You Break, We All Break [Part IX]
YOU CAN READ PART VIII OF “YOU BREAK, WE ALL BREAK” HERE.
Their plan comes together and quickly.
Ithaerin is able to pinpoint their brother’s location, a small outpost on the edge of the area occupied by the Legion in southern Suramar. Felsoul Hold stands off in the distance, but the place they arrive to is quite a monument itself, shaped to stretch up into a sky of fel.
They figure they do not have too much time, and act like it, moving through the outpost with unhindered swiftness, something that very much alarms them but it does not deter them from their plan:
Retrieve Inthius. Kill Hantheron.
An easy enough thing, but… the unhindered swiftness, the quiet of the place… it disturbs them.
To all three Islesuns, it feels like a trap to the highest degree, especially when they come to a center chamber of some sort, a thing with a high ceiling and various walkways all centered around a central column that appears to be a lift of some sort or fashion.
“We… what the fuck?” Ildrielen asks aloud, looking around. She isn’t wrong. “Where do we go from here?”
It’s a solid question. The various walkways, the central lift, the darkest corners of the galaxy all in one place, or so it seems… where do they go?
“I… I’ve dealt with alien technology before, but this is-” Ithaerin murmurs, eyes wide with wonder.
“Out of your league?” Ildrielen pipes up, shooting a smirk as best she can manage in a grim place like this at Ithaerin, who just responds by rolling his eyes.
“Not now, either of you!” Ithanar interjects, giving them an order that seems to shut them both up. “We have a mission.”
“Who gets to kill Hantheron?” The auburn-haired woman asks, pacing down a ramp that leads to that center column. Her gaze is on a swivel, and she even raises her bow.
There’s quiet, a simmering thing at that question given the gravity of it all, but it doesn’t last too long.
“Let’s take things one at a-” Ithaerin begins to say, following her and closely too.
“I’ll kill him.”
Ithanar’s interruption draws a glance from Ildrielen and Ithaerin, who just stare at him with inquisitive glances.
“You… you will?” The youngest Islesun sibling asks, an eyebrow arched.
“Yes. You two will deal with getting-” Ithanar begins to relay the orders he’s thought out in his mind a dozen times already.
“Why don’t we just take him on all together?” Ildrielen stops him short with her statement, shrugging. “Would be easier.”
“She’s not wrong, you know!”
Silence again, but it’s a sharp and twisting thing.
“The whoooooooole family comes together! Finally!”
All three heads turn, almost in unison, as one of those platforms sinks down to their floor from high above. There’s a slight hiss that sounds throughout the lower chamber as it lands and fits neatly into place, revealing that sallow faced figure with his cropped silver hair and a frown that stretches across his face to reveal teeth.
Hantheron.
Celinth,
I’m going to be out for a week or two.
Ran a personal op. Had a bad run-in with some demons in Suramar.
Tell whoever the newest acting Ranger-Captain is. If he hasn’t kicked the proverbial goblin trash can, then great, that works too.
Ildrielen
Ildrielen doesn’t wait too long, drawing an arrow from her quiver with blinding speed, aiming, and firing a shot off that nears the mark, but doesn’t hit. No, instead of striking Hantheron, a glaive comes down out of nowhere and cuts it right at the shaft, stopping the momentum.
Something, or someone, rises from the ground, from a puddle of dark liquid. Ithanar knows what it is immediately, or at least has a clue as he watches a figure coalesce from the stuff.
It’s…
It’s ink.
“What the-!” Ildrielen barks, drawing another arrow and getting ready to unleash it. She doesn’t get the chance however as something streaks toward her, drawing cries from her siblings, but she steps back, keeping her bow raised.
The figure finally comes into being, a not-so-tall elf with a mane of off-white hair and a blindfold wrapped around his eyes, or where they would be. Tattoos shift up and down ruddy-red colored skin, obviously the trademarks of an Illidari.
The one they’ve been searching for.
Inthius.
“What a save, my apprentice!” The older magister responds with a gleeful laugh, almost manic. He claps his hands together slowly, smiling wide enough to not hide a fact that runs under the skin of the Islesun siblings who’ve come to oppose him. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, Ildrielen? Ithanar? Ithaerin?”
They know it. He knows it.
This is a trap.
All of this has been.
But what kind of a trap is it?
“Go fuck yourself, Highwing!” Ildrielen shouts at the magister who just sways from side to side, hands clasping behind his back.
“Now, now, why don’t we use more proper language here? I set the damn rules!” Hantheron replies with a cheeky smile, head tilted, waving a finger. “No, no, I’m the master now… finally, as your brother-”
“What did you do to him?” Ithanar growls, fingers tightening around his sword and shield.
“The thing I probably should have done years ago, to be quite honest! He would not learn from me then, not listen, but now… well, now he follows his orders rather well…” The magister replies, turning his gaze to the Illidari at his side.
Vynthius hasn’t said a word yet, instead staring at something… the floor perhaps?
He hasn’t moved much either, almost lifeless in his neutral stance, his skin still ruddy and red, veins showing almost with some of that Fel green energy.
“We won’t ask again, Hantheron… what did you do to him?” Ithaerin asks the question now, his own tone tinged with annoyance and some sense of anger.
“I mean, I could have him kill you but…” Hantheron states, ignoring the question, trailing off for a few moments. He reaches up to tap the side of his chin with a hand, gaze no longer set on the Islesun siblings but on what is around them…
Demons lurking in the darkness, moving in now.
This is the trip they had been waiting for, one they’ve walked right into.
“Well, I’d much rather watch than be involved in the fray. We don’t want to forget what happened the last two times you manhandled me, Ithanar!” The magister chirps up with a wink. “Perhaps I’ll come down to finish the job, or send Vynthius to grab the scraps of you, mementos he can keep.”
“You wouldn’t even give us the-” Ildrielen tries to argue, turning her gaze in a half-circle to see what threats near them.
“Last I checked none of our houses have much honor, so no, I won’t!” Hantheron almost laughs in reply, peering over at Vynthius, who stands still in the back-and-forth of this argument.
“Ithanar…” Ithaerin murmurs, gaze shifting to his brother. He doesn’t need to say anymore.
This is the trap, and they’ve walked right into it.
The demons around them begin to close the gap, or already have, coming closer…
And closer…
“I won’t go down without a fight, Hantheron! None of us will, and you know that!” Ildrielen retorts again, raising her bow and trying to aim as best she can.
“Then you’ll enjoy that gauntlet of demons then!” Hantheron almost sings in a victorious tone, turning on a heel with Vynthius in tow. They move toward the platform and as they do, the space they occupied is filled by demons, a whole host of them now surrounding Ithanar, Ildrielen, and Ithaerin…
Closer…
And closer…
A felstalker snaps its jaws at Ildrielen, and a doomguard brandishes its axe in Ithaerin’s direction.
Ithanar is the first to make his move, somethin almost out of character, but he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t have the damn time, so he takes his blade and plants it right in the head of the nearest demon, a felguard, swinging wildly and moving rapidly. His gaze centers on the platform, which slowly rises, barely catching the glance of Hantheron waving goodbye.
Fury builds.
“Kill them, and then we move!”
His words and actions are enough to break the standoff.
Chaos erupts.
Overseer,
I do apologize for my absence as of late. A personal issue took up my attention and I had to be away, some of it not exactly by own my choice.
I will return to the Doom Glaive as soon as I can, and with some interesting information I’ve gleaned from the enemy.
Vynthius
This is no cave.
The lift rises, and Vynthius Vilesun watches the chaos below.
His siblings are putting up one fel of a fight, and it all makes sense. There’s over a thousand years of combat experience between them, a dozen human lifetimes’ worth.
It all tugs at him, shifts with him, does not settle with his mood...
“Well, Vynthius, what do you think of this whole affair?”
Hantheron’s words break the Illidari from his reverie, and his body almost sways a bit with mad glee. His gaze is directed at Vynthius, but not for long as he surveys what he hopes is a victory below.
“Shall we head back up? Our Master does await us.”
Vynthius’s gaze, or lack thereof, sweeps across his three siblings and then the demons, watching the fray with teeth bared in a feral snarl that doesn’t seem his own… almost.
Almost is indeed the operative word, because the words that leave his mouth are shocking, at least to Hantheron.
“No.”
The ruse is up, his charade comes to an end.
No cave ever swallowed Vynthius Vilesun whole.
“E-e-excuse me?!” Hantheron stammers, and then stops, shaking his head. His eyes go wide as he watches the Illidari turn his gaze on him, and he takes a step back… and then another… but he doesn’t get too far as a tendril of ink wraps around his right ankle and holds on.
“I said… no…” Vynthius repeats in a deadly tone, brows furrowing. He raises one of his hands and squeezes it, making a fist; the tendril of ink seems to react accordingly.
Even as the platform shifts, Ithanar hears his brother’s words, turning his gaze up as he takes down a felstalker. He isn’t the only one as Ithaerin and Ildrielen both shoot glances up at the scene above, surprise and shock in their eyes.
“You… no, no, this isn’t supposed to-” The magister stumbles over his own words, and then looks down at the ink around his leg, and then back up at Vynthius.
“Perhaps you have gone deaf in your old age, Magister…” The Illidari repeats, reaching out to grab Hantheron by the wrist and succeeding, chuckling in a manner that could be best described as delightful and devious.
His hold only lasts for a few moments as Hantheron wrenches himself away, but stumbles and falls the floor, his face seized with a shock he had never anticipated.
“I… I…” Hantheron stammers or tries to, walking backwards and getting his robes in a mess. He’s stopped short though by the inky hold around his ankle.
“Broke me? You deal with an Illidari, magister, need I remind you? I BARELY cracked, as I warned you!” Vynthius almost roars, one of his hands tightening into a fist. He takes a few steps forward, summoning one of his glaives to a hand and brandishing it.
“I… I… no, no, no…”
“INTHIUS!”
Who said-
It’s Ithaerin who calls that name from below, which almost distracts the Illidari as he begins to take on the kill. Vynthius’s head snaps to his brother below, almost reacting in a way that someone might when a whip is snapped close enough to them.
Hantheron, still stammer, takes advantage of the opportunity. The old magister’s stammering turns into something fearful, and then he stops, unleashing a fury of fel-green fire which rushes for Vynthius in conjunction with his screams of rage.
“KILL THEM! KILL ALL OF THEM!”
Vynthius is blasted off of the platform, fel fire engulfing him and chaos erupts further as he falls.
No cave ever swallowed Vynthius Vilesun, ever kept him, ever stopped him.
The cave only contained him.
No cave constructed by a mortal man, a dwarf, or a traitorous elf could stop eons of destruction captured within a century’s worth of fury.
“Hylaen!”
“Ithaerin. What’s your status?”
“We... it’s not good exactly. We made it out but...”
“What the fel does that- where are you?”
“Do you have supplies on hand? Medical supplies?”
“Yes, yes, but who’s hurt?”
“...”
“Ithaerin, who the bloody-”
“It’s-”
Up goes Hantheron on the lift, floating away to the upper level, which draws a cry from below.
But Ithanar is on it, moving through the fray of demons and Islesuns as best he can, to the edge of the platform or lack thereof. His gaze shifts left and then right, and then right and left.
Where? Where is a-
A console.
There!
He surveys his surroundings. Ildrielen continues to provide cover for Vynthius, who did not meet his death by falling to the fel iron floor below and instead reformed using his Illidari powers, or what he assumes to be. He’s injured, Fel flame having assaulted his skin, but he’s awake and conscious.
Meanwhile Ithaerin deals with a pair of felstalkers intent on ripping his head off, but he seems capable enough.
Always has, always will be.
“Ithanar! Where are you-”
He hears Ildrielen’s yells, watching her taking aim and firing at an incoming Felstalker. Her arrow strikes true, killing the demon, as she cranes her gaze to him.
“Take care of Vynthius! I will take care of-” The oldest Islesun sibling replies, slamming the console with a hand once, and then twice, and then a third time before something hums and there’s a grinding sound. He peers up, watching as the same platform Hantheron occupied returns and quickly.
“Ithanar! Vynthius is-!” Ithaerin protests, still dealing with a pair of felstalkers while keeping an eye on his back, more importantly Ildrielen and the downed Illidari.
“Watch him then! I’ll be back! Someone needs to get Hantheron!” He barks back at them, letting out a sigh as the platform hisses as it fits into place.
Ithanar steps aboard and then watches as the thing rises. His siblings continue to take care of the carnage below, enough so that he trusts them to join him, but there’s just no time.
So many choices run through the old elf’s mind, a hundred directions, a dozen ways this could all go, but in all of them one truth remains constant.
They need to get Hantheron now.
He knows it.
Ildrielen knows it.
Ithaerin knows it.
As the lift goes higher, and higher, Ithanar catches a glimpse of Inthius, who just watches from his nearly prone position. The look on his face is one of contemplative fury, an ironic thing if there ever was one.
The… whatever his brother has become, Illidari, monster, demon, whatever he is… well, Vynthius just merely nods.
He knows it too, knows that Hantheron needs to taken down.
That’s enough for Ithanar.
That’s worth it, even if it’s the last time he ever sees Inthius.
Or Ithaerin.
Or Ildrielen.
“You’re... you’re an idiot.”
“We’ve both been awful to each other, haven’t we? After all these years?”
“We have.”
“I’m... I’m sorry, Ildrielen.”
“I’m... I’m sorry, Ithanar. I’m sorry we couldn’t figure this all out earlier.”
“Well, we still have time, don’t we? To some damn degree...”
“We’ll figure this out someday, won’t we?”
“One day. One damn day.”
Here you are.
At a precipice once again.
Couldn’t just wait until I was asleep again?
No, no, I wanted to… to… hrm, what are the words again?
Go on a whole rambling explanation about power yet again, and how I’ve failed to grasp at it?
How did you knooooow?
I keep hearing it over and over.
So will you do it?
No.
But you are going to kill him?
Yes.
You won’t be able to do it.
Then you don’t know me very well.
You do know well how well I know you.
I don’t have time for this.
This lift is moving rather slowly… you may not have time for me…
But here I am anyway.
Lurking in the front, the back, the side, the around of your skull.
You.
Won’t.
Kill.
Him.
You.
Can’t.
I’ll try then.
Then you will fail.
You think I’m afraid of that?
You should be.
I’m not.
You.
Could’ve.
Avoided.
This.
You.
Still.
Can.
No.
ALL YOU NEED-
I do not need power.
You just will not listen, will you?
Stubborn until the very end.
“Inthius!”
“Do not call me that!’
“Fine then, IDIOT.”
“Not now, you two. We need to catch up with Ithanar.”
“Hantheron is not to be toyed with.”
“I thought you called him an ‘old fool’...”
“Some old fools still have tricks at their disposal, don’t they... Ildrielen?”
“I am going to let that one go. I am so going to let that one-”
“Enough. I cannot believe I am telling my- ah, there we are!”
“Let’s go.”
“We do have a lift to catch, don’t we?”
“My lord, my lord… please…”
“Highwing. You bother me now?”
“A-a-a situation… has…”
“You would bother me with yet another failure?”
“My lord… I did not… I d-d-d-d did not foresee-”
“The last time we spoke you delivered failures unto me. I gave you ONE LAST CHANCE, worm.”
“I DID NOT THINK THIS WOULD HAPPEN. I D-D-D-D-” “SILENCE.”
“My lord… Vel’domis… please… p-p-p-please…”
“I ask again… did I say you could say that name?”
A sigh.
The hunger is somber.
“My lord… I need… I need your help with these intruders…”
“Intruders.”
“They would threaten your work… OUR WORK!”
The hunger finds humor in this.
“OUR work? You would supplement my work, fool. Nothing more than just an additional piece of the puzzle for which I have no need any further given your utter uselessness.”
“E-e-excuse me?”
“Our contract is finished.”
“No… please… no Vel’domis… don’t YOU DARE! YOU PROMISED-”
“I promised a reward for successes, not for… failures.”
“I HAVE SERVED YOU WELL! I… I…”
“YOU WOULD GROVEL AT MY FEET AND ASK FOR REWARDS?”
The sobs, the begging… they mean nothing to Vel’domis.
“We are finished, Highwing. Die… well, if you even have the fortitude to do so.”
“My lord… my looooooooord… please… PLEASE! PLEASE!”
The hunger is gone.
But Ithanar Islesun has arrived, and a hundred years of fury takes its place.