#sethrion

[darignis]

— Holy stars. I made some stickers.

[darignis]

— Missed me? Im back with somebody’s character. 

[tentaclepriest]

“Well.” Rythien grimaced and stretched as best he could, trying to ease the ache in his hip. “That went poorly.”

Sethrion didn’t even lift his head from where he lay half-naked and sprawled out on the cool marble of their kitchen floor. “At least we all survived. Many did not.”

He closed his eyes. Light, yes. So many–Alliance, Horde, Crusade, they were cut down. Even Wrynn fell, in the end, and Vol’jin succumbed. Now we have the Banshee Queen for a warchief, and Light only knows what she’ll do once we defeat the Legion. That they would defeat the Legion wasn’t even a doubt in his mind. Lok’tar, ogar. Those were their only choices. Every day brings news of more Legion invasions, and I’m sitting here being fuck-useless! He couldn’t stop the frustrated growl that escaped him.

“Rythien?”

He huffed at his dragon-son. “It’s not you, it’s this fucking leg. Can you believe what that fucking quack said?”

Seth rolled over, raising an eyebrow at him quizzically. “That you tore the ligaments and tendons so badly that you’ll need a cane even once it finishes healing? Yes, actually, because I had a fine dragons’-eye view of that incident.”

His ears flicked backwards at the memory of the pain. It hadn’t even been a war injury, not really; he’d been shadowmending from horseback, keeping Bill and Lunathiel alive, when an infernal had crashed down with a shockwave that had knocked him half out of his saddle. He’d hadn’t dared to risk dropping his blessed mace, so he’d instinctively tried to right himself using only his legs, which had been…

Well. It hadn’t been a good idea, not at all. And to add insult to injury, he’d later wound up breaking Great-Uncle Aloysius’ sacred mace across a wrathguard’s skull anyway.

“Don’t rub it in, lizardface.“

Sighing, he tried to make himself comfortable on the couch again. After a moment, he reached for the remote that controlled their radio. If he couldn’t walk or ride, he couldn’t fight. And if he couldn’t fight, the least he could do was catch up on the news.

[tentaclepriest]

the priest writes a letter

To Archpriest Windchaser and the Church of the Light in Quel'thalas

Rythien crumpled up the letter with a grimace. No, that won't do. How am I going to get ordained again if I can't title this letter right? Sighing, he turned to a fresh page.

To Archpriest Sen'thoril Windchaser of the Church of the Holy Light,

I come to you on bended knee to beg your consideration. Three years ago, I was stripped of my title and deemed unworthy of my vestments. Upon reflection, I believe the records will show that this punishment was wholly undeserved. Indeed, given the circumstances surrounding that event, an argument can be made that my defrocking ran counter to the tenets of the Light. I do not ask that my former position be granted to me. I ask for a chance to earn it again.

Light be with you and yours.

Yours under the Light, ~Rythien Dawnhallow, former priest of the Holy Light

He stared at the ink, rubbing his forehead. Windchaser seemed to approve of me at my hearing, and I know he views Aethan as something lower than pond scum, but...

He knows all about you. You are weak, half-mad, twisted. You are not fit for the priesthood.

Rythien growled quietly.

Especially given your...husband. A walking corpse? A former member of the Scourge? You know how that looks. You've lost customers since your marriage was known--you think it will win you any favors here?

"Shut up, you tentacled corpse!"

Sethrion poked his head up from where he lay, raising an eyebrow at him over the back of the couch. "Are you alright, Rythien?"

He felt his face heat. "Oh, sorry. I'm fine, it's just..." He tapped his temple.

The twilight drake nodded understandingly. "It's terrible, isn't it? The voices in your head."

He tilted his head. "You too?"

Seth glanced away, ruffling his hair. "...Sometimes. I hear Father. Neltharion. He is dead, I know he is dead, but...I can hear what he would tell me to do." His throat moved as he swallowed, fixing his gaze on a spot on the carpet where Rythien had spilled a bottle of wine once.

Ryth winced. "Yeah, that does suck." He hesitated, mulling over his next words. "It helps to remember that...you don't belong to them. You're free, and you have people who won't let you be a minion." You hear that, Yoggy? You almost had me, but you won't take the kid.

"...You mean that."

"I do." He sealed the letter with a blob of wax heated and pressed into shape with a thumbprint--a bit of showing-off he knew would prove his connection to the Light. "But right now, you wanna run this down to the mailbox and I'll start dinner before Bill gets home?"

Sethrion smiled. "Sure."

[tentaclepriest]

the dragon gets a job

The flower shop just off Murder Row was a quiet little place, bright with paint and sunlight. It smelled faintly of flowers but more strongly of water and damp earth, a scent Sethrion found comforting. In the day he'd been working there, he'd discovered that the heat lamps Ms. Bloodriver used to keep the gardenias alive made for wonderful spots of warmth, perfect for basking. 

  The shop was empty now; his employer and her young daughter were still in Hearthglen, awaiting the moment it would be safe to return. Though Sethrion knew they'd been forced to flee from a nobleman's thugs, he'd seen nothing so far but blessed quiet; as he leaned his elbows on the counter, his eyes slid shut of their own accord. I'll just rest for a moment...

  The bell above the door jingled, and his eyes snapped open to see two sin'dorei men walk in. One was dark and the other was fair, but they both stank of smoke and--Seth sniffed the air--blood. He rearranged his face into a hasty approximation of a human smile, briefly wracking his brain before coming up with the words Rythien had advised him to say in case of customers. "Good morning, gentlemen! Welcome to Tara's Flowers, how can I help you?"

  The fair one looked him up and down, taking in his slender frame and slightly-too-large tunic under a shop apron. "You're not Tara. Where is she?"

  Ah. Something interesting. He kept his voice smooth and level, biting back an amused smirk. "On vacation, I believe. I'm taking care of things in her absence. Now. Can I help you, or will you be leaving?"

  The dark one stepped up to the counter, deliberately looming over Sethrion by at least a foot of height and fifty pounds of weight. "Yeah, you can help by telling us where the lady is. Her and her daughter have an important meeting with Lord Sunscream."

  Seth let himself smirk. "I'm sorry, sirs, but I cannot help you. I'm sure your lord will understand."

  "Listen here, kid." The dark one leaned on the counter, his fair companion looming behind him. "Lord Sunscream's a very important man. People who disappoint him, well...I wouldn't wanna be in their shoes. You understand? Tell us where she is and we won't have to...persuade you."

  "...Hmm." He pretended to think about it, closing his hand over the handle of a razor-sharp pair of florists' shears under the counter. The shop's too small for me to shift form, but I highly doubt sin'dorei have discovered how to be fireproof. "I think...not."

  As the dark one raised a glowing hand and his companion drew a knife, he jerked his head back and opened his mouth, spitting a gout of twilight flame. The thug tried to scream, but by the time he realized that he no longer had a functioning windpipe and no amount of frantic beating could extinguish flame which clung like jelly as it burned, Seth had already leapt over the counter and slashed his throat. 

  The blonde man--who unfortunately hadn't been in the path of the flames--swung at him. His twist spared him the sight of his own guts, but Seth felt a line of fire open down his side. The sound that ripped out of his throat was a dragon's snarl of outraged pain; on sheer instinct, he sucked in a breath and exhaled a torrent of fire, silencing his opponent's dying screams with a lunge that buried teeth in his throat. They were no draconic fangs, but they would do.

  Seth dropped the corpse like a ragdoll, shaking his head as he looked around the shopfront. Twilight flames would burn until all organic matter was consumed or until smothered by sand; there would be no corpses to bring trouble on him or the Bloodrivers. No lunch, either. Pity. Catching sight of himself in the glass countertop, he grimaced at the sight of the blood staining his face, neck and chest. I should wash up. And probably take care of the cut along his ribs; it was starting to sting unpleasantly and he hoped it wasn't poisoned.

  And then he'd go back to minding the shop.

[tentaclepriest]

"Mail, Rythien." "Thanks, kid." Settling on the couch, Ryth started to sort through the stack. Bills, bills, junk, GGWM, Arms & Armor, Bill's home improvement magazines, Silvermoon Daily S-- His thoughts stuttered to a halt, mind going blank as he stared at the first page of the newspaper, headline set in twenty-four point type. HELLSCREAM ESCAPES, LEADS ORCISH ARMY AGAINST HORDE AND ALLIANCE DARK PORTAL COMPROMISED No. No no no no, we beat him, he was supposed to be--there was going to be justice-- "I TOLD THEM TO FUCKING KILL HIM. Does anyone fucking listen to me?!" He saw red, mind blank with rage; beneath his glowing hands, the paper began to smolder. On the other end of the couch, Sethrion stared at him wide-eyed. "Um. Rythien, are you well?" He sucked in a deep breath, tossing the paper down. "I'm. Going out. I'll be back later; show Bill the paper if he asks where I am." Light fed by righteous fury needed an outlet before it boiled his blood in his veins; the training dummies in the Farstrider's Square would be acceptable substitutes for the targets he preferred. Every one bore Hellscream's face.

[tentaclepriest]

Quel'thalas technically had seasons. Unfortunately, as Sethrion was discovering, they were divided into "cool and damp," "warm and damp," and "blisteringly hot and damp." If he'd been in his true form, he was sure he'd have scale rot by now.   Sweating was probably worse, he decided. Thus far, the most effective way to beat the heat was to sprawl nearly naked on the living room carpet and take frequent gulps of water. Hydrated, it wasn't too bad, and he was almost dozing when Rythien tripped over him.   "Ack! Sorry, kid."   Seth sat up, glowering at him. The priest was wearing a bathrobe and a frown, wet hair pulled up off his neck. "Do you ever look where you're going?"   Ryth shrugged. "Sorry. You really shouldn't lay on the floor like that, people do need to walk here."   Sighing, he pulled his legs in for Ryth to pass. "Honestly, you possess an unparalleled ability to collide with things. It can't be a mortal thing; Jameston manages quite well."   Rythien made a sound like a verbal shrug, ambling past him to the bedroom he shared with the undead Seth still privately thought of as his prime consort. His voice was only slightly muffled by the closed door. "You callin' me clumsy?"   He considered this. What is that saying...? Ah, yes. "If the shoe fits."   "Brat!" It was an exclamation with no heat in it, which had startled Sethrion the first time he'd heard it; as the months went past, though, he'd realized that profanity, shouting, and mild insults were how Rythien and his clan seemed to address that part of the world they were not sharing beds with. It all seemed meant in the way Seth had learned was called "friendly."   He still wasn't sure how he felt about that. Friends, among the Twilight, were people who hadn't decided to kill you yet. And yet...Rythien and his lover had adopted him, taken him in, bought him clothes and taught him his letters. He was fairly certain that the men and women at the Radio Drama Appreciation Society lacked the ability to attack him even if they wanted to, though there had been some sharp words exchanged over whether Thelucian or Caerowyn was a better match for Anlessa.   He stuck his tongue out at the door. "May I remind you that you have been my primary source of exposure to mortal culture? If I am a brat it is your fault."   "Nuh-uh." The door opened a crack so Ryth could shake a finger at him. "Bill's a bad influence! I am a devout and pious priest of the Light." For a brief moment, a halo shimmered above his head.   They made eye contact and held it for one beat, two.   Ryth burst out snickering first.

[tentaclepriest]

the dragon dreams

He is flying, his Flight beside him, and the air is cold and flecked with ash under his wings. His Father's voice is loud in his mind, urging him onwards to the vast spire of the Temple in the distance. The fabled Wyrmrest Accord doesn't stand a chance, not against their might. Adventurers' arrows and shot sting his hide, and he bleeds from small wounds, but--they are small, of no consequence. He flies on.   Niliona, his wing-sister, nips at the leading edge of one wing to get his attention. In the tongue of their Flight, she tells him,"It won't be long now. Don't you dare disappoint me."   He holds his tongue.   They reach the Temple before he realizes that something is wrong; these adventurers are not like the rest. Malion, who took his favorite pebble collection and left him scarred from flank to shoulder in return, dives to engulf a gnome and is burnt from the inside out by green fire. Keriona is shot out of the sky in the middle of blasting the platform with twilight flame. When Niliona is grounded by a hooked arrow in her wing--Niliona, who slept beside him, who only sometimes tried to rip his face off--he dives with a scream.   At the last minute, driven by sheer instinct, he banks; the blade that would have found a new sheath in his eye socket is embedded in his arm instead. And oh, it burns.   In the melee, it's easy to flee. He doesn't look back. Not even when the sky darkens, and a voice like nails in his head screams You have failed me! You will burn in the ashes of this world, Sethrion!   "Sethrion? Hey, kid!"   He jolts awake with a gasp, eyes popping open. In the dim light, it takes him a moment to realize where he is--on a couch in a small apartment just off Silvermoon's Murder Row, with a very concerned-looking sin'dorei priest watching him. "Yes--what? I'm fine."   Rythien gives him a look he's come to know very well over the past several weeks, one which says that the priest knows very well when someone is withholding information. "You almost fell off the couch. Bad dreams?"   His elven form is underweight; this, Sethrion thinks irritably, must be why he's shivering even though the morning is warm and humid. "I am fine, thank you."   The priest sighs, shaking his head as he gets to his feet. "If you say so. I'm gonna start breakfast; you want bacon or sausage links?"   He blinks slowly. "...Can I have both?"   Rythien laughs out loud, reaching over to ruffle his hair in what he's learned is an affectionate gesture. "Sure."