#redeemingsun

[shadowsblades]

any way you two can get married before I die of old age?

UNSOLICITED ASKS↳ @redeeming-sun​

          why? you’re not invited.

[diguerra-moved]

Arator was struggling. Today was…it was the day his parents finally returned. It was supposed to be the day his loneliness faded and his parents embraced him. Maybe that was too much to ask for. Too unreasonable a request from these strangers. They had no answers for him that he had not heard before. Had it really been that difficult to see him before now, to send a message?

He tried to put aside all of the evidence to the contrary. Struggled to feel as though he was no more than a burden to be put to the side in favor of an endless war. Yet he thought of Light’s Heart and the message that was sent to Azeroth, to be activated by his presence, but containing little more than a warning for others.

He thought of Lothraxion and the Aurubos. How close he had been to the ship, and the Army that came from it to defend the Netherlight Temple. So easy for the army to come to the defense of other followers of the Light, but what of his parents? Had the always had the ability to travel like that?

Arator scolded himself for being so upset at them, his long lost parents. Even if they could have sent a message, or visited him, to feel he was owed any of that was childish. To think he had the right to demand it when their work was so very important. Much more important than one child.

Yet it still hurt. Would always hurt. Even if he believed it unreasonable, and tried to convince himself his abandonment was necessary.

All his doubting did was make their reunion that much more difficult. He expected too much. Placed too much importance on his own wishes. There was no time for bonding. Now was the time for war, and it was never far away.

Already it had visited the Xenedar. He had witnessed Light’s Heart being returned to the Prime Naaru Xe’ra, only for her to be destroyed. Being in Xe’ras presence had been…nice. The warmest sensation he had felt this entire trip. Witnessing her was like being bathed in the radiance of a rising sun. He had felt as if anything was possible.

It did not last long. His awe had quickly become horror as he witnessed Xe’ra’s attempt at forcing destiny upon Illidan. That was not what destiny looked like, nor was it right. The Light, for as wonderful as it is, was not something to be pressed upon another. For it to be benevolent, it had to be willingly accepted.

He felt stupid for questioning the actions of the Prime Naaru, but less stupid when she exploded. In just the span of a few minutes, Arator went from knowing very little about naaru to knowing that they could be wrong, and could be destroyed.

Turalyon, his father, had immediately attempted to attack Illidan afterwards. His fury still permeated the ship even now after the fighting had died down. The High Exarch was now busy with the other members of his army, attempting damage control and trying to figure out what their plan was next.

Alleria, his mother, was much harder to get a read on. Whatever she was feeling was being kept close to the vest. Shock was certainly worn on her face but little else. Arator hides his own protests when she excuses herself to tend to matters elsewhere.

They are both busy again. Busy with their own plans, their own wars, and though he traveled here to see them, to help them, he feels as though he is simply a burden. He does not stop them from doing what they must, he never will. However, he does decide to find something for himself to do.

Perhaps he would travel down to Argus and assist the Highlord. If he was on the ground and fighting the Legion, then at least he was engaging in the same war as his parents. Might give him something to talk with them about.

Before he would decide on his next action, Arator went about exploring the ship. It was beautiful and alien, yet the warmth from the light it permeated familiar. He was curious about it’s secrets and went about slowly exploring them. He explored without concern or care, doubting there was a single threat on the ship. Even the shadows in the dungeon were explored, though he did question the need for dungeons.

Arator was returning to the bridge when he noticed something in the shadows. A place people might not normally look and only the insatiably curious had a chance of stumbling upon. This was probably why they chose it. That and who among a ship of paladins and lightforged would look into the shadows? Only one who had a habit of finding those broken and seeking redemption.

Though she seemed to have picked this spot just to hide. Though a small ball in her hiding spot, he still recognized her golden hair as his own. She did not see him, could not with her face hidden. Arator knew he should leave her there, to deal with those emotions she clearly wanted to hide. He did not know her well enough to help, much less to feel allowed to. A step was taken, it’s intention to quietly walk away, but once the distance began he felt certainly it would only grow if he kept moving.

Knew her or not, it was nowhere in his nature to abandon someone in need. He did not know what was wrong, or how to help, but he also knew he could not leave her to go through it alone. Arator turned and walked towards her, towards his mother, and took a seat beside her. There were no words of comfort he could think of which would ease her unknown suffering, so he said nothing. Instead he reached out a hand and placed it on top of hers.

He did not know how to help his mother, but he was certainly skilled at helping strangers, and sometimes all one needed was a reminder they were not alone in the shadows.

[diguerra-moved]

cont.

@redeeming-sun​ // arator.

“It is not fine.” Golden eyes narrowed at Alleria. Arator was upset his mother was so exhausted as to be rendered incapable of standing on her own but more upset at his own inability to do anything about it. The Light, normally a powerful weapon readily at his fingertips, was useless for him right now. It felt like a sick joke that he could not heal his own mother of all people.

“Sit down.” Arator commanded, his voice stern but caring and very reminiscent of Turalyon in his youth. If she tried to fight him on this, Alleria would find a hand on her shoulder attempting to keep her sitting down. “You need to rest.”

His mother was strong, she has always been strong, so what was happening that had left her unable to stand on her own two feet?

“Mom…” Any trace of rigidity in his voice vanished, leaving her with nothing but his golden voice and a few notes of concern. “Has this happened before?” If she continued to cause him to worry then it was highly probable that Alleria was going to find herself hugged.

Change in tone causes her to look up, less so due to command in his voice than it is because of what it is reminiscent of (he had sounded so alike Turalyon... not Turalyon now, perhaps, but Turalyon when he was young still, when he wielded in his voice that singular combination of care and sternness, concern and command, that he so often had to direct towards her when she had grown too reckless --- too willing to put herself in harms way). 

In truth, even that was not simplest of tasks it ought to have been. Battle against the Void was endless, impossible to be won once and for all; nevertheless, she had held control easily enough for so long that change in pattern was particular heavy blow, difficult to bear. Time and again, Alleria had held her ground against the harassing Void with enough easy none even suspected how strong the assaults had been growing, how much effort she needed make to keep it in check.

Alleria had not expected exhaustion that had come with being so close to Turalyon again; thought she ought to have had, truly, when the Void had always been so loud in regards to wanting him dead. Living in the same house as a family, the three of them, few moments had been of true peace (how could they be, when her mind was constantly tormented by the Void? how could she ever have peace, when it demanded her to spill her lover’s blood?). The longer it went the worse it got; and though it was not the first time she felt extremely drained due to it, it most certainly had been the worst happening yet.

( How can you expect to embrace the Shadow with the Light shining so brightly at your side?, the Locus-Walker had inquired and she had dismissed it as usual disdain towards mortal affairs; perhaps her teacher had more reason than she had acknowledged, adamant in denial as she had been. )

"I told you, it is fine.” Dismissed concerns, though there was little reason to insist in doing so; Arator would not be fooled, not in truth, and there was nothing fine when mind was so exhausted and voices persisted with particular relentlessness, eager to profit of her momentary weakening. Tries to stand before barely catching her breath, only to be kept in place by his hand; a light huff of annoyance escapes her, as if she truly were in condition to complain (yet stubbornness, her son ought to know, was a family trait). “Don’t worry about me, Arator.”

“I’ve had worse.” It was no lie, if she still sought to claim being in better state than she was in truth (could she even stand, truthfully, had she actually tried?). “And it is not a common occurrence, I promise you.”

Not yet, in the least. It would not grow to be, Alleria assured herself; she would not let it overwhelm her so once again.  

[shadowsblades]

@redeeming-sun  → continued:

Just when Arator was beginning to think it couldn’t get any worse, the Burning Legion decided to prove him wrong. Arator had a moment where he couldn’t hide his loathing of the situation as his ears and left eye gave agitated twitches. Yes because the last few weeks of near-constant invasions across Azeroth weren’t enough. Because killing the King, Warchief, Highlord and countless others wasn’t enough.

No, now they came for his home. He tried to not take it personally after all the city had grown into a launching point for the Champions to repel the invasions and was Azeroth’s best chance for defeating these demons. The people standing in Dalaran right now ran the gamut of Azeroth’s citizens; both Horde and Alliance, ranging from druid to warlock, all there to fight a common threat. So it wasn’t a personal attack it was just perceived as one and Arator felt righteous in using that anger to send them back from where they came.

The attack had not been going on for long and yet the streets were already filled with rubble. Civilians who had yet to evacuate through the portals were heading to the Underbelly to hide from falling buildings until the invasion ended.

If it ended. There was an endless stream of demons teleporting into the city from the warships, but they were easy enough to dispatch. The real problems were the infernal that came hurtling into the city, destroying the stone and throwing projectiles in their wake before rising from their desiccated rocks just so they can set everything on fire!

Despite his frustration with so many damn demons in his city, Arator did not forget to say a quick thank you for what he was grateful for; Giramar and Galadin had already evacuated the city and were safe in Stormwind. Just thinking about that made him lighter on his feet and he was quick to cleave a blazing imp in half. No matter his cheer, he had to keep his wits. It was impossible to track where every meteor was heading, not with the two dozen or so warships the Legion had firing them. So he kept moving, putting every demon he could find to his sword and keeping his ears open for any incomings.

Though it was mildly effective, it was far from a perfect strategy. Arator could not see behind himself and by the time he heard any coming from that direction, it was too late. A few close calls had already blown him off his feet, but he could still fight. To himself, he muttered “I will not die here” as a mantra. No, Arator had plans…he had dreams, and they went beyond this fight and these demons, so he simply refused to fall here.

Others were fighting the invasion as well, and Arator briefly dwelled upon how nice it was to see Sin’dorei in the city again. For them to succeed, for Azeroth to survive, they were going to need as much help as they could get.

Another wave of infernals started to rain down, bringing stone and walls with it. Arator was enough out in the open that he could turn and see where they were heading, thankfully none towards him. He did notice one heading close by, but closer to someone else. While it was entirely likely she could see the incoming threat, it was a risk he did not feel like taking. The consequences of if he were wrong would weigh too heavily upon him.

Arator was quickly at her side, only capable of noticing a few details about the elf before pushing her away from the wall and shielding her with his own body. She was short, with blonde hair and red armor. That was all he registered before being pummeled by the wall as it fell. Arator did what he could to protect her, his body covering hers as he braced himself against the falling debris. He had to stay on top of her for a moment, knowing his heavy armor would be a better shield than whatever it was she was wearing, and yet he seemed to apologize for his actions.

“Sorry! Just a moment…” His voice, normally so soft, was a low growl as he strained under the weight and waited for the sound of falling walls to subside.

          The sky has been torn asunder as far as the eye can see, the blackness that had descended with the attack ablaze with felfire against which the momentary flashes of power channelled by the magi defenders are nearly indiscernible. In this part of the city, only a handful of Dalaran’s once-resplendent spires remain. Those that do shudder and crack, threatening imminent collapse upon the people below. Already, the civilians must scramble over the rubble of ruined stores and cratered homes to escape from the hordes of demons swarming through the ravaged streets. The wreckage strewn across the ground hinders not only that component of the evacuation, but the efforts of the fighters battling to protect the people that remain. Mounds of debris create pockets of conflict, the segregation thwarting attempts to organise resistance against the demons pouring from the warships overhead.

          Cursory search finds none of the Uncrowned the rogue had emerged from the sewers alongside. Either they lay unrecognisable amidst the fallen, or their brawls have taken them elsewhere.

          Seconds’ reprieve is not spent searching for them, but for survivors. Valeera thrusts her head into the open doorway of the nearest building, hastily scanning the interior for anyone who may have taken shelter ------ only to be wrenched away. The culprit practically throws her against an adjacent structure indistinguishable from the scree it has been reduced to and pins her there. A flash of thought for the irrefutable stupidity that had led her to turn her back to the demon fleetingly believed to have seized her is drowned out by the thunderous crash that follows a heartbeat later.

          The grunts in her ear as her assailant is battered by debris ( debris that would have pulverised her, but which is reduced to jouncing reverberations by his sturdier armour ) renounce prior assumptions of his identity. Proximity enforced by the crush of rock precludes a thorough inspection, but Valeera is certain he is male, and the glow of golden eyes and smooth, pale skin mark him as a fellow blood elf, though the figure that covers hers is suspiciously broader than could be attributed to plate padding alone. Further scrutiny discovers other features less slender and elven and more rugged and human than they should be. A half elf, and a paladin to boot. 

          Of course he is a paladin ------ who else would so chivalrously tackle her out of harm’s way then apologise for it?

          The notion that she needs anyone to rescue her would be insulting...... if he hadn’t indeed saved her from being reduced to a wet red smear on the pavement.

           Gratitude can wait. “I’ve always wanted to be buried alive with a paladin,” she gripes once the cacophony abates, arms extending past his head to aid in leveraging the stone from his back, jaw clenched against the sound of the strain required to adequately dislodge what seems to be a substantial portion of a wall. Valeera clambers to her feet as soon as she is able, gratified that she had managed to keep hold of her daggers.

          Dust swells from the ruins, the home that had once stood utterly obliterated by what cannot have been anything other than an Infernal. Neither it not demons of flesh remain at the site, though the sounds of skirmish ring out from other parts of the besieged bastion of Azeroth’s defenders. “I sure hope there was no one in there,” Valeera observes grimly of the demolished house, straightening one twisted pauldron back into place atop her shoulder and brushing dirt from her hair. 

           Eyes appraise the paladin as she does. Definitely a half elf, a large and now a somewhat dented one, young and as harried as the rest of them but apparently uninjured thus far. “I owe you one. Didn’t see that Infernal coming.” Loath as she is to admit to such negligence. “I’m Valeera. Do you have a name?”

[diguerra-moved]

♥

@redeeming-sun // arator.

Alleria did not feel at ease with peace. It was too foreign a thing now, drenched in war as she still was (as she felt she had always been, always would be, for it followed her for too long for her to be separated from it now). Stormwind’s sky was a beautiful shade of blue, cloudless, sun shining bright, streets filled with a myriad of people as different as the races which composed the Alliance. It was a welcoming city, if it was not home --- maybe it would be, one day. As was, she still felt out of place, a warrior without a war to fight, a daughter of Quel’thalas in a human city, a creature of forests entrapped by stone walls, a creature of the Shadows surrounded by so much Light (Light in its best form, as well, Light as it should be, Light that was not an oppressive force).

His company allows for brief relief from such concerns, though she is uncertain whether because she feels more at peace or because worries of different nature overwhelm her. So long had she (they) waited; and yet most insufferable wait had come not in the thousand (decades) apart, when worlds had stood between them. No; being so close, seeing him again, and yet having to wait longer still for a moment of respite had been to her much more difficult a task than thankless years in the Twisting Nether. Here they were, though, at last together, at last to begin bridging a gap she dearly hoped could be bridged. Silence is not all heavy, though there is hesitance permeating it; they have spoken before, surely enough, but not just them two. Alleria knows not how to break it without going straight to the point, without returning to discussions they have yet to properly have -- and so she does. She, who has left child behind, owes him in the least this; but this she would give him without second thought, this and all effort she was able to make to be again part of his life, to be his mother, if he would want her still. “ I am immensely happy to be here at last.”

Fear still has a hold of her heart, nevertheless the relief of the reunion has yet to fade, if it would ever (it brings her joy in the most bittersweet of ways, to see him grown, to feel such pride and such regret towards her son). Does he know just how much she loves him? How much she always has? Alleria wishes she could find the words to say it, to explain just how much he means to her; does not know if there are even words that would encompass all of it, and if there are, does not know if she would be able to say them. In time, perhaps she would; they had yet much to heal, only beginning to mend life-long hurt. “Yet I know--- I understand returning does not solve everything.”

“I don’t know where to begin, though.” Gaze falls to the stone ground, uncertain as to what to say next. “ There is much we have yet to speak of, Arator.”

[warwaged-archive]

@redeeming-sun // ARATOR.

There really was something bothering him. If Arator had ever seen the value in deception, he might have learned how to hide his more tumultuous emotions better; but he hadn’t and so he didn’t.

The time he had spent getting to know his mother was wonderful. Just as his father and he had bonded, so had he learned more about Alleria. He was grateful for that and grateful for her. The two most important people in her life and they both trusted her.

And he still trusted her but…what was bothering him was: could Alleria trust herself?

Even a year ago when she had returned, people had been unintentionally undermining their relationship. Paladins were no friend to the void, but they were friends to Arator. They had been happy for him that his parents were back; mostly happy about Turalyon, for the words they reserved for Alleria spoke only of concern. Fear with how she dabbled in the void and could she truly be in control of such a malevolent force?

They were rarely shy about discussing these things in front of Arator and seemed eager to get him to participate in the conversation and to agree with them. He didn’t believe it was done maliciously but just in an attempt to voice concern for the young man. Many of the paladins among the order had watched Arator grow up and felt as though they, too, were his parents.

But nothing bad had happened. Their concerns slowly started to vanish, at least they didn’t talk about them so loudly, and it seemed as though all would be well.

Then came the nightmares. The visions of what Alleria Windrunner was capable of doing to her own son and husband. Paladins did not fear death but her actions had been worse than outright killing Arator…no, she had murdered Turalyon before giving her son to N’zoth as though he was a feast to be savored. She had given up his soul to an Old God.

Even without knowing their opinions on the visions, Arator struggled to accept that what he was seeing was false. Lies. Something that would never come to pass. Everyone else was less quiet now. More insistent that Arator avoids his mother to keep himself, and his soul, safe. The idea that, after missing her for so long, he could just avoid her was laughable…and he only considered it because of the nightmares. Because, even when awake, he could still feel those teeth nipping at his soul. Was knowing her truly worth risking such a horrible fate?

And now…with what Jaina had talked to him about…it was getting more and more difficult to tell if Alleria’s actions were her own or being motivated by the voices in her head.

Arator was desperate to talk about this, and to find the best option going forward, but there was no way he could tell his mother. She didn’t need to know what people were saying for, he feared, it would only cause her undue worry.

“It’s nothing I just…” Don’t want you to feed me to N’zoth. Nope. Can’t say that. “How goes your hunt?” Yes, deflect to a subject that he worried about but he could discuss with her. Perfect! “Do you have any leads on where Sylvanas might be?” Leads that she had discovered through the means of torture…

“When you find out where she is, I would like to come with you. I think…she would be more willing to talk to me.”

Deflection may well have been looking into a mirror. Hers tended to be more brusque, avoidant more so than deflective in truth, yet Alleria ofttimes did the same when for some reason unwilling to speak but mindful not to hurt --- a wonder, she had to think, that he would care to spare her feelings at all in face of what bothered him in truth. In that, clear what he had not inherited from her, kindness seeming unending, careful even when others would deem her undeserving of it.

If his choice of a topic is in some way well meant attempt not to touch upon sensitive matters, he does so all the same. Not unexpected, however; there’s been plenty of controversy surrounding the methods they had employed, though Jaina’s tattling had ultimately amount to nothing. The lack of surprise means she is well prepared; and thus, when he brings up Sylvanas, there is no visible indication of just how sensitive a matter that may be.

But what follows is not questioning nor condemning of her methods --- worse, it is the most absurd request she has heard in all too long life. It takes less than a heartbeat for her to shoot back answer.

“Absolutely not.” Arator and Turalyon, terror branded in their expressions. Arator and Turalyon, skin ashen and gray and dead, dead like they were. Corpses, then skeletons, then dust, then nothing, nothing so much worse than even the emptiness of the Void. Outraged huff only furthers disagreement; there was much and more Alleria was ever willing to let go of to do instead what son wished, but this was no such matter, and answer was final. Arms crossed, blue-green gaze upon him unthreatening yet resolute. 

“She won’t talk to anyone unless she believes it will save her hide, and this time there is nothing in the world that can save her.” Sylvanas knew that, of course; after all she had done, there would be neither pity nor mercy for her, neither from Alliance nor from Horde --- not even from her own sister. 

Alleria had allowed her to live once; that had proven to be one of her worst mistakes.

Anduin demanded them to capture her alive, and such was her intention, but if it was between killing her or letting her free, she would not hesitate to do what she ought to. What she ought to have done. What she hadn’t.

Her own sister. Sylvanas had been the moon to her sun, bestest friend and greatest rival, one she had fought as often as she had defended. Her sister. They had been so close when there were four; and Alleria loved the youngest two, dearly, endlessly, but it was the second eldest she had trust with hopes and fears, more equal than little sister. 

Her sister, murderer of thousands.

I have already lost a sister. I won’t lose anyone else. 

“This isn’t up for debate.” Ears dropped slightly, heart aching in so many ways she refused to acknowledge. As far as she was concerned, even Turalyon wouldn’t join her in hunting Sylvanas. That she may not be able to prevent, but Alleria would not have her son endangered also. “We’re not hunting her to talk to her, Arator. The time for talking has long passed. Sylvanas ought to face justice for her deeds.”

[warwaged-archive]

@redeeming-sun // ARATOR.

So lost in his worries was Arator that he did not notice her waking at first. With one ear on her and the other on the entrance of the cave, he was supposed to be on lookout. But here he was with his mind on Theramore and completely distracted. Theramore, where his family was. His friends.

It wasn’t until she spoke that he was pulled from his fears and (thankfully, perhaps) given something else to think about for the time being.

“Name’s Arator.” He said it in Thalassian, albeit with an accent other elves might find unseemly. Though it was his first language, common was so prevalent among the Alliance that he rarely had a chance to use it. Arator moved closer, bringing with him some water. Like her eyes, his also glowed golden from the restored Sunwell, albeit with less luminosity. Not as though it mattered in this cave.

“Oh, please, don’t try to move. I did what I could to keep you from bleeding out but, admittedly, it wasn’t a lot. You should try to stay still, lay down.”

His concern for her reopening her injury was well founded. When he had found her, Kelantir had been a mess of injuries. Her ribs cracked and bruised from blunt force, numerous shrapnel entry points, and even some burns.

Arator did not have the skills or abilities to fix it all, and instead had to play at triage to keep her alive. The most severe injuries tended to first, including a large opening in her abdomen. He did not have the tools to stitch her up, but he could pray. They were answered which resulted in a thin layer of skin over a renewed abdominal wall. The amount of blood he had found her laying in suggested something vital had been nicked, but her being awake was proof enough to him that that, too, was now mended. Even if thin.

“I’m sorry. What you really need is a priest. Someone with proper experience.”

Arator passed her the water skin and wondered Why did he help?

“They would have killed you.” It seemed pretty simple to him. He saw a death he could prevent. “And I figured…I had more in common with an injured elf than a laughing orc.” It really had been stupid of him to act impulsively on instinct and bias but his only other option had been to abandon her. His mind was already a mass of conflicted and confused emotions. Deciding to help her had just been…his need to help his family yet being unable to get to Theramore. He could get to her, though. And she was someones family.

“I don’t…there’s nothing I want from you other than maybe knowing why they were trying to kill you.” It was confusing to him that many had gathered to celebrate their victory in Orgrimmar but during all of the fireworks, down the road, there were soldiers assassinating their own people.

For a moment all she does is listening, watching, judging what she deems to be truth; but he seems to not be lying, and that he questions why were they trying to kill her is enough indication he knows very little of situation he had stumbled on, as is his description being merely injured elf and laughing orc, as is odd accent she can’t quite place but knows not to be one of her homeland. Anyone with the Horde would have known Malkorok to not only be one of Garrosh’s Kor’kron but their leader. Alliance so close to Orgrimmar seemed odd a thing, specially after Theramore, and she has to wonder if he is Alliance in truth, to care so for Horde blood.

She takes the water, then, only then realizing how thirsty she had been. Perhaps she trusts own judgment too much, not to suspect poison of any sort, yet Kelantir is certain there would be very little point in going through such great lengths to save her life only to kill her. 

What she needed was Silvermoon, where Liadrin would have taken care of her injuries, where Halduron would be able to perhaps rightfully say an I told you so; what she needed was home. That, of course, could not be; home was far away across the sea, and if she was lucky enough to reach it alive, she may as well damn they all should the Warchief learn they had aided a traitor. Heart aches further at that, at being kept from those she loves so, from having failed her duty, too, for it was her place as commander to endure and keep her forces from suffering at Garrosh’s hands, and now there is naught she can do about any of it. Breaks further still as realization dawns on her that neither Liadrin nor Halduron expected her to go home ever again. They would believe her dead. 

For now, the best she could do was let them.

The sin’dorei does as suggested and lays down again, another generalized round of pain as she does, but laying still alleviates some of it. Convinced he was not Horde, there should be no harm in speaking the truth, either. Besides, he had rescued her.  “I owe you much. My life, in fact. So thank you, Arator --- answering that is the least I can do.”

She does not try to look at Arator then, content to watch the uneven stone ceiling. “To put a complicated situation simply, they tried to murder us because we are traitors.” No shame in claiming to be so, for once; she would rather death a thousand times over than to be supportive of that monster. Frandis had seldom spoken so bluntly, but she thinks he would not have minded that she named him so as much as she did herself; in some form, it was the smallest of ways to honor his memory, and the only one Kelantir was able to. For now, she thought; but justice will be his yet. “--- There was someone else with me. A friend. He... didn’t make it. I would not, if not for the Light.”

“And your intervention afterwards, that is.” When she faced Arator again, she did so frowning. “We spoke against Garrosh, so his dogs were sicked on us.” 

[terraforged]

💔

My muse coming to yours after they’ve been critically injured.

The void had sunk its claws deep into the Black Dragonflight– deep enough until the effects rooted into the marrow, into the core of all they were and all they might ever be, though it had been in his hubris Wrathion believed himself impervious. He had, after all, worked tirelessly to find ways to cast himself aside from such afflictions and yet…

And yet, in the end, he was just as vulnerable to the accursed force of it.

Whispers he found sanctuary from, distance even as N’zoth hunted for what it thought would perhaps be little more than a new pet much like the one Old God had lost all those years ago.  There he finds his resilience where his kin did not, but against the twisted assault of minions who commanded crawling darkness he is no better and it was a lesson he had learnt with more than a nip of unease.

At least this time the cost is not so great, at least this time he did not find himself subjugated as if he were some stray dog to be chained and prodded. Tears to flesh and scales were trivial by comparison to that, to watching the failed catastrophe of dragons butchered in the name of Nefarian’s legacy. His legacy, he supposed, in the way he had pulled the sins of his flight close unto himself to seek redemption for them.

Here, now, is but another drop in the unending sea of ichor to his family name as he had stood with Alliance and Blacktalons alike against entourage of corrupt minions that had sought claim over this land though had been inevitably pushed back. Always would be were it that he had anything to do with it, even when cost had been torn into him by leviathan of a void beast that he had set to with with outrage of magma and thunder both, wreathed together in a violent sort of brilliance for all it had not been enough to stop wicked spell writings its mark to foreleg with flesh rent open near to bone, scales scattered with outraged hiss.

In the end he hobbled back, ignoring the way blue clad soldiers skitter way from drake, seeking not aid (not from any here, never from them) but instead the little paladin at the forefront of Alliance troops. 

“Well,” is silken croon, body heaving as he jostled to lay before the little mortal, wing tucking to shelter wound even as blood pooled on dew covered grass. “That was rather a debacle, no? In future perhaps you should reach harder for that dear Light of yours, it was more lackluster than when last I saw it used.”

Though he supposed the comparison was a wholly unfair one, that Arator was merely doing the best he could with what he had.

Weren’t they all?