"You're not going to like this." Garris pressed the report into her hand, leaning his hip against the desk Lirelle had claimed as hers inside the Emberhearts manor.
"Have I liked anything that's happened in the last two weeks?" With an almost imperceptible twitch of her eyebrow she unfolded the parchment, the barest signs of a scowl beginning to form as she read the news.
While most of the mercenary companies hired by Nelio Goodemeber for the war had left for greener pastures with their contracts unpaid, The Free Company of Springvale had chosen to stay. Unlike the others, if they could not claim what was owed in gold, they claim it loot. villages had already been set ablaze.
"When?"
"Just. Came right to you."
"Good. Get the new blood and anyone else who wants to volunteer. We leave in half an hour."
---
Lirelle could already see the smoke curling on the horizon, grey and serpentine in the still air. The farm that used to be there was long since burnt, too far gone to save. She could hear the sound of fighting coming from the village they approached, and she tugged on her horse's reins, slowing him down. He stopped obediently with a small shake of his neck and for a moment she missed her old charger. The big stallion would have fought her and tried to pull away, just as eager as she was to get into the fray and twice as impatient.
Turning to the motley looking group riding behind her, she lifted herself in the saddle, raising her voice to be heard by even the furthest. “No doubt you've already caught wind of what is happening in the villages, and those of you with any sense will know why you're here. We are mercenaries, not common thugs, and I will not sit by and let them give the rest of us a bad name. Protect the civilians, put out the fires, I want this mess cleaned up before it gets any worse.”
Wasting no more time, she tapped her heels on her horse’s flanks, spurring the well trained beast towards the village. She felt the surge as the claws around her arm crystallised, heard the whoops and yells that erupted from behind her as the rumours about her that floated around camp were further fueled. Lirelle didn’t need to turn around to know what she would see; the disorganised mob splitting apart with terrifying efficiency to surround the village, her veterans showing the newly absorbed recruits how they worked.
Ahead she could see one of the mercenaries, bloody sword in hand as he slammed his fist against a barricaded door. He looked at her as she bore down on him, confusion and anger crossing his face before being replaced by fear as she impaled him, raising his body as the inky shards seemed to drink deep of his blood. His eyes rolled white as he sputtered and she tossed his body away behind him, nudging her mount to avoid a burning cart. Around her Lirelle could hear yelling and screams as the rest of the Crows engaged, the disoriented shouts quickly turning into calls to retreat. Her lips twitched in grim satisfaction; she knew there would be no escape.
As the streets narrowed, she dismounted, sending her horse off to safety with a click of her tongue, the sound startling a pair of mercenaries as they exited a house, their arms full of whatever possessions that had managed to scrounge up. “Look somewhere else, this one’s empty. They don’t got shit worth anything,”
Lirelle responded by slashing across the woman’s throat, the red that bubbled up running down in dark rivulets to pool in the looted silver bowl held in her arms.
“What the fuck are you doing?” her accomplice yelled, his sword held too high as he charged at her. She simply stepped to the side, raising her hand to catch his arm as he swung. Twisted bark bit into skin as she twisted the limb, flickering ink pouring over him as wounds she had previously erased from her body appearing on his, each of them returned tenfold.
“W.. witch,” he gasped, hands scrabbling against her for purchase as he sunk to his knees.
“Worse,” Lirelle’s face cracked in a rictus grin as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Death.”
The nights always felt the longest. She had never been one to keep normal hours in life, but now she felt no tiredness, no subtle calming pull of sleep. They had provided her with a bed, a courtesy no doubt, but useless. These days, she preferred the solitude that could be found amongst the trees, away from the padded tents, the soft voices around flickering fires. Away from sympathetic words, suspicious eyes, away from the tension. Her feet always led back here, to the clearing she had claimed for herself, to the seat of gnarled roots worn smooth and shiny from hours sat waiting for missives, or for those she called.
Lirelle pulled the cloak tighter around her, the hood lifted to cover her ears. Edaril had warned her well enough to protect herself from the cold, durable as they were, frozen flesh was prone to damage, living or not. She didn't feel it. The cold that permeated the landscape, the fingers of frost that picked and twisted and stripped the life from the earth. She had stopped feeling it soon after she awoke, the feeling pushed into the deep recesses of her mind, the sensation discarded for things that were important. Until she had spoken to Elleynah she had grown used it it, even took comfort in it. Like touching a flame, the tears on her chest made her suddenly starkly aware of the blanket of cold she had wrapped herself in and grown so accustomed to. Suddenly the frigid air outside had seemed so cutting now that it was held at bay by curls the colour of fire. What took root that evening she had fostered, slowly like a candle in a gale. Oosaarn had called her a fool, but he stood by her as he had before. When she met Isilos he was like a furnace, radiant and bright, his words and his Light rekindling a small spark. The mark left by Taeonthrial's palm had felt like a burning brand, her anger and Illoridan's cautious suspicion leaving her with yet another little more. Ellasha had burned bright and hot as ever, and the wry jokes and laughter that Esheyn and Ithanar had brought made her almost forget what it had felt like. Until she spoke to Vaelrin.
“Lirelle is a memory to me ... an' one she will remain. Her livin', breathin spirit is not here. She died ... an' I have mourned th' loss of her departure. So don't speak to me about her. An' don't speak to me again.”
His words cut like shards of glass, tearing through her and extinguishing the precious, fragile warmth she held on to so tightly. From his response to her letter she had expected the flames of anger, fear, even revulsion. But not outright denial. Not this.
What had you wanted?
The voice of her long buried friend whispered from the hidden corners of her mind.
An embrace? A declaration of love?
There was a laugh, as cutting as it was inhuman.
Things change when you pass through the veil of life and death. Hopes and dreams twist themselves into unrecognizable things. Grief and loss sear themselves into scars that may never heal.
“I don’t know. I was prepared to be turned away, just not like that.”
He grieves for the Lirelle he lost. Do you believe that’s who you are? That death left you unscathed and unmarked? Vaelrin doesn’t think so. Death twists and scars. Not just you, but everyone around you.
“I am exactly who I was. Changed or not. I will not let anything change the essence of who I am, not even death.”
And what is that then? What makes you more than a corpse puppet held up by soul-twined strings?
“My purpose. Until that too is lost, I will remain.”
You came back to protect the ones you loved. And in doing so, became a broker of life and death. Is that really what you are?
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Because you are so much more than your purpose alone.
“I am the same Sederis, you of all people should know that.”
Thank you all for blessing me with such amazing RP! This particular story is set quite a few weeks back not long after her return, I’m just awful at writing :)
“Fury Company goes in to open the way to Wintergale and Keyes. Command unit and the Crows will extract.“
Something more silent occurred, then. Rippling through the lines. An old phrase. One the Captain had spoken before - before everything burned bright and a dark haze fell over all of their eyes henceforth.
One, two, three, twelve, sixty, one hundred, five hundred, six hundred whispers in the darkness:
The remaining brightness, it all poured outward in din, and glin, and lances, and tal’dorei.
Evening shifted into blackness.
Only the White Crow remained.
“Th’People didnae come ere t’die.”
“Then you were naive. The only reason to enter a war is to die for it.”
“Two heads’are nae worth th’undreds that joined this war for -you-, Ighdawn. Th’People ave nae reason t’fight for Theron.”
“Wintergale’s worth one thousand heads. The Alliance Commander was six-hundred, if not more heads, that would kill twice their worth another day. I made… a calculation. Four hundred of our’s to gain, and save, thousands later.”
“Ya killt everyun, ya dumb bastid. That wasnae worth it! They was family— alluh them. Ya didnae kill them for th’war. Ya killt them for th’Crows. For ya dumb fuckin sensa sponsibility t’a dead woman. Th’fuck are ya gonna do after this? Come back an try t’act like ya some landowner? Like th’People can really make it there? Naena us gonna want to follow someone who uses us up like firewood.”
“I’m not expecting an ‘after.’ And our People can stay in our mountains.” comes out level - distracted.
She hadn’t been listening to Ciril - not really. There was other things to do. Too much dead or gone to pile their names. So she was working backwards. Counts of all of the units that survived were coming in from the diminished campfires of her army. Taking those, striking the names from the whole of the lists - the remainder would constitute those that required word sent back to their loved ones. Dead, or M.I.A.. Basically dead, at this rate.
The blood and ink kept gluing the pen to her skin. Difficult to shift from line to line. Annoying; grating. At least what was on her hands, was old. She could feel fresher crimson oozing through her chaussures.
“Donae say ‘our.’ Ya donae ave that right. Ya ain’t one’a—”
Thanidiel looks up.
“I’m not one of you? Why? Because you’re angry at me? Because you think I’m some ruthless prick?
Get the fuck in line.
They all hate me too, and I’m still one of them, and one of you, no matter how much you hate me too. I don’t give a fuck about how you react as long as I win this war.
Bugs you?
Get the fuck out of my face then, too. Get out of my camp, and get down onto your knees in front of whoever else is wailing tears about all of the bad things I’ve done in this war then. I did what I had to do with what the job, and my job, was.
The objective was to extract. We extracted. The Crows are our charges. We protected them. Everything else is useless semantics.
You don’t sign up for war unless you would die for it. And they all did so gladly. ”
Her eyes flit back down to the papers, another soldier, a Crow, places another scrawled status-update on the army remnants onto the table.
“We sign out then. Th’People are out. We made a mistake ere.” The diminutive other, her Kinswoman, had stood there for some time before saying that; all wild orange hair and clenched fists. Building up her little thunder.
Thanidiel looks up.
She squints.
“Then you are out. Equipment issued by the Thalassian military is to be returned by tomorrow’s dawn. The rations stay - we aren’t surrendering that for goodwill during such a time.
You all leave that same night. You all find your own ways back to Home. The rest of us will commit to this war one way or another.
Get out of this tent.”
She thinks she sees something akin to shock flitter across the dark skin of the woman’s face. Like Ciril wasn’t expecting that - the decisive apathy applied to the orders, not orders. Demands. Those didn’t qualify as orders anymore between them.
She didn’t have time anymore, for anyone who questioned the necessities of this fight - of sacrificing now for truer victories.
It is not as though she and the Lieutenant were not bonded comrades before. It was Ciril who ran and jumped over roots and brush with her, in the nights before the war, preying on the little foxes that once filled the woodland southeast of Autumnvale by plenty. And it was her and Ciril who spoke of lifetimes and things well beyond the punier worlds of the others.
But she didn’t have time for this anymore.
The sacrifice, after sacrifice, and after sacrifice, in the constant roll of the cyclic curse at her back.
It all had to pay off to something. It would pay off to something.
Those who didn’t believe; didn’t belong here anymore.
They all had to devote themselves to the art of dying, and war.
Tal’dorei.
She takes in a sharp breath at the same time as the mountain elf parts the flaps of the command tent - a pain ripping through her thigh as she stands. Still, Thanidiel performs the whole of the action and some with her chin held in that unending imperiousness.
Following after, she holds the felt high and open, her vision unseeing of Ciril as she catches Oridren and Harthen’s attention nearby.
“We need to send word to the main host for their cavalry reserves. From here on out, we’ll be replenishing the ranks under this banner with Sunguard personnel.
Fury Company is… retired, until we return to Autumnvale to rebuild.”
Another soldier approaches. Another count of those among the living in the spread-out camp-circles over the horizon passes into her hand. This one does not return to fire and food so easily.
“You have a new assignment. Go to the Crows. Let Garris know he’s ready to be seen.”
The land was dying, and there was nothing Esheyn could do about it.
She could only watch helplessly as the gilded terrain of Quel'Thalas, deprived of the Eternal Spring that had blessed its sprawling forests and rolling hills for thousands of years, languished in Winter's unyielding grasp.
It had been a slow, but steady decline—first felt in early morning, before sunrise crept over the camp of crimson tents, when the Knight's breath left her lips in clouds of frozen fog. She noticed how the grass, glistening with frost, crunched under her boots as she marched alongside her comrades, the sound deafening in the chorus of a soldier's footsteps. Her upswept brows furrowed as bright yellow leaves descended from above as though a golden rain was falling, though there were no riches to be had in this, the death throes of ancient trees that had known only the gentle kiss of everlasting warmth from the time they had been planted so long ago.
And the flowers. Once vibrant in their endless array of colors, painting a masterpiece across the landscape, now faded to dull brown as they crumbled beneath the burden of a relentless chill. Try as she might, Esheyn could not restore them to their former glory, though she remained as stubborn as ever in her attempts to bring them back from their icy graves. What little energy she had that wasn't dispensed in blood and steel and Light on the fields of battle, was spent in the warmth of her tent, where she knelt on hardened earth to scrutinize the decaying sprouts that tried, and failed, to overcome such dire circumstances.
Nature was waging a war of its own in tandem with the Sunguard's armies, and both entities were becoming all too familiar with the bitter taste of defeat.
The Knight had maintained her composure despite these setbacks, these losses, of both her fellow soldiers and her seedlings. But she was left stunned, speechless, when the Rider came, brandishing a notice of grim tidings that she wasn't expecting; news of the untimely deaths of two comrades who she had been proud to call her friends. The tears that ran down her cheeks in that moment stung with an intensity that was made over-harsh with the cold, and in her grief, she brought clenched fists to the ground to send brittle soil flying in torrents around her.
Esheyn knew that Lirelle and Sederis had gone to fulfill a more urgent purpose, that they were more than ready to die for the sake of their homeland. So too was she aware that few others were as capable of emerging victorious in the face of adversity that only the Alliance could bring upon them—they needed to step up, because who else would? But a part of her, ashamed in its selfish desire, wished that they had not heeded the call, that they would have remained with the main army to fight another day.
And as her bleary eyes gazed upon the remnants of her botanical folly, there in the semi-darkness of her tent, Esheyn wondered if Lirelle could have made a breakthrough in this endeavor, where the Knight had fallen short.
It was a question that would remain unanswered, swept up in a sobering tide of things that would never be.
No more afternoon teas.
No more gardening.
No more spars.
They were gone.
She choked back another wave of tears as she rose to her feet, turning to reach for her well-worn leather bag—the one she was scarcely seen without, half-open and overflowing with the seeds that she had tried, in vain, to grow in the frozen earth.
Esheyn would honor her friends, and their deeds, in her own way.
With trembling hands, she rifled through her satchel's numerous pockets, until she finally found what she was looking for. Two seed packets, unmarked and sealed shut, but she knew what they contained. She held her breath as she labeled each one.
Cirsium 'Lirelle'
Lilium 'Sederis'
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she tucked the packets away. Perhaps she couldn't grow anything while Winter bared its fangs, but if—no, when—the time came for Quel'Thalas to bask in the glow of Eternal Spring once more, she would be ready to cultivate new life in the name of those who had made the ultimate sacrifice.
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]]
Captain Maria Thorpe rested her hammer across her lap as she sat near her campfire. Her troops either rested or milled about the camp, sharing their exploits of recent battle. She moved a lock of hair from her eyes as she glanced back at their recently acquired prisoners. They had captured more desperate refugees from the ruins of a nearby village - blood elves looking to escape from the Alliance’s wrath. They laid near the back of the camp, shackled together, their eyes filled with hopelessness and defeat. The corners of Maria’s mouth twitched; these would make excellent bargaining chips against Quel’thalas.
The sound of rumbling came from the far distance. Maria dismissed it as coming of a thunderstorm. Strange - she didn’t think it would rain tonight. As she continued to gaze into the fire, her mind delved deeper into thoughts about the war.
The rumbling came closer.
The Alliance had their setbacks, but they were winning. The Sunguard’s commanders were being captured or defeated, one by one, like chess pieces being taken off the board.
The rumbling was coming even closer now, but she paid it no heed.
What’s more, their ally, Merik Morningstar, was winning the people over. Already the nobility was turning against each other. Their soldiers were losing heart. From Maria’s time in the Scarlet Crusade, she knew that fear was a powerful weapon. It was only a matter of time until all hope was shattered.
Shouts of alarm from within the camp conjoined with the rumbling, and by the time she noticed, it was too late.
Maria looked up to see a kodo beast, the largest she had ever seen, rampage through the camp. A banner carrying the Sunguard’s colors flew from its saddles. Alarms were already rung to alert the soldiers to defend themselves, but Maria saw several men get trampled. The rider, an equally brutish tauren, pulled on the reins, and the beast shifted to swing its tail. The spiked metal ball grafted to its tail crashed into a nearby wagon, causing it to fly end over end into a tent, crushing the unfortunate souls still inside.
A half dozen other tauren wearing heavy armor and carrying greatswords and battle-axes erupted from the nearby treeline, bellowing war cries in their native tongue. They crashed into the beleaguered Alliance defenders, headbutting and slashing and chopping. Behind them followed common Horde citizens - mostly blood elves accompanied with a few orcs and trolls - wearing padded wool and leather, and carrying wooden shields and iron swords. They reminded her of their captives, but they lacked any sense of fear - they had been driven into a bloodthirsty frenzy.
Maria fought for her life, bludgeoning anyone who came near, but it was all for naught. There were simply too many, and they had been caught completely off-guard. The kodo rider had dismounted and charged towards her, his axe aimed for her head. Maria dodged the blow and swung her hammer, grazing the tauren’s head and knocking his helmet off. The tauren barely flinched and glared at her, his piercing blue eyes contrasting his pitch black fur. He swept his tower shield at her, swatting her away like an insect. Maria landed on the ground, feeling something break in the process, and as she tried to rise to fight, she realized she could fight no more. They had lost.
-
Muroco strode over to the knight and grabbed her by the neck, lifting her up to her face. Despite their defeat, she looked at him defiantly, a sneer of contempt coming from her. Around the camp, the last few remaining defenders were being cut down by his dreadnaughts and followers he had acquired over the past two weeks.
“Damn you, beast,” Maria spat, “damn you and all your wretched kind. More of us will be coming, and soon enough your fel-sucking masters will be--”
The knight’s string of curses were cut short as Muroco crushed her neck with his hand. He nonchalantly threw her battered corpse to the ground as he walked towards the captive refugees. Breaking them free of their chains, he motioned them to move towards the center of the Alliance’s camp. They obliged, but whether it was out of gratitude or fear, it was hard to say. They were given food and water as Muroco climbed to the top of an overturned wagon.
News had reached Muroco’s ears, and none if it was any good. Lirelle and Sederis were gone. Thanidiel’s army got crushed. Cowards were allying themselves with humans. Most of his comrades didn’t have the same yearning for battle like he did. They were going to lose heart.
“You can never know bravery and strength until you’ve understood fear and defeat.”
He wasn’t about to let ape-plowing humans, their void-sucking elves, and lapdog mutts get away with this.
“When the world pushed you, you pushed back.”
The only people who ever accepted him as a brother needed his help.
“The Horde needs that kind of people, now more than ever.”
“I don’t make speeches,” Muroco shouted to the gathered crowd, “I’m not some elf in a robe hiding away with his books in a tower. My time is better spent killing worthless humans.” He pointed to the liberated refugees. “The Alliance is responsible for burning down your homes and putting you in chains. If you want to come and kill some humans too, then follow us. Otherwise, get lost - we don’t need you slowing us down.”
A few scoffed and looked at Muroco with exasperated contempt, but he continued. “The Alliance wants to come for a fight? They’ll get their fight - more than they can handle! Raise your heads high and kill them all as true warriors!” Muroco roared and raised his axe to the sky, and his dreadnaughts followed suit, followed by the the rest of the group. Most of the refugees joined them, the fear and hopelessness they felt melting away.
The urge of battle surged through Muroco like a raging volcano. He was going to snuff out the ‘Reborn Kingdom’ in its infancy. He was going to find that backstabbing little peacock and snap his neck like a wishbone, then use his body like a club to beat down anyone else who was dumb enough to betray the Sunguard. He’d crush their agents, tear down their banners, burn them to cinders, stomp on their ashes, then come back north and finish off the rest of the worthless Alliance cretins looking to get smashed in the teeth.
They were on the losing end, but all of that was about to change.
When this war was over, the Alliance would know Muroco’s name for decades to come.
This story takes place in the near future, after various events in the Phoenix Wars.
They were supposed to come visit.
They were supposed to come see the Isle.
Ithanar reflects on this shattered promise, this broken pledge. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.
There’s some solace in knowing it isn’t his fault-
No, that’s bullshit. The fact that it isn’t his fault doesn’t matter. There’s no way to spin this otherwise.
They’d never have the chance now.
His frustrations spring forward in the form of a cigar tossed angrily to the ground, to the dirt, and he stomps on it to keep any sort of blaze from roaring to life. It’s a hard and rough motion, one that ends with a grunt and a well-placed word:
“FUCK.”
The trees flicker and flutter, and there’s the caw-caw of crows flying away along with other birds, some more silent than others. His scream is a ripple in the pond that is the war camp, but it is something that was coming for some time whether it was Ithanar or another. The old elf decides to not interrupt any further and retreats to the safety of his tent, pushing through the canvas and just looking about.
There’s a helplessness to the way he looks, to the way his form trembles.
This shouldn’t bother him. This shouldn’t-
Bullshit.
Two years of knowing Lirelle and Sederis.
Gone. Just like that.
It’s hard to reflect on the good times, the moments they had all shared together as friends, in the wake of their death.
Perhaps he hadn’t known Sederis too well, but they had nearly always been cordial with one another and in agreement on most martial matters. The red-haired elf had been Ithanar’s sort of person as a fellow soldier, someone he could trust and fight alongside even in harrowing situations.
He had considered him a friend.
Lirelle was…
She had been a friend, someone who had seen him battered and bruised and always able to bring him back, to help him in her own fantastic way. Perhaps she chided him for brash actions here and there, but it was worth it.
She had always been right.
Such rationality often is lacking in times like these, and now-
She’s gone.
He’s gone.
It eats at Ithanar.
He collapses down to a stool in the tent, just staring down at the ground.
Tears don’t come. They haven’t for years.
It’s just a hard and long look at the dirt and grass below, his form shivering.
This shouldn’t bother him.
It eats at his very being.
He’s nearly six-hundred years old and most of it has been spent in wars.
On the front lines.
Cradling the corpses of dead friends and family with bare hands.
But this is different.
Lirelle? Sederis?
They were supposed to come visit.
They were supposed to come see the Isle.
Now everything burns.
Ithanar knows death won’t be his armageddon. It comes for every soldier, every warrior.
No.
It is the loss of friends, of such magnificent lives gone whether in a blaze of glory for their grand kingdom, or in vain as Quel’thalas crumbles.
