Tyran looked across the Great Sea, at the smoldering husk that once was the World Tree. He had always been calm when out of combat, the cold battle rage that usually took control would be a distant creature. Now though, a cold searing hate festers below his neutral mask. The tree had been burning for hours now, and showed no signs of slowing, the flames voracious as it ate through the great boughs and roots.
He was there when his wife blessed the tree, centuries ago. It stood against the test if time and strife,, but in just a short few days, it is gone. And possibly for good. When Sylvanas had ordered the attack,, he wished for blood. Oooh how he wanted to bury his axe in that wretched witch. Even Pa'chua, the ever calm and silent, had that raging ember of hate his his eyes, the Tauren even struck Sylvanas with a Hammer of Judgement before he was subdued by Nathanos and some half dozen orcs before he did anything more. Saurfang was needed to calm down Tyran and Pa'chua, he shared the anger, the distrust,, but they needed to wait.
Tyran stood at the shoreline, ashen waves crashed over the sandy beach, muddy ash beginning to coat his greaves before he moved away. Though he came across an elven body, a young female with white hair.
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A young night elf, she still had a slight plumpness to her face and frame, she would be seen as a youth by her people. She was slumped over, a bush of blackened arrows grew from her bent back, dried blood coated her leather armor and clothes, her pale shock of hair was marred with mud and sand. Another casualty of this accursed war.
Tyran sighs and he slowly kneels down by the body, his gauntleted hand lightly grasps the young girl's chin, lifting her up to look in her face. Those usual glowing eyes were colorless, blank, empty, but the old aging dragon could sense the parting emotions and feelings. Sadness, despair,, longing,, and apologetic? Tyran frowns slightly, the thick brows knitting together. Who was this young child apologizing to?
"Perry? Perry! Where are you? Peregrïn??" Tyran looks up as he hears someone shouting, and spies,, Khadgar? His robes are partially singed, as he has ran through fires, his hair slick from the sweat running across the man's brow. Tyran was about to respond when Khadgar spies him first, and the body beside him. Khadgar loses what color was left in his face, eyes wide and vacant, before they fill with rage.
"Khadgar, what are y-" Tyran has barely time to finish his sentence before a massive Arcane bolt slams into his chest and sends him tumbling onto the beach. The wind knocked from his lungs and his head spinning, Tyran tries to get back on his feet, trying to breath in the hot air.
"You beast! I trusted you! How could you do this?! Why did you kill her??" Khadgar swings Atiesh, another large anger and grief fueled Arcane bolt is flung at Tyran, who this time is prepared for it. Tyrannastrasz may be ancient, but he can still use magic and has taken worse.
His large hand catches the bolt in the air, the unstable magic twitching and crackling in the tight grasp, wishing to detonate, to tear apart reality. Tyran growls low, as he focused on the magic, slowly dimming the power and light, rending it harmless.
"Khadgar! Calm yourself boy, you know as well as I do I do not kill innocents. What Kaldorei warriors who attack me get knocked out and cast aside to be picked up later. You know this boy!" Tyran raises his voice, shaking his slightly smoking gauntlet, pin and needles dancing over his flesh.
The mage pants heavily, his eyes still wide and jittery, but he is starting to slow down, his racing mind beginning to gain more control and calm. Tyran slowly removed his helm, moving towards the white haired mage, but is moving carefully and slowly.
"Khadgar, Peregrïn,, this is Peregrïn?" The old Orc indicates to the still slumped over night elf body, Khadgar visibly shaking before giving a nod. Tyran sighs gently, his eyes down cast before beckoning Khadgar over. "Come then boy, I will need your help with bringing her soul back into her body. She is an Adventurer like myself, there is still time."
Khadgar blinks gently before more or less stumbling over to the body of his lover, Atiesh almost forgotten and clattering to the ground. "W,wait, what do you mean? She can be,, saved? But I thought,,?"
"Ha, you forget sometimes that I do still wield power from my lineage. But I need your help to guide her back to her body,, and to remove the arrows from her back. I know this will be,, difficult, but I need you to focus on her, you have to."
Khadgar nods earnestly as he kneels down beside Tyran. The Archmage knew for some time who Tyran was, and had multiple times asked for the aging Dragon's aide over the years since their first encounter in Outland. Now the Ancient needed Khadgar's help,, to save his beloved.
"I am going to hold her steady, and I need you to remove the arrows. And careful, they might still have toxins and poison on then still. One at the time " Tyran spoke gently, but steadily as he gingerly moved the limp body of the Night Elf around, so that the Mage could get at the arrows. The white haired mage clenched his fists, taking a slow shaky breath, trying to steel himself,, before removing the first arrow, using both his hands and a bit of magic.
Clitter, clatter, clitter, clatter. All the beach could hear was the ashen waves crashing on the shore, the hot breeze coming from across the waves, and the wooden arrows clattering onto the boulder underneath the trio. It was this for many minutes, as Khadgar tried to remove the arrows without making too much damage to Peregrïn's body. But it is soon done.
"That's,, that is the last one. Alodi's beard,," Khadgar shudders as he sees the vast network of scars and spread of poison over Perry's back.
"Boy. Focus. Now, I need you to hold her head, both hands, that's it. You can have her rest in your lap to make it easier, there we are. Now, I am going to be using a lot of Nature magic for this,, but it will be difficult. Given,, well,," Tyran instructs the mage before glancing across the sea to the remains of the tree.
"Yes,, some of the Druids have said that the balance is,, tipping."
"Ha, that's the gentle term for it. Bare with me now." Tyran breathes deep, closing his eyes while unbuckling and removing the heavy plated gauntlets, putting them into the blood soaked sand.
The large green hands are scarred and coarse, the nails cut back and trimmed close to the digit, the palms are scrapped and worn smooth. Ever so gently, Tyran places one hand on Perry's forehead, the other on the middle of the chest. As Tyran exhales, yellow starlight begins to trickle out o his maw, brilliant points of light racing along his arms to his hands. Across the sands comes fireflies of gentle greens and emerald, coalescing in the palms of the ancient warrior.
Khadgar had seen numerous times Druids and Priests healing others, but very few resurrections,, but they are usually more public, dramatic, with chanting of hallowed Psalms or ancient tongues. This feels,, more intimate, personal. No words are spoken, no grand gestures. Just,, flow of energy.
Tyran's eyes are screwed tight, rumbling lightly under his breath, the flow of starlight has stopped and his hands are wreathed in clouds of the fireflies and golden light. As one, he presses the hands down into Peregrïn, feeding the magic into the cool limp body. "Speak her name boy. Call her back from the beyond." Tyran spoke gently, still trying to control the wild magic in his hands.
Khadgar blinks rapidly before looking down at his lover, the one woman in the world he couldn't be without. "Peregrïn. Peregrïn,, please come back. Please come back."
The magic flows into the body, sewing flesh back together, mending bones and nerves, leaving all but scars behind. Color returns to the skin, warmth spreading throughout, warming up Khadgar clammy hands slowly
Then her eyes open, pure and pale starlight.
