Vivvienne sat down on her bed and looked around as she pulled out a secret diary from under her mattress. It wasn’t often that she remembered to put down her thoughts but when the moment struck her, she rushed to put quill to paper.
Journal, I write here to put down all the pride and joy that I feel from my children’s accomplishments. Trystan has become a strong and humble young man and though I dislike it...very very much he’s becoming a fine candidate for a good and honest Knight. I’m only hoping that he doesn’t become a zealot like many that I’ve run into. Zephenaye is becoming a very creative and talented mage, thinking of applications for the Arcane that I wouldn’t have thought of in my own youth. I see myself in her sometimes, what was very long ago. These two are sparkling diamonds in society and they have more social grace than either myself or their father have, I would say, combined. They dazzle and gleam, but...I worry about Bael. I’ve always worried about my little boy. He’s got even less social ability than his father and much more tender hearted. His tutors say that he is a bright young man, this I don’t need to be told, but his attention seems to be lacking during his lessons. He slacks off and doesn’t return any of the work that his professors ask for and yet….he tells me that he is off studying from his tomes. I don’t know where he goes during this time, but I want to trust him that it’s not doing anything out of line with how he was raised.
Trystan and Zephenaye know where he goes, I know, but to betray Bael’s trust would...I don’t need to put it to paper to know.
I am about to attend one of Trystan’s sparring sessions, so I must be fast. Until next time, dear journal.
Final Prompt: "Everything we have done or will do we will do over and over and over again— forever." Consider your character's leitmotifs. Write a story that expresses the cyclical nature of the leitmotif, and the rise and fall of these themes in your character's narrative. If it helps you to place the story to music, you may do so, but it is not required.
Iiloridan frowned over the palms of his hands, free of gloves and unencumbered by robe sleeves. In one, a brilliant holy flame rested, wreathed around his fingertips. The glow was warm and welcoming, filling him with a calm and steady drive. Heal. Mend. Bolster. It was a fight to hold it, control it, wield it, as always; but it was a fight he was well used to by now.
The other palm was empty, and had lingered as such for some time; a test of endurance. The healing flame burned brightly, painlessly, without counterpart- before the priest attempted to sunder his will. His brows twitched, a painful twinge passing through his mind. The natural shadows cast by his curled, empty fingers seemed to lengthen- flickering wildly in the silhouette of the now-sputtering flame’s glow. Iiloridan’s brow furrowed and he grimaced, teeth bared and trying to maintain his hold on the Light. Shadows curled eagerly- too eagerly, flowing like oil in water while the flame surged and waned like a shoddy, goblin-made lightning-bulb.
Trying to hold both was like trying to inhale and exhale at the same time. He simply could not do it. Iiloridan’s focus hit a brick wall and the light sputtered out with a pitiful, trailing wisp. Shadow came easily, eagerly to his will after light was snuffed, purple and black motes coalescing into a writhing mass in his palm. Iiloridan sighed in disappointment, otherwise calmly accepting of the dark horror in his hand.
Failure. Again.
It was his own fault, he knew. A failing of his own, not some weakness of the Light. Light and Shadow were strong in equal measure, two sides of the same coin. He honored both, found something worthy of his own quiet form of worship in both, as the dual pair had been of equal use and value to him in his life. Shadows had saved him, aided him; the Light had healed those he cared about. But he’d seen other priests, those with the discipline of the art, wield one and then the other with apparent ease. As of yet, he never could. Shadow came easy at his call, no matter how much holy light he had been channeling previously. But the light was...reluctant to return to him, after weaving shadow. It was like whatever he used to call the light was blocked, withered away by the shade, until it could regrow.
The priest shook his head, ear twitching as he heard the sounds of shadow ravens venturing forth, curious at this old-new game of his. He was missing something, he was sure of it. But no matter what tomes he read, nor priests he spoke with, Iiloridan could not find the answer. The caws of the ravens surrounding the priest were familiar and comforting, but even they had no resolution for him. The way of the light was foreign, the antithesis of their very being. He settled for holding the shadow for a brief time, watching shade ebb and flow across his already dark skin, allowing it to grow within his control; transfixed by the dark violet motes and the beginning hints of the void within- A raven let out a sharp warning caw directly in his ear.
-No!
Iiloridan clenched his fist ruthlessly, crushing the frigid, writhing mass, before splaying his palm and dissipating it forcefully. Not the void. Even he had his limits, and that was a level of darkness he dared not delve into. Shadows could not exist without the light. But void was void. Nothingness. Empty of all but the path to madness.
He breathed, shaking out his hand. Clasping his fingers together, the warmth of his light-touched hand seemed to warm the other with unnatural speed, but it lasted for only a few seconds. Whatever residual blessing might have been left behind, it was not enough. Like trying to warm a frigid bath with only a single hot teacup.
Now, he had to wait. Wait for the light to return to him. There had been progress on that front, over the years. It used to take hours. Iiloridan had reduced it down to minutes, at what he felt was his peak. ...But now, for some reason, he’d been slipping. The time between casting shadow and the Light returning to his will was increasing. It was becoming a problem, and he was determined to figure out why.
He lost track of time, hand curling every few minutes; empty and chilled despite beckoning the Light to his aid over and over again. Finally, finally- the tiniest of sparks; a flame no bigger than a match head, sputtering back to life. The priest curled his palms around it, breathing it back to life with will alone. He let it build, coaxing it to grow back to its previous strength with aching slowness; warming the parts of himself that had been chilled by shadow and void.
Iiloridan allowed himself the comfort of the light, mind and will bolstered by his own success.
Final Prompt: Write about your characters leitmotifs
What is it that makes a man become who he is in specific?
Is it the experiences he held? The teachings he learns? The people who he meets along the way? All of it, perhaps?
Faervell was of a mind to believe perhaps it was just who he was in his soul. A pre-written plan, laid out long before he would dare to think, of just who he was to be. So often, it seemed, that no matter what he did or how much he fought against things, he was settled in the same resounding idea.
He never wanted to be perfect. He never wanted to spend countless hours perfecting something that he swore was right the first fifty times, but he just had to check over another ten.
He never wanted to be scared of failure...
… to be scared of mistakes…
… to be consumed…
… to be lost.
Time and time again, he’d went over the dialogue. What to say, what to do, where to stand, when to listen and when to talk. He’d done it what felt like a thousand times with his sister, running through every situation that they could think of, and finally he thought he had it.
When they went into the meeting, it was hard to call him anything but cocky. He knew that this was an easy sale, he was well groomed, and so far it had been nothing but a great morning. While the nerves ate away at his stomach, he made sure to brace his back and stand as straight as he could with square shoulders, shadowing the familiar motions he watched his entire life.
Today they were to meet a man by the name of Davnath, speaking of a renewal of the contract they were under with him. He, as Faervell committed to memory, was in the business of creating clothes- particularly corsets. For gods know how long, the Bael’Nars had supplied him their silks to create a soft brand of the product. He had given his father multiple recommendations and was one of their favored customers.
The man himself was older than Faervell’s father with wrinkles in his eyes where the smiles creased them. He had a deep bellowing laugh that resounded in the halls of his home and his manner of speaking was more clipped and casual, even when in the most ‘uptight’ company. Light brown hair was pulled back in a long braid that was down his back and often times the man had been known to have small little flowers deposited in the strands, thanks to his children, of which he had plenty.
It was an easy meeting, and the first that Faervell was to take the lead and be fully introduced in as an apprentice to his Father in their trade. It wasn’t as if it was so surprising, considering he’d been learning their trade since he could remember, but it was an important sort of thing no matter. Which, of course, was why he was all the more determined to do his best.
When they entered the study, there was that overwhelming sense of warmth and welcome. Faervell’s smile warmed a bit as he felt just as comfortable as if he were back home. It was a good sort of feeling, and he was glad that this was going to be where they did their work. He recalled far too many times going with his father to places that were cold and stiff, so very unwelcoming.
Everything was going so smoothly.
The time passed so quickly, the conversation light hearted and filled with humorous overtones. The business was littered within stories of things that had happened lately or news that seemed important enough for Davnath to mention at the time.
Everything seemed perfect.
Leaving the warm study, success on his mind, the boy of only fifteen years had been on what could only be explained as a high. He used that same charm he’d practiced time and time and time again, passing comments to one of those many pretty daughters that filled the man’s home.
He had done so well.
He remembered her sly little smile, the crinkle of her nose as she laughed, the touch of her soft hand against his arm as it trailed down to grab his hand and steal him away. The hours they spent together in a far away room, lingering under one another’s touch and attentions, their lips meeting and tongues dancing.
Long after those moments, he was met only with disappointment and disapproval.
It hadn’t taken too long to piece together what had happened, and he could swear the stinging slap of his father’s hand across his face did not hurt near as bad as the words that he spat at him.
Those little intimate moments ruined everything. That well practiced tongue had led him into trouble, and because of it, his father only regarded him with disdain for god’s know how long. It was reckless, and due to it, they lost quite a bit for years to come.
No matter where he looked or who he turned to, the same answer came to him. In those oh so young days, he first started to think of himself as something that he’d truly be…
… a mistake.
Surely, it hadn’t been the first time he’d made a mishap, and it certainly had not been the last time.
No, that much was certain.
The reason it stuck out so much was because of how much it meant. Even in memory, he could feel a sting of the large man’s hand against his skin, warming it in the most painful way. The way his words echoed again and again.
“How could you do this to us?”
“Do you know what it will cost us?
“Don’t you look away, this is your fault, boy!”
“Honestly, Faervell, why can’t you ever just listen to what I tell you to do!”
Why couldn’t he just listen?
She was crying.
It tore at his soul when he saw those bright eyes spill like that, to see pain that he just could do nothing to stop immediately.
Faervell hadn’t been allowed to know strictly at first, what it was that was wrong. Only Ciaragan and their mother would know as they came back from the town’s doctor to explain this mystery that had been plaguing their home for what felt like an eternity now.
The siblings rarely held secrets from one another, and why should they?
This had been one of the few things she’d kept from him thus far, and it was driving him insane to not understand what it was that had made her feel this terrible sadness. A sadness that reverberated to himself in a way that he knew only they would share.
He tried to talk to her, tried to ask gently at first what it was that was wrong, but in the end all she did was lash out at him.
Like an echo in a valley, their emotions kept mixing together, and while he felt this immense sadness, so did he feel the frustration that was growing between the both of them. It intensified, and frustration melded into hints of anger at her lack of response.
How could she keep things from him? From her own brother? When he shared everything, why did she keep this?
He became upset, and the words spilled from his lips like a man whom had drunk far too many shares. It was painful, and he felt the weight of it right then, instantly getting stung with words of her own spewing out hateful insults that lead to something more; something else.
Like a spark against dry leaves, the fire spread out.
He heard her then, heard the words that held so much weight in those times of what laid for their future- no, for her future.
It wasn’t his right to know that Ciaragan was unable to bear any children. If anything, he should have apologized and tried to find a way to comfort her, to take this knowledge as an understanding and find ways to mend his harsh approach.
Yet he hadn’t.
He didn’t listen.
He made something so large to her, seem small. In the end, his words became accusatory and he blamed her for this all. Wanted her to apologize, wanted her to explain, wanted her to be what he wanted her to be.
That was his mistake.
One that he would repeat, again and again, bringing this up to her in the worst of moments in rage as if it were something he was allowed to use as ammo against his own blood.
The memories always made him cringe. Oh, how he wished he could go back. How he wished he could seal his mouth and instead simply wrap his arms around her and take care of her, to protect her.
That’s what he promised to do for her, wasn’t it? To always protect her?
It never worked that way for him, though, did it? That wasn’t who he was.
He was just a man who made mistakes. Over and over again, like a sick process.
Too many… he made too many…. Again and again and...
“Again!”
Faervell heard the words, harsh and abrasive to his ears. His hands shook with fatigue and fear, he felt the sweat against his skin, doing nothing to cool the heat that burnt at his fingertips now.
Green flames were sparked and tossed, again they would grow and he’d struggle all he could to keep up with the others that were near. It wasn’t easy, and he was scared of the fire that threatened to consume him entirely. So very scared.
Night after night, he fell asleep in the small loaned room that he worked so hard to keep. Each day, more spells would be learned and he had to hear Baeraeus’s judgement pass upon him.
Always, he was told to repeat it. Always, he was told he was not doing enough. Always, he was told he was just barely passing.
He drove himself to study more, to do anything to catch up to the rest, to catch up to his sister. He couldn’t fail, he couldn’t be left behind. His needs brought him to a book, a old tome that seemed to give off the most disturbing feeling as his fingers pressed against the pages.
Late at night, he’d taken himself down to the large room. The book and reagents had been left there, gathered days prior and hidden away in places Faervell thought no one would look. He was determined, reading each of the spells needs and creating that circle that would summon the ticket to what surely would make him someone who would be respected, someone that wasn’t just a burden.
The chant cut at his tongue, each syllable too sharp for him and caused blood to form in his mouth as he bit at the tip of his tongue every third syllable. He ignored the pain, bit it down with the desperation for something more, to show that he was more.
Such a brief moment it had been, that fools victory.
The magic flowed around him, caught him like a fly in it’s web, and that demon that haunted his every step was brought forth.
The flames scared him. The flames scarred him.
He should have died, and so many times he was reminded of it. He was taunted and punished, left broken in the rooms with only Ciaragan given to him to keep him alive in the days that dragged on after he tried to snatch away power that was far too high for him to reach.
Constantly, he remembered the incident. He repeated it over and over, try and find the spot he ruined it, and repeat it once over again. It tormented his days and nights, and in those days he started to come to realize who he was.
A mistake.
The dreams filled with demons spoke of his failure. The echos that only he heard would follow him like a shadow in the night. Somewhere in his mind, it was always there, gnawing at him and filling him with so much doubt that he could only swallow down and cover from others.
He wanted to run from it, wanted to do anything to deny it.
“Again.” He heard the voice, antagonizing him.
Yet it was true.
“Again.” He did it again and again.
It is true.
“Again.” He repeated over and over.
Still it haunted him.
The voices mingled with others, like sharp reminders of every time he just couldn’t escape from.
It made him panic, made him scared at times.
He questioned himself at every step, and suddenly he found himself obsessing over every detail. Again and again, he would run through things, perfect them so that he would be anything but that mistake that marked him body and soul.
No matter what he did, though, did he ever succeed?
Sharp fingers finally drew away, leaving behind only exhaustion and pain in their wake.
Faervell’s mind swam, making him dizzy and sick to his stomach. He didn’t know where to focus, and all he could do was try and breathe, try to keep going. The demon before him that tore into his mind time after time giving him some small weak rest for it’s own amusement.
This was his punishment.
He heard the words from the demon before him, or was that another voice? Was that the voice of another that it stole or was it the person themselves?
He couldn’t focus, couldn’t bring his mind to comprehend it fully. Had he tears to shed, he would have without shame. It hurt and he felt broken, bindings pinning him to a stone that tore at his skin wherever they touched.
This was his punishment for his mistake.
Only one?
Was it truly just one failed summoning that had caused this?
The memories spilled over, flashes of moments that echoed the sentiment. Times before he had his abilities, the people he ran from, the people he chased away. The decisions he made. It was as if his mind was trying to comprehend how he became stuck here.
Seeing his lovers sad smiles, seeing the distance between them that he caused.
Seeing Ciaragan’s sadness, fear, anger, determination faced against him. Having to take care of him, take care of what he’d done.
Seeing his friends killed time and time again, and he hadn’t been strong enough.
Seeing Esme’s back as his greed- no, his need to do something to prove himself as more nearly tore her away permanently.
Seeing Shahrissa’s grin, hearing her voice in his ears…
“This is your punishment.”
Was that her? Was it truly?
The voices always meshed together, weaved into this whisper that drowned out every sound. Reminded him of something that made him feel helpless and fearful.
No, it wasn’t just one mistake that had brought him to that place where the demons tormented him. He had to accept that, and as the demon before the stone reached forward, he knew it was nothing but what was to come to someone like him.
Someone that was a failure.
Someone that was a mistake.
Faervell remembered it all again, his mind drifting over these times as if they meant something important, as if he needed all that much more a reminder of it.
Mistake.
He couldn’t hear the battle any more. He couldn’t hear the screams of retreat, and already there was a darkness that threatened to consume him.
He felt the blood seep from his armor, arrows pierced into him as he was left there on the dirt and grass stained red. There were others around him, and in some sick fashion, it seemed all he could do was focus on these corrupt elves that had shot him down.
Another mistake.
He thought it was a better path, to help the others there. That demon shouldn’t have been allowed to live, and he had seen to using some of the last bits of his energy to take it down, despite the pain of his own wounds threatening to make him fall over right then and there. He had ignored the retreat, had ignored his pain, had ignored everything but this twisted creature he felt this desperate need to destroy and send back to the nether.
How futile it would be, in the end.
The demon would come back, and as he laid there in the grass, a dark feeling of despair filled his aching chest. What was the point of it all, then? To allow himself to go down, to watch as his allies ran from the field.
His eyes slowly started to close, and he watched as the distant figure of another ran away, limping from the mess of archers that surrounded him now. He wanted to call out for her help, to plead for her to come and save him, to get him before it was too late, yet his tongue wouldn’t move.
This is your punishment, Faervell.
This was your mistake.
Another mistake, Faervell.
Why can’t you just listen?
Why can’t you just do things right?
He shut out the sight of this place and felt himself fade into a unconscious state, the echos of a million voices whispering in his mind, digging into him like the thorns of a bush that grew tight against him, choking out any other thought.
Before he would fall to darkness completely, the last words filled his mind like a deadly echo:
Day 28: Describe a little thing – one of the things that defines your character’s world, but is often overlooked.
Embertree in the very early morning was always quiet. Nearly all of the housemaids slept until a little past dawn and then took their time getting ready. Faervell would slumber until well past noon if he could. It was quiet, it was private, but it was not silent.
From the library, music carried through the halls. A tremulous pull of bow to string brought forth note after note. It sounded classical, almost forlorn in its nature, but it began to grow steadily in steadiness, volume, and speed. Rather than slow and sad, the song became something more powerful and familiar.
The music came from the hands of Esme, still dressed in her silken robe of teal, bare foot and sitting beside a steaming mug of coffee or tea, whatever she had managed to scrounge up for herself. For now, her attention was on her fiddle. Her talent was the product of over a century of practice, most forced but some not. Her talent was also something that few knew, and if she had it her way, it would remain that way.
For every draw of the bow, she felt the hands of a child littered with blisters and bruises. For every flow of each note, she heard the demand for music and entertainment, regardless of exhaustion. For every draw in of breath to the tempo, she tasted the salt of the sea and the blood from a cut lip.
She swore that she would not play for anyone after she escaped. She would not play for anyone…but herself.
Finale: “Everything we have done or will do we will do over and over and over again - forever.” Consider your character’s leitmotifs. Write a story that expresses the cyclical nature of the leitmotif, and the rise and fall of those themes in your character’s narrative. If it helps you to place the story to music, you may do so, but it is not required.
Themes: Innocence, Naivety, Idealism, and protection from the horrors of war
—
Horde forces make headway against Worgen blockades
Koramm scowled at the headline, setting the newspaper down on the table in front of him. Taking a bit of the meat pie set on the plate before him, the tauren looked out on the crowd walking through the streets of the Dawnspire. For these citizens, there was not a care in the world beyond their everyday duties. And that was the goal, was it not? They fought so that no harm would come to the civilians of Azeroth. They protected the world against the dangers brought forth by the Burning Legion, by the Lich King, and by countless other malevolent forces. Why, then, was it that the Horde and Alliance could not see peace with each other?
There had been growing sentiments of possible peace after the combined might of the Horde and Alliance had dethroned the Lich King. The Cataclysm had ruined that, and Thrall’s departure from the office of Warchief had guaranteed it. Garrosh and his war mongering ruined any chance of that. If Vol’Jin had survived, perhaps, since he was willing to work with the Alliance to retake Orgrimmar, but with Windrunner in charge of the Horde, it would never come to pass.
Koramm picked up the newspaper once more and returned to reading, sipping occasionally from a nearby cup of tea and picking at the the slowly cooling meat pie. While the newspaper was mostly focused around the lives of those living near the Dawnspire, as would be expected, it did occasionally provide glimpses into the happenings of Azeroth at large, which made it a worthy thing to read.
“Emberward Stonehoof, you are needed immediately at the infirmary.”
Koramm set the paper down, looking at the elf now standing before him. He was young, his hair askew and his voice ragged, clearly out of breath. “What’s going on?”
The elf did not pause for even a moment, despite the deep breaths between words. “The mission to assist the Nightborne has returned. There are many wounded.”
Koramm stood instantly, kicking the chair back and the table out from above his legs. Giving a brief nod towards the elf, the tauren took off towards the infirmary. If he was getting called in now, the infirmary must have been swamped, the healers on duty overwhelmed by sheer numbers. It would take him a little bit to cross the keep and make it to the infirmary, but it was his duty to assist in whatever way he could.
When the tauren finally opened the doors to the infirmary, his eyes went wide at the sight. The beds were filled with various levels of injuries, from simple broken bones to those currently unconscious and being worked on by doctors. His mind raced back to Northrend, the last time he had seen an infirmary so full. Where there, especially towards the end, many of the patients had been long term, driven mad by the whispers of the Old Gods, here the patients were all new, freshly injured and in need of immediate treatment.
Koramm swiftly moved towards the back of the room, heading for the offices. He needed to get into his robes, he’d grab a pair pair from the stock room as there was no time to make his way home. He needed to start healing. He was supposed to have gone with the party, but he had fallen ill and had to stay behind lest he drag the team down. Now they had returned, and in a far worse state.
“Did you hear? Seems like a number of the higher ranked soldiers were captured by demons.”
Koramm turned and looked at a pair of new recruits chatting with each other in the corner, his ears picking up their words as he walked by. He paused and glared at them. “What the bloody hell are you two doing? If you have time to gossip, you have time to go get more bandages and bring them out to the people doing their fucking jobs. Get to work!”
The elves stared up at him before bolting. Koramm’s mind reeled as he found his way to the stock room and began pulling on the uniform required of the Dawnmenders working in the infirmary. Could it truly have been true, what the recruits had said, that a number of the Sunguard had been captured in the mission that he had missed? It would certainly explain the sheer number of injured currently residing within the infirmary.
Still, in the months that Koramm had been amongst the Sunguard, no such loss had ever taken place. People had surely been injured, some even severely, but there had been no casualties, no members lost from their battles. It had been foolish to think that such a streak of luck could last forever, but Koramm had, and the loss sent him reeling.
“This is exactly why we need to put aside our differences with the Alliance and work together to destroy the Legion.” The thought rushed into Koramm’s head and was just as quickly dismissed. Now was not the time to be lamenting the idiocy of faction leadership. No, the only thing to focus on now was healing those that were in front of him, and once that was done to look ahead to see how he could assist in recovering those that they had lost. Once that was done, he could fantasize about a possible future once again.
Koramm straightened himself and turned, looking back towards the infirmary’s rooms. “Time to get to work.”
@sparklepriest
Veleth stared blankly past the flames into his reflection in the water serving as their source. It was supposed to be a ritual of divination, the flames warping the light on the water’s surface to show some magical insight, but all he could see was a shifting vision of himself. It forced introspection, especially as the ritual had gained him some success in the past, and the fact that it only deigned to show himself meant that there was something he had to address.
Veleth sighed, then drew his face away from the heat of the flames and threw himself into the nearest chair. His mind was clouded enough as it was, prompting him to seek guidance in the first place, though the idea of being alone with his thoughts troubled the elf. He had been troubled for years admittedly, with only brief lulls in the depression brought about by the din of war.
War. The concept had changed him irrevocably over the years, and never for the better. A part of him was always lost, he had always come out a lesser man than he was before the conflict. And during, he felt as if he had to fight just to maintain some illusion of being a civilized, rational being. It was a force that stripped away all that was good about him, leaving the white haired elf as a husk of his former self. The changes were simple enough at first, minor even, but now? He wasn’t sure if there was anything left of him to take.
“I trust you will be joining us for this gathering Veleth?”
“I will be in Lordaeron during this gathering, so no I will not.”
Veleth’s cousin bristled at the unabashedly blunt nature with which Veleth responded. “You are an Ashcaster Veleth! You are very likely to become the heir, so you will come to matters regarding our deployment.”
“For what? Putting down a peasant uprising in Stormwind? Body guarding some fat goblin who double crossed another cartel?”
“We are mercenaries!”
“I am a priest! And I’ve already seen enough to know what fighting does to people.” The other man threw his arms into the air with a disgusted grunt before leaving Veleth’s chambers, and soon quiet began to return to the room. Quiet, but not tranquility.
Bitterness ate at Veleth, keeping the air rife with unnecessary tension. Even though he sought to bury himself in his meditations, as so often happened after even brief encounters with his family, his spirit remained troubled by their dispute.
Veleth was estranged at best from the affairs of the Ashcasters. The noble house had been warriors since the times of legend, but the life of a warrior was not the life chosen for him. He was a priest of the Sun Goddess Aloran, so designed by his mother. The matriarch, the Lady of Ash herself, giving one of her potential heirs to the clergy. The scandal brought many challenges and many dead elves before the elders finally managed to pressure her into teaching Veleth to fight.
He was but a child, ripped from the peace and education of his temple to fight his own mother every single day. Try as she might, she could not wholly subdue her warrior instincts. He saw the underlying wrath, the hatred that she brought along with herself when she went to fight in other peoples’ wars. For the first time he saw the woman he idolized brought down to what was hardly more than an animal. Hardly more than a troll, and certainly not worthy of the glory that was the birthright of the Quel’dorei.
By the time it was over Veleth had no more illusions of the greatness in his blood, his noble family, and so took refuge by burying himself in scholastic pursuits. He took pride in infuriating his elders, from traveling the world to learn of the greatness of other nations to marrying an elf native to Dalaran without so much as a word to the family. Three children later and he had nearly been disowned entirely, but there were only three true heirs to his mother as well and any one of them could be lost in war. Tensions inevitably cooled, but Veleth never considered himself a part of the house nor had any stake in their business.
Given the choice, he would never even see a war himself.
“And so the prodigal son returns from the Second Great War, chasing the orcs back into their hole while we cleaned up the real mess in Quel’thalas.”
“Enough! I would think that after you personally watched the Ashfort burn down in dragonfire you would be a bit more focused on the Horde than a few troll warbands roving through the wilderness!” The first words out of Veleth’s cousin sent him into a fury. He had just helped fight back the greatest enemy their world had faced and he was complaining over his war with trolls.
“I was more focused on the Horde than you ever were, since I was the one to lead us into that ‘peasant uprising’ down in Stormwind! Suddenly they burn down half our family and you only just learn that they’re a threat? You only just decide to go to war and I am supposed to call you a hero?!”
“You are supposed to call me the Lord of Ash after you left my mother to burn! Unless you think to challenge me for the title?”
The threat hung in the air between them for a while after. They both knew that even if he resented it Veleth was the better fighter. He was trained by the Matriarch, not their decrepit elders, and so the elf backed down dejectedly.
Satisfied with himself, Veleth continued. “I do not want to be seen as a hero. The orcs were as brutal, if not moreso, than the Amani and I will do my best to forget the entire campaign. All I need from you is an accurate appraisal of our standing forces so we may get back to doing business with the Alliance.”
“The Alliance, despite King Anasterian’s denouncement?”
“Even if we ignore the years I spent fighting alongside them and the moral obligations we hold to them we must keep ties purely from a business perspective. The Alliance will likely be one of our biggest customers, and I intend to provide accurate information to sell to them. What are our standing forces?”
The two of them spoke well into the night, reducing their family to numbers and appraising their martial strength. It was not nearly what they had before, half of the house having been destroyed in the invasion of Quel’thalas. Even though he knew only a fraction of them personally their loss left a sizable void in his heart. He wished that they had gone quickly, painlessly, but the Horde would not have allowed them that.
The thought occurred to Veleth that the orcs could repay their debts to the Ashcasters with the new internment act proclaimed by Lordaeron. They would be funded to keep the orcs imprisoned on their land, and the Ashcasters could rent the clans out for either cheap labor or supplemental forces. It was not slavery, it was atonement, and it was far more than they deserved for the trail of destruction they wrought across the Eastern Kingdoms.
Ultimately, despite such losses, the future ahead seemed bright enough for the house. But as Veleth turned to leave the briefing, his cousin spoke out one last time. “There’s one more thing you should know, Patriarch.”
“What is that?” he asked, his brow raised.
“One of the ships we lost was captained by your daughter. The Horde sunk her out in the middle of the sea.”
Orgrimmar. Veleth never thought that the world would change so much to where he would forsake his own lands for a city of orcs. He especially did not expect being thrown face first into the mud after starting yet another tavern brawl, but after years spent on their world he mused to himself that perhaps this is where he belonged. After all his lands were gone, his family culled, and their savior vilified.
Soon enough an orcish foreman picked the elf’s head up off the red ground by his long, white hair. “Illidari, why do I get the feeling this will become a regular occurance?”
“Because you greenskins have less manners than even mindless demons.” The foreman growled at that, then tossed the elf to his feet.
“I’m beginning to wonder why I hired you.”
“Because you need somebody to guard your site and shaman healers are too expensive.”
“Clean the blood off your face at least, then meet me at the docks. We’re expecting a grain shipment soon and every hungry rat in this desert will be trying to get a piece of it.” The orc then stormed off to the south, leaving Veleth to navigate the Valley of Honor on his own yet again.
He made his way over to the small river running through the valley before drinking from it and washing his face. Opening his eyes once more Veleth saw just how much the orcish homeworld of Outland had changed him. The demonic energy that permeated the very air had turned his eyes from the wholesome blue of arcane magic to the sickly green of fel, and the raven black hair that had become a symbol of his house was now stark white. Perhaps it was better this way, as far as he knew the Ashcasters had all fallen with Quel’thalas.
None of them had expected it, not even Veleth himself after campaigning through Lordaeron with Prince Arthas. The idea of an undead army wiping out the most powerful of the human nations was unfathomable, and then it turned northward. Warriors though they were the Ashcasters fell to sheer numbers, their lands becoming a home to the risen masses of those slain. He had gone to Outland to avenge them, to save them alongside the Sun Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider himself, but when he returned Veleth saw that there was nothing left to save.
The people despised him for what he had sacrificed, for the cure to their magical addiction he had offered. The Sin’dorei hated him for his allegiance to the Sun Prince even after Kael’thas turned his armies on Silvermoon, and the Blood Knights of Azeroth hated him for what they saw was grossly mishandling the holy Light. So he left it all behind, throwing away his allegiances and loyalties to the kingdom he had sought to serve all his life. He came to their allies in the Horde, to the city of the orcs who up until this point had been nothing but worthless savages.
If this was rock bottom, then so be it. It was where he belonged now.
“Do you understand what exactly you have brought to our lands, outsider?”
Veleth’s mind remained a dense fog, he could hardly think let alone reason what exactly had brought him here. The Horde’s war brought him to the continent, surely, but since they made landfall it was as if he had blacked out. His body ached with the memory of battles that his mind lacked, and now he was surrounded by natives. They were a strange race of black and white bear creatures, of which one of them proved to be quite adept at wielding the Light herself. More so than he had been of late, his grip on the Light fading as he fell deeper into his wars.
Unable to respond with a coherent answer on his own his captors decided it was necessary he be informed. “In Pandaria one’s emotions can be made manifest. Negative emotions cascade out of control, and a force we know as the Sha grows within their victim’s mind.
“When we found you in the wilderness you were little more than an animal, consumed by your own rage and destroying everything around you. We only needed to follow the trail of brutalized corpses and burning forests to find you. Can you explain to me what caused the Sha to claim you so completely, or are you genuinely just a mad dog?”
It had been years since Veleth gave himself any room for introspection, but sluggish as his explanation was he figured it would be better than being killed outright for the safety of everything around him. When the great Cataclysm shattered the world Veleth lost everything of value in his life, leaving only a calling towards duty or death. So he rejoined the Horde’s armies as a warrior, seeking to claim either one or the other.
Duty won out in the end, but it did not entirely replace the other. The emptiness inside him was omnipresent, always whispering in the back of his mind and clawing at his heart. But he found a solution, some solace that would allow him to continue without putting his allies at risk. He became angry. He became cruel. He would project everything that he had lost onto the enemies before him and brutalize them until there was nothing left to salvage.
It worked, for a time. It had brought him great success in assaulting the dwarves in the Twilight Highlands. It allowed him to overpower the fire elementals in their own plane of existence. It allowed him to excel beyond all expectations under the command of the Forsaken undead in the Hillsbrad Foothills. And finally it allowed him to be hand-picked for Garrosh Hellscream’s invasion of Pandaria.
Little did he know that it was this method that would damn him the second he touched down on Pandaren soil. The Pandaren before him listened intently to every word, silently judging every action he had made. “What you have done, outsider, is beyond any hope of redemption. You forged yourself into a monster perfect for the Sha, and in so doing brought yourself lower than even an animal.”
“So you are going to kill me, so be it. Give me that peace.”
“That would be wasteful.”
Cold anger rose to Veleth’s voice, but he suppressed it as best he could, “So what then?”
“You claim proficiency in the Light, so you are capable of at least some amount of self-control. You will aid us in purging the evil that you brought to our home, and you will prove to us all that you can change. But if you allow the Sha to claim you for even a moment, I will personally put you down.”
The Pandaren unchained the elf from the wall, and for a moment he considered asking them to outright kill him. He had proven his lack of restraint before, and as the Pandaren said he was beyond redemption. The words caught in his throat as he imagined in vivid detail the death they would grant him, and for a moment he could feel the conflict of his own desires and his instinctual drive towards survival.
And then he steeled himself, for the first time in years feeling the call of the Sun’s Light stronger than it had been since the fall of Quel’thalas. “Very well, I will help. Let’s get on with it.”
It had been years since Veleth had been freed of his burden in Pandaria, but he was still depressed, alone, and afraid. He had become a Blood Knight once more and a Duskward of the Sunguard, but this was the longest “peace” he had been granted for a long while. He was still a torturer, still cold and ruthless as he was after the Cataclysm. The heat of wrath had tempered his soul, and there was no turning back to what it had been.
The longing for death stuck to him as well. He wondered if he should just save the world from the pain he would wreak when inevitably he became a monster again. Would such an act of altruism redeem him, or would the loss of potential service damn him and those around him? The thought of it became increasingly frequent as time passed, the new orcish Iron Horde and the demonic forces of the Burning Legion foreshadowing tragedy on the horizon.
For now, he resolved to lend his shield to the Sunguard, the Blood Knights, and the newly discovered Nightborne elves of Suramar. His presence would ensure that those by his side came to no harm without a fight. And if his life devolved into madness yet again his allies would surely do the honors for him instead of allowing such atrocities to be committed in their name.
19th: Your character must write a thank you note. Who is it to, and what is it about?
mentions: @vaelrin @esmesunshard
Dear Captain Firestorm,
Firstly, I want to thank you for giving me an opportunity amongst your ranks. I know you are probably not the only voice, but I would imagine the leader of said organization has the most say. I also want to thank you for taking time out of what I could imagine is one of many long and busy days to speak to me personally. I know it must be hard to hear out individuals in groups as sizable as the Pathfinders, so it means a lot that you would do so for me.
All the best,
Kyranyx Ryther
--
Dear Spectre Sunshard,
I have quite a few things to thank you for, namely that of allowing me to help deal with the matters that affect Embertree. I know it probably was not the easiest initially trusting me with aiding you in such a matter, but I am glad that you have given me opportunities to prove myself not just to you, but the others as well. Although I do not know if your opinion has changed for me as of yet, I hope that I will continue to prove myself to you, as well as the others who may doubt me or my intentions.
All the best,
Kyranyx Ryther
P.S. We should talk some time. I haven’t had a chance to have much of a one-on-one with you yet.
--
Dear Elias,
Although you are gone, you are probably the person that, to this day, I am still the most thankful towards. You mentored me incredibly well, and taught me how to focus all my raw potential into something special that I could use to aid those whom are less fortunate, and so that I could better stand up against those who would do wrong to innocent people. I know that you nor I are the most perfect of people, but you stood up for what you thought was right, and you helped others to also stand up for what they thought was right, and I’ve always respected that about you.
I also am thankful that you were someone I could look up to you. Not everyone in your group was the most, ah...respectable individuals, to put it. But for the reasons I listed above and more than that, you were someone I could put my trust into, and you were someone I could learn from, both what to do as well as what to not do when you made errors.
26th: If your character could take the pen from your hands and tell their own story – write their own narrative, and create their own version of their “happy ending”, how would it look?
Faervell is widely accepted as the absolute best felmancer known to all the races of Azeroth and beyond. His skills are envied and worshiped by all. Demons fear him. Women and men love him.
He marries Esme, who of course decided to take his name in favor of Sunshard and they become lord and lady of Embertree. They may or may not have children, but none of those children are little shits because who wants a kid that’s a complete little shit. All of said possible children become amazing people themselves, and go down far into the histories of whatever it is they’re good at.
Sometimes, Cynel comes over to praise how amazing his is and even they’re -very- close friends through all of their days. Tamurkhan also comes back into his life and even though Esme and Faer are very happy individuals, he gets to enjoy a nice evening or week in their bed with them and his great ass.
Ciaragan is happy and decides to stop being a priestess and goes back to felmancy. While faervell doesn’t need to rely on her, she is like the second best felmancer, and top notch demonologist which is far better than being a disgusting priestess or bishop or whatever she is. She doesn’t ever argue with Faer again about something stupid like his choices again and gets along very well with Esme.
The Bael’Nar Silk becomes the foremost in silk trades and they all become super wealthy off of it. It’s wonderful and everyone thinks they’re great which is true because they are the best.
Everyone grows really old and wealthy and happy. Faer gets to have sex all the time.
