Elegant script covers the single page that’s attached to a small package. It’s delivered directly to the fortune teller’s new residence- from one of their most memorable customers.
Dear Oracle,
Hi. How are you? It's been a long while since we talked, but it's okay because i've been fine by myself. Esme has been working me to the bone, but that's to be expected when it comes to her. You know how she is, I bet, more than most.
I heard that you were moving around, so I hope this does actually find you. If you can, you'll have to tell me where you're at now so we can come and visit. I actually have a lot to talk to you about and maybe ask for your help about.
That aside, I do actually have a concern you might want to look into. See, me and Esme were speaking one night here recently and she made some talk that makes me suspect there might be foul play. What I mean by that is that warlock of hers might have bewitched her!
I don't know how I didn't see it before, but after our conversation, i'm almost sure of it. Is there some sort of charm or something like that that I can test to see if i'm right?
Also, i'm sending you some things for you. I found this really interesting little book that I think you'll like. I also am sending some dried local fruits that I think are really tasty. They might help you think of Shallowbrook while you're off on whatever adventure you're on.
Okay, that's all I had to say to you. I hope to hear from you soon and I miss you lots.
Yours truly,
Taliori
P.S. If you can, can you also send me maybe a blessing or whatever they're called? Something maybe for luck to keep out of trouble. Some things have come up and it'd be real nice to know that at least some higher powers were looking out for us here.
There's a grief that can't be spoken,
There's a pain goes on and on.
Winter did not kiss; it bit with angry, icy teeth.
Winter ravaged Quel’thalas, consumed the countryside with voracious hunger, stripped the trees of their fire-wrought canopies, and browned and buried the verdant fields in heavyset slopes of snow. Quel’thalas was not equipped for vicious frost or the screaming gales of arctic wind; there were seldom few doors in Silvermoon that could be closed against the cold, and great spans of gilded lattice work that had served well enough for walls while their climes were temperate were worthless now. Snow and sleet shot through the arabesques and archways, leaving the inside of homes as exposed as the city streets.
No where was safe from the cold.
Gossamer cloths were exchanged for once decorative fur rugs, blocking off doorways and windows, sectioning off singular chambers of once open air businesses and homes as the sole reprieve from the wailing winds.
Silvermoon City Inn was packed, all it’s patrons crowded on the bottom floor, where the wind had been successfully blocked off at either entrance. Fires burned in every brazier, bathing the bar in an orange glow that betrayed reality; there was still an ever present chill wafting down from the upper floors, which had been entirely abandoned. The room was packed with rum-blurred figures, little more than smudges of color that Caeliri could not fully fathom.
Exactly as she wanted it.
Caeliri was three deep in a tankard of rum, something cheap that tasted of clove and seared the inside of her nostrils with every sip - or had. Her ability to taste the swill had been burned away, along with any ounce of caring. She was seeking the numb oblivion of intoxication, scrambling behind it to shield herself from the slough of sorrow that crept ever closer.
They were dead.
Lirelle.
Sederis.
They were
g
o
n
e.
The Archon’s words had sent her to her knees.
Her heart had been clenched for the headsman’s blow, and these loses had blindsided her.
H
O
W
?
How could they fall? For all of Sederis’ devotion to death, he was battle-hardened and resilient, always prepared. And Lirelle, Light above, she burned with the intensity of the Sun itself, with ten-fold the determination of any one Caeliri had ever met.
How could they be gone?
There were presents sitting in her tent for them, wrapped and ready - as they had been for months - for delivery.
An armored belt for Lirelle, with leather loops for hitching blades and pouches for plants or bugs or whatever else she might find on her journeys and desire to keep, and a handful of crude, nude sketches of the Ranger-Captain in lieu of the promised painting he’d never delivered on.
An overflowing bag of dried meats for Sederis from every corner of Azeroth, from every kind of creature, something practical and delectable all at once. She’d never really known what to get him for Winter’s Veil.
Caeliri had been unable to unwrap them, unable to get rid of them, unable to disturb the undelivered gifts. So she’d left them where they lay, with several other gifts that would never be delivered, and committed herself to the duties demanded of her.
Once, she might have been proud of how well she’d severed her Self from her Station, how she’d faced the familiar horrors of the infirmary - the scent of blood and perforated bowels, the weeping, the death knells of those would not make it through the night, the glassy, pleading eyes of those she could not save - without a thought spared to the aching chasm in her chest, but this was no time for pleasure, no time for pride. She was only ever a step ahead of the pain, only able to keep it snapping at her heels, never gaining any real distance from it.
Across the bar laughter wrung out, loud and bright and barking, and Caeliri’s attention pulled across the dancing colors of the inn towards the sound. Across the bar, someone threw their head back, golden hair fanning freely with the motion, catching in the fire’s glow and erupting with gilded light, and Caeliri’s world was
S
H
A
T
T
E
R
E
D
into a thousand, screaming points of light, a hundred, million erupting stars.
It burned.
Caeliri pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, hard, hoping to quell the whirling of her vision and the popping lights that flashed in the darkness. At last the blazing settled, the burning ebbed, and she pulled her hand from her face and creaked her eyes open.
Across the table from her sat Sederis, head half-bowed towards an overflowing plate, hastily shoveling food into his face, faster than Elleynah could dole it out.
Caeliri’s heart plummeted to the soles of her feet. When it struck ground, it erupted with such intensity that the vibrations rung out in every inch of her body, in her fingers, in her toes, in the tips of her ears. Cold crept painfully through her chest and her rum-bloated stomach began to churn.
The other mender reached out to grab a handful of scarlet hair just before he hoovered it into his mouth, tucking it behind one long, scar-dabbled ear before moving onto to the next plate with a half-hidden, wholly-fond roll of her eyes. Beside him Lirelle snapped her head back up, golden hair swishing forward over her shoulders as she pointed an accusing finger at Arrenir, across the table and one chair down. Smooth laughter was the only response, and the gentle clink of a fork brushing a plate.
Lirelle slammed an open palm on the table, sending all their silverware leaping off the polished mahogany, and it was Vaelrin’s turn to cast his head back and let loose a thundering laugh as fury creased Lirelle’s features. Elleynah’s freckled hand shot out to steady a glass that almost tipped, saving Arrenir’s plate from being doused in pale champagne, and Sederis - his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk - laughed, and gagged, and for all his war-hewn reflexes could not lift a hand fast enough to keep from spitting half-chewed food across the table on to her plate.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone
She was supposed to squeal, supposed to reach out and shove her plate across the table, relenting her meal to Sederis now that his half-chewed food was floating in her stew, and Elleynah was supposed to rush off towards the kitchen, and Lirelle was supposed to follow her, demanding the ginger-witch sit her ass down and eat and let her get Caeliri another dish.
Arrenir was supposed to offer her his plate, safe from Sederis-spit and spilled champagne both.
Vaelrin was supposed to take a smug drag from his cigar and waft cinnamon-rich smoke over the table.
But Caeliri did not move.
She did not squeal.
She did not shove her plate away.
She sat, statuesque, and let the memory move around as the tears swelled up in her vision, until there were nothing but colorful smears shifting in her vision.
Someone was calling her name.
Someone was pulling on the tether of her attention.
Someone tried to draw her from the phantom faces, and she did not want to go. Caeliri blinked hard, letting the tears stampede down her rosy cheeks, waiting for her vision to clear and the room to right itself.
"Dawnsworn.” Her name was murky and a thousand miles away.
Lirelle was pushing Elleynah back through the doorway, shoving her towards the seat she’d not yet occupied, and Elleynah was digging her heels in, freckled face flushed at the admonishments Lirelle peppered over her.
“Dawnsworn.”
Stop it.
Vaelrin’s hand subtly snuck up on to her knee, giving the bony protrusion a secretive squeeze.
“Dawnsworn.”
Go away. Leave me be.
Arrenir was swapping plates with her, and Sederis was muttering apologies from behind his hand as he tried to choke down the last of his food.
A hand fell on her shoulder, shaking her with enough might to wobble her entire torso, and she looked up at the offending force, at the face that had torn her from her dream delusion.
Anokirin Sunstalker was hovering over her, not that she could actually see him. His face was a blur of colors bent by firelight, only identifiable by his voice. “Dawnsworn. Are you deaf, girl? How many deep are you?”
Caeliri pulled her eyes from the barely-familiar man, shrugging her slim shoulder out of his grasp, glancing back to the empty chair across from her.
“Another storm is brewing in the south. We need to leave by daybreak if we’re going to make it to the Ridges. You gonna be okay?”
No. “Yes, I’ll be okay to ride.”
The answer was sufficient.
Anokirin haunted her no longer, the heat of his frame dying as he moved away, leaving Caeliri to her rum, to her vacant table, and to the empty chairs she’d arranged around herself in a facsimile of a family dinner.
Empty chairs at empty tables where my friends will meet no more.
[[ Hey @retributionpriest @thepilgrimofwar, I hate the both of you so much for making me feel things about RP stories again. Big dislike. I’m going to miss your characters so, so, so much. I’m going to miss the times we RPed all together out in Suramar last year like you’d miss a limb, but I can’t wait to write new stories with you both.
Same for the rest of you. @forever-afk @stormandozone and @jonathan-nevermore-smith since your dude showed up for a couple seconds in this story.
@thesunguardmg]]
“I want to make some sort of peace before Battle. Please bring yourself and the Cards. Bread and drink to be offered.”
[A Dream settles upon Sunstrider Isle the very night before Battle. A Dream of Witches and Cards and Fate that clutches those who had beseeched to its breast.]
Plainfaced and without fantasy; just like Thanidiel. In the dreamscapes of this bred soldier is no wistfulness for places beyond what is beneath her feet, and before her eyes.
It is the same Isle that her corporal self sleeps upon. Albeit; in place of the sprawling campgrounds of the Alliance that her cavalry had penetrated with the Sunguard behind them, there is existential nothingness, with the faintest tendrils of foreboding seeping into this plane. It is like water breaking, slow and steady, through a home just abandoned. So encapsulating this scenario is of the warrior's perception of her waking world, the Duskward does not even seem to come to a realisation (yet) of where she treads.
Within her camp, Elleynah stands, almost real— she is in winter garb, solid, and soft by parts. She waits; she is still. Around her, there is more shadows than light— an early twilight to shiver within the everstill-strangeness of the Dream.
In her strained somber, the soldier brightens (somewhat) at the familiar form of Elleynah with the slightest widening of her eyes and relaxation of her jaw. Steady and resolute like always, she makes right for her in her heavy, panther-like, stride.
"I didn't think you'd actually come."
"I come when called." The voice that emerges is flat, the hands shifting to reveal; the deck of Cards, stolen from nowhere, existing for the sake of existence.
"You have need; you have the thought. I speak for fate. Ask what you will, and I shall answer."
The Oracle shifts; there is a shudder in the Dreamscape, as the creature beneath the friend-face seemed to reveal itself. Hunger is there, but not predation; the shimmering fades and the girl is once more, her eyes shining, two lights within the hood.
Thanidiel, though familiar with the Cards, has yet to witness them truly until this moment. Thus, what is earned, at first, is the predatory prick-back of her ears in what is instinctive offensive... then she processes... and thinks... and the tense cartilage begins to perk back up and relax where it will.
She approaches, but not as confident as before, when she thought herself approaching friend than eldritch entity. Still, she is not hesitant; merely adjusting her amiableness. She looks around, however, though there is truly nothing for her dreameye to focus on. Willing as her approach is, her words do not come quite so easily.
But, eventually, it all flows out with uncharacteristic honesty, and expansiveness.
"I have experienced a lifetime of what is Mine dying before my eyes, because I failed to protect such things proper.
Now, calamity consumes my life again.
I tried to part ways from Mine, but it would not sever from me so easily. Now I fear a turn of the wheel more than anything else, and the consequences that would echo in the lives of thousands beyond me and Mine should... grief take me again.
I want to know what the Cards see in the health of Bricini Lightwing in the coming weeks. Is she safer with me, or has she placed herself in danger, as I feared, by remaining at my side?"
"Worthy."
Even as the verdict is given, the Dream twists; darkness falls and rises around them, color sapped away and replaced with greyness and wither. Without moving— or, perhaps, with everything moving— the Cards and her hands quickening. They arc in strange and alien shapes, impossible for living hands to craft, and yet— they seem to whirl in both hands and all around at once, flooding the sky, wrapping around the pair like walls closing in, and yet they remain within the woman's grasp.
"Tell me when to stop."
Thanidiel, ever animal-like, and perhaps moreso within the safety of her own dreams, curls her lips in another snarl as the atmosphere shifts and twists around them.
But there is still security there, and knowledge to trust.
"Stop."
Elleynah seems to shatter as the word was uttered; the Dream was ripped asunder and torn to its base parts as the Cards grew, contorted, exploded, and became.
And as it became her reaction to this Dream, and these Cards, and that Vision no longer rung with guarded and cautious spirit.
Used to the sloughing of her own skin like an unwanted coat to take on others — She leaps into it in the way that a panther leaps across a stream that has so suddenly bubbled into her vision.
Five faces; five striking signs, that filled the world, that stretched and reached and consumed, crashing upon witch and soldier, until the world was not as it was before but instead…
Thanidiel is again a child; she is in her leathers, her face and hair threaded with dirt and leaves. She runs through a camp; it is not her camp. She races to the center, where a bonfire blazes, its smoke rising a pillar against the blue and bald sky. Yes, she is that child of past times. Yes, she is running through yet another camp, to her enemy, the brightest-of-all-things.
It is not her home; these are not her kin. Yet it is familiar. Around her, a thousand soldiers; a thousand arms and armor. She has killed some in their colours; others have been her allies. Each of soldiers elder, and wise. And... she pauses. Ever observational, ever perceptive, her dream-child-eye locks onto the masses of soldiers to catch every detail and allow her tuned memory to flare over, and over a...
...the Wheel, however, draws her in.
Within the flames, a Wheel is burning, turning, rising— broken.
Enemy.
Brightest-Of-All-Things.
Sustenance of Life; the Beginning of Consciousness and its End.
“Each turn came through great effort and skill, you were trained to be as you are. Broken to fit. Apprenticed to the forms of shattering that make strong. You struggle to let it stay dead. You have broken the wheel, but see-- it yet moves. It is more than just the remains of what was. You fuel it.”
Elleynah is nowhere to be seen, but there is black ash on the ground, and the woodland beyond the tents echoes with laughter.
Familiar, intimate laughter.
Thanidiel’s ears flick with the ache of wanting to grasp onto every beat of laughter that begins to drum through the woods, and she shifts here, and there. Animal. Not wishing to speak, failing to see its usefulness in her ancient ways of beyond-civilisation, her senses attempt to hone on something, anything, that shifts within this Dreamscape for the answer to continue its unfurling.
The laughter, that laughter.
The laughter pulls and twists the flame, and the fires roar, leaping forth to grasp and twist. From hand, to hand, Thanidiel passes. From one role to another. So easily she traverses where, and how, and who, this Vision rips her to.
It surges around, through, and into. It is explosive; it rings through her, and draws her in and suddenly she is again in the Blood and Black, and the wheel is at her back.
Unknowing of whether she would receive an answer, or be skinned yet again, and brought to a new life, her hand reaches out to the shadow of her and the cursed Wheel.
Its shadow, their shadow, shows her a body pinned to its spokes; it shows a world turned to flame. A world she knows. The shattered Silvermoon, the forest aflame. Screams and weeping.
From wildness to contained civilisation, and with it, came a sliver of the Character she had forged with the Blood Phoenix. Here, she is not content in primordial ways. The ways of Society and Government and Knights and Puppeteers have staked a new nature for this one.
Not calm, not resolved. Her hand reaches out, unsure of whether it ought to commit to its taloned curl of a fist, or open up its palm. In the meantime, it caresses the ever-present flames.
“The wheel was broken; it can be remade. Will you remake it, by choosing that was?”
The screams grow.
“War has come, and you have the chance to change what is, and was, and will be.”
The cries die down and the wheel shifts; its edge broken and the sky appears once more.
"I don't know what the world needs from me," plucked quiet from her lips right before the Wheel begins its roar yet again.
It begins to lean back, and with it, draws Thanidiel down with it.
Elleynah is drawn forth; she moves so well between these Cards, between the portends. She is swept into sunlit sheets. Her body is bare, as is that of the tawny woman next to her, whose dark hair spills over white linen. And Thanidiel is cursory to this nudity that unravels before her — so at home with the machinations of the world at itself than she is in the day-to-day of having to don skins, and masks, and clothing, and etiquette, and language — none of that was home.
Bricini smiles.
The Light returns.
Everything is warm.
“You chose this. This was what you picked, when all else was ash. When you know your history.”
It is not Bricini speaking; it is the sunlight that fills the room.
“And it chose you in return, even when you doubted. Even when you could not trust, you were given it.”
Like rain, the light drops down and showers them in white and glowing brilliance, and even Thanidiel can find laughter. And yes, she does, indeed, allow a laugh to flow with the energy rolling through her; how else could she not? All of her laughter had always been for that one, and everyone else would find the door to such a domain of Thanidiel's slammed in their face with nose broken and bleeding.
The walls fade and become pillars. The world outside written in light and sunstorm as well. The forest is gilded. The Dreamscape is quieter, now — Gods be blessed — and she is home with the forest, its weather, and the solitude of companionship.
Here, she is primordial in a different way — where there is no box of living kind's woes, and complexity, emptied into the world. Thus, her speech dies as quickly as it was drummed up.
Did she need to speak?
At all?
No, no she didn't.
This is home, afterall.
Everything meaningless, useless, and not truly her, had been left outside where the light did not shine upon them. Everything, thus far, had been a prolonged business trip that had never ended, and had never stopped consuming, and had never stopped demanding.
Now, everything is good.
It remains as Bricini pulls her closer, lips over cheeks and jaw, whispering terrible things that lend to laughter and grimaces.
“You get this. You don’t lose it,” Bricini says in her own voice, “Because, fuck you, that’s why.”
The sheets fall and they are dancing then, barefoot in a kitchen. Night swims in through a window, and there is song outside; something scratchy, from a radio. It’s terrible: raucous and goblin.
Thanidiel’s feet will not work; she keeps tripping, and pulling Bricini down with her to the floor. The mender groans, and hauls the fighter to her feet.
“Not so fast.”
It replays. It replays. It replays. Each time, she is pulled back to her feet. And, true, she trips and clumsies over, and over, and over, and over, again. Of course she would. She couldn’t calm entirely, yet. The answer isn't finished yet; she isn't assured of the safety the other would find in her.
There is no dull complacency and necessity to this new scenario around her. She is not habitually slinging on one new coat after another and acting as though she were in her element. No, there is something more natural now in the guidance that has curled its fingers around the spirit of her. This is nothing forced or obligated of her to perform and strike a role for.
The final scene is simple; the training field, where once bread was broken. Where once they spoke of simple things and domesticity, the quiet of forgotten places encompassing. Thanidiel sits, and Elleynah is there.
She was with her companion of all companions, and now she is with another. And there is no begrudging of this difference between Elleynah and Bricini; this is what she chose. Simplicity, and comfort, and home.
The girl is young and small; her hands freshly bloody, palms a basin of cuts. She looks up with two green eyes, and they are no longer young, and the two women with two ‘lost’ eyes between them meet gazes.
The soldier’s eyes, when met, is at the half-lid of ease, and its resolve is no longer fraught with fear and threat odoring the air. It is something more thunderously her and keen.
“You are not as lost as you think.
You are growing things in the cracks, where the wheel was broken. When you broke it, so too did the foundations of your inability to cope shatter. You are going to get better. You may not be better yet, but you will. Your will is strong, but your stubbornness is even more yet.
You cannot fear going forward — you cannot fear that you might lean on those who offer you their strength, while you rebuild. That’s what they are there for. Right now, the rawness is so deep you can still see where the blood oozes from the wound, but it’s scabbing. You do not wish to follow the patterns that are laid behind you, a legacy of such.
And so, you won’t.”
She listens, and she listens intently to the summation of the Cards' reading
The earth shimmers and grows with weeds and grasses; they sit for aeons as the world ages around them. And she does not blink as the world rapidly twists and shifts around her like an ever-spinning Wheel. She didn't want to shut her eyes or ignore it all as she once did, where the world was a vast sea of candles flaring in and snuffing out of existence.
Elleynah’s hands slid out, and this time… it was the young woman’s voice.
“You broke one wheel. You did it. Now, you have to make the new one.”
She smiles, and squeezes Thanidiel’s hands. In response, still knowing this was not entirely her friend, the Phoenix Guard could not help herself but to stroke her thumb down the length of the smaller girl's palm in a rarely expressed fondness.
It is enough — the Dream seems to shatter as the golden light did, save…
...in the moments between waking and not, there are the first lights of false dawn, and they make the shape of a circle across the floor; whole, and bright, and new. And that Light, and the light beyond that, calls to her...
[The first Dreamwalker wakes sweet and radiant.
Another Dreamwalker is ripped from a bleeding place in fear.
One Dreamwalker is shattered into the next life.
The last Dreamwalker is adjourned for his own good.]
First of all, huge shout-out for @jessipalooza as my roleplaying partner and as the owner of the character that has spurred my recent writings for Thanidiel as of late. I’m very glad to have the consistence of your presence and I hope there is only more opportunity to write together in the next year.
Secondly, proclaiming my love here for @stormandozone as one of the fabulous people I’ve had the joy of writing with in my time here with the Sunguard, who honored not only me, but @retributionpriest and @thepilgrimofwar, of tarot readings for our (horrible) characters. Like Jess, her character has been here for a magnificent swath of my own development with Thanidiel here in TSG. In fact, taking a couple of weeks, it’s been an entire year since my character’s last vision-reading with Elleynah and the drastic change between what was supposed to be my unredeemable hero failure and now someone with a decent fucking chance is breathtaking to absorb in its entirety. This collaborative was absolutely amazing to participate in.
Similarly, the aforementioned Lirelle and Sederis have blessed me with a whirlwind storm of not only friendship, but so much creative energy as ourselves and between each other; that I am at a lost if all of the writing we have done and will do for @thesunguardmg ‘s Phoenix Wars will suffice for all that should see light.
Thank you all.
Lirelle’s Vision: Hidden.
Sederis’ Vision: The Hanged Man
“Embershade...Daygrove...Flamewhisper...Dawnshield….Hawkheart….Brightblade.” The words on his lips had become a mantra. The return to Kris was a blur, truth be told Itrius couldn’t even fathom how he ended up back in the bed at the Sleeping Lynx Inn.
“Embershade...Daygrove...Flamewhisper...Dawnshield….Hawkheart….Brightblade… Sunshatter... “ his name on the list bought a reprieve from his devouring thoughts, but just for a moment.
“But you aren’t dead, you are here in Kris, in a bed, safe, warm. You are alive..” Swinging his fist down on the mattress he grit his teeth suppressing another scream. “Do not disgrace their name, Ours doesn’t belong there. They are heros, you are a coward. You left Allamar. You left them. You led everyone straight into hell, and you were the ONLY one to leave!”
Swinging his hand out he slammed it into the wooden wall next to the bed. The thud of an arm hitting something it couldn’t dream of changing echoed out. The ache of pain spread radiated, but that didn’t stop him. Again, and again, and again the thud rang out. “
“I am not the leader you were brother… I failed our family. I wish I was with Sunstorm against the Eternal Dawn. If they killed me my men might still be alive…” Clenching his teeth he sucked in another breath. “Irigir… Help me. What in the Sun’s name can I do? I can’t go back by myself… The Crimons won't follow me without Eclipse. And I am already out of my jurisdiction.. the Phoenix Guard won't come…”
Wetness gathering at the edges of his lashes Itrius bit his cheek. Bringing a hand to rest on the palm shaped scar seared into his skin he closed his eyes. “Sun guide me….”
Knock… Knock… Knock
Itrius couldn’t help but to stifle his growl. Was now really a good time to disturb him? Despite the mused questions he remained silent. He had no words for anyone. He didn’t want the world to witness his failure quite yet.
After a brief pause there came a second round of knocks. Just go away already! Fingertips digging at the scar as the hint of copper flicked at his tongue.
The unknown guest must have gotten the message as there was no third round. Instead the sound of soft scratching filled the room. Sitting up the paladin squinted at the space below the door. Then with a serendipitous push the folded parchment slid onto the floor.
Eyes shot wide open at the invasion Itrius lept to the floor. “Light above…” Practically falling to his feet he dove for the letter. Greedy hands pawing over the parchment to see the answer to his prayers and problems. All summed up with the familiar signature.
“Elleynah Stormsummer”
Throwing the chair out of the way Itrius tossed the letter onto the bed. There would be time for that later, now was not for idle conversation. Bringing the candle closer to the parchment he ripped a quill from its rest. Stilling his racing heart he dipped the quill away and raced the edge along the paper. Creating what could barely be acknowledged as a return letter.
Elleynah,
Your letter could not have come at a better moment. I found myself back in Kris after a nightmare return to Allamar. They are gone Elleynah, my men, the crimsons. The casualty level of the mission was nearly all. I need help, I need your Sunguard to help, someone, anyone to help. Their is a faint hope they still live, I pray to the Sun they are. If I don’t act with beyond haste they won't be though. Please deliver this to Lord Truefeather personally. You are a leader in your order. He has to listen to you…
Please, for everything I hold dear I need you.
Itrius.
Moving the first letter aside to dry the shaken man relaxed the hold on his lungs.. “Sun, please guide me.” He had spoken with the Truefeathers often. The lords of the house came by Goldsea often. They were proud of it. Breathing again Itrius summoned all the nobelity he could muster as he penned his second missive.
Archon Lord Telchis Truefeather.
My name is Itrius Sunshatter, Investigative Captain of the Phoenix Guard and eldest son of the late matron of Goldsea. I am writing this most dire letter in a great time of need. These past few months I have been on assignment in the Southern tip of Quel’thalas along the Amani border. I have witnessed horrifying oddities that have plagued this land and its people. Working alongside the local militia I had hoped to placate any threats and minimize possible incidents.
The forces at work though, are far more insidious than I could have fathomed. Entire cities have been laid waste at the feet of some dark magics. This land is caught in a war between the mindless undead, the savagery of the Amani, and now this new element of terror. People are dying, good, honest people that have done nothing but struggle to live their lives. I find the resources at my disposal inadequate to remedy the situation.
I write you not as on envoy of the Phoenix Guard, but as a Son of the Dawnspire and Lord of Goldsea. Send aid to Kris. Help me show the people of this land they are not forgotten, that they are as we are, citizens of Quel’thalas.
Itrius Sunshatter
~~~~
This is it, this is the end of the story and the call to action. One year of work 60 pages wrote and its ends here.
I want to thank my lovely wife @stormandozone for standing by me, for pushing me, and for inspiring me.
@sakialyn for supporting and helping me build this world
@felthier is being tagged for mentions.
Now its all up to @thesunguardmg to help me write the next chapter, and stop the Return of the Nightmare
