mechanisms?

Oh boy. I don't think this boy knows any healthy coping mechanisms lmao Let's see, I'll make a list:

-Ignore it :3

-Beat people up

-Drink

-Get beaten up

-"Eh, it could be worse"

-Heavy dissociation

-Self-dehumanisation

-Cling onto people who hurt him because they're sometimes nice or because they have a "reason to hurt him"

-Telling himself he deserves it!!

...Oh boy this guy is a MESS. I'd say probably the self-dehumanisation is the worst, but like. Honestly it's hard to say akdjbafjbfhbf I promise he WILL have a recovery arc it just. will be very long and hard.

Vivruh:

[24] How hard it is for them to not allow their emotions to cloud their judgement?

Very hard, actually! He's a spoilt brat who's used to always getting what he wants, and he does not have healthy control for his emotions. He is pretty smart, sure, but his position is really privilege of birth. He can act rashly, especially when anger is involved.

[bugpond]

Look what’s getting an update today!! Your favorite bug comic that you all missed SO MUCH!!! Wow!

This will be a 2-page update today. This short story will be in b/w, as stated in an earlier update. It will return to color for the main story. Enjoy!

[altherei]

A Good Soldier - Pt. 2

CW: Descriptions of fatal injury

Following The Coldest Dawn, roughly one month after Eldwin’s execution…

Waking from a nightmare was a particular kind of jarring. Cold sweats, heart racing, gasping for breath in a dark room. Searching every shadowy corner for the subject, the villain, the cause, only to find it all lacking. Peace had a way of feeling suspicious until the adrenaline wore off.

Eldwin found being raised far worse. There was no cold sweat. No racing heart. Yet he woke up on a table with a gasp for air his lungs no longer needed.

He remembered speaking to Altherei, somehow. Telling her how proud he was. Encouraging her. Vividly, he could recall pulling her into his arms- just like he used to when she was a child and had a horrid nightmare. Had it been nothing more than a bad dream?

No. He distinctly remembered the walk. He remembered being forced to his knees, hands tied behind his back. The cocking of hammers, the firing shots. He didn’t remember the pain, but he didn’t need to. His hands idly toyed with the six-odd new holes in his chest and torso. Two were fatal. The rest would’ve guaranteed a slow, agonizing death. No doubt his captain wasn’t thrilled about losing that opportunity.

Slowly, he pushed himself to sit, and his muscles ached. Pieces of ribs shifted in ways they ought not, and the movement pushed ichor out of the hole in one of his lungs. He reached a hand to his back- no exit wounds. Lovely. Finally, his gaze settled on his hands.

Pallid. Bloodless. Pale and ashy, and still covered in dirt. With the permanent weariness of undeath, he let his gaze drift over the room he was in. It wasn’t a prison cell. It wasn’t a mausoleum. It seemed more like a laboratory- or what passed for them for the Forsaken. Something more akin to a mad scientist’s dreamhouse than any legitimate lab.

Altherei would have so many judgments. The thought made him snort a laugh, but he found there was no mirth behind it. He frowned, then pushed himself off the table. At the far end of the room, by the door, there was a large shield- dented, dirty, and in need of polish. Likely, it had once belonged to someone else who was now out shambling the world as unliving as he was.

Part of him didn’t want to look.

The rest of him knew he needed to.

The griminess of the shield’s exterior felt like a morbid parallel to the griminess he felt over his entire existence. The man that stared back had been allowed to decay- just a little- in the ground, before they had raised him. His once-rich auburn hair, red-brown like the finest terracotta, was now limp, lifeless, and more like the dirt of Silverpine than anything else. His eyes, once the vibrant green of his people, were now sickly yellow and softly glowing with undeath. His cheeks and eye sockets had begun to hollow, and with no small amount of disgust, he flicked a few maggots from the wound over his heart.

He wanted to be angry, and found it far easier to summon that emotion than he wanted. Anger, bitterness, hatred, even.. if he scarcely scratched the surface of his mind, they were right there waiting. Eager, almost, to be grasped. Yet when he tried to think of happier things- his wife, his son, his family…?

He could picture their faces. Recall their voices. Fond and beloved memories hadn’t been stripped from him in undeath, yet the swelling of pride in his chest was gone. The adoration he felt from one look at his wife or their young son now felt miles away. Any positive emotion seemed as though it had been dragged under the deepest water, and had no energy left to fight for breath.

For the longest time, he just stared at the man he’d become. The man he’d not asked to become. Not that his consent mattered, of course. The moment he stood accused, his fate was sealed; he knew that. Realistically, he’d known undeath was a likely outcome, he’d just not wanted to entertain the thought. Sylvanas would never waste a good soldier by letting them rot in the ground. No, they’d execute him, then let him decompose for a short while to teach him a good and proper lesson.. then they’d do just as they had: raise him back into unlife.

He wanted to see his family. Would they want to see him? Gods, he remembered how horrified Altherei looked after the razing of Silvermoon. She never really spoke of what had happened, but he could put two and two together. Something had shaken her to her core, and with the undead everywhere, it was easy to imagine that as the cause. She’d be terrified to see him now, even if he was hardly grotesque. His son would cry. His wife probably would, too.

He’d have to reckon with it- all of it- piece by piece, and perhaps another time. He could already hear calls to muster from outside, and ever a good soldier, he would obey.