Continued from this and several hours before this.
“From fire, you were born.
By fire, live and fight.
In fire, be reforged.
From fire, return to us now.”
A surge of flames rose within the ritual circle, the yawning Nether beneath a runed pattern ignited with primal, sacred flame; the form of the lost arcanist consolidating within them. For a moment, she appeared as though made completely - flesh, bones, and hair - of fire, the appearance of the flames around her looking astonishingly like wings, spreading wide from her body.
As the fire calmed, Aranya fell to the ground, seemingly from exhaustion - solid and mortal. She had cuts and bruises on her skin, and one sleeve of her robes was torn.
At first, the phoenix-mage looked around, shock and bewilderment on her face. "What... what...” she gasped. “How...?"
They had ripped her away from harm, her allies, her friends. People who gave a damn about her, loved her, or at least had an inarguable interest in her staying alive. They had saved her.
It happened so suddenly. One moment, she was gripping Tezzakel, siphoning the dreadlord’s power into herself, feeding and fueling the arcane heat in her hands to burn through his dark armor, to tear out his heart - to finish what had been started ten years ago - but then the next moment...
“No...” breathed Aranya, her smoldering green eyes going wide in horror. “NO...” She scrambled up from the ground, barely seeing her surroundings. Barely seeing the faces around her. She began to shout, “No no no NO!” She turned about, frantic. “It wasn't enough time! I needed more time!”
The others were surprised at her, they didn’t understand.
“I HAD HIM!” Aranya all but screamed. “I HAD HIM! I was supposed to finish this!” Her despair was evident on her face, in her voice, in her still-disoriented movements. “I had him and it's not done! I needed more time!”
Tezzakel was not dead.
Aranya had pursued him into the Nether, glutted on his power, and before she could finish him, she was saved.
She had rushed headlong right into what Tezzakel had wanted, one way or another.
The others tried to talk Aranya down, talk reasonably, talk sensibly. To argue this or that. She wasn’t hearing any of it, she was too distraught.
Noise. All just noise, too much of it.
Even Halenvar - of all people - stood on the receiving end of her turmoil, as she hit and shoved him and yelled in his face, trying to talk at her like everyone else was. Aranya began to erupt in flames, so deep in distress she was. “YOU BASTARD!” she yelled, furious. “YOU HAVEN’T WON!”
Finally, Aranya slumped to the ground, wailing, clutching her head, too filled with defeat and exhaustion. “So tired...” she managed to say under her breath.
The next thing she knew, Priscilla was holding some vial of liquid before Aranya’s face, giving her that look of ‘I’m taking care of you and you don’t get to argue’ that she had gotten to know too well too quickly. The arcanist obeyed, and whatever it was that the priestess gave her, it... calmed her. Physically, she relaxed, though her mind was still a storm.
Halenvar scooped the slender sorceress up into his brawny arms, carrying her with him through the portal that Logaine summoned to Erudition, and up the stairs to lay her in one of the spare beds that was often afforded to her. “I failed...” she mumbled mournfully into the valarjar’s chest.
“No,” he told her, his deep voice feeling like it rumbled all through her. “You’re alive.” He stayed beside her as she slept. Two demon hunters, at Demytrya’s wishes, stood guard. The magistrix seemed more assured about the arcanist’s safety with their presence for the time being, as Aranya recovered.
Peace did not find her that night, however. The phoenix slept like the dead, at first... but then grew fitful. Her heart raced, her brow glistened with a thin sweat. She inevitably woke with a ragged, gasping yell.
Flames caught the sheets as Aranya thrashed.
Halenvar was quick to react, get the fire doused, and once there was only harmless char patches on the clean linen, he grasped Aranya by the shoulders, calling her name again and again, trying to get through to her. His blue-green eyes searched the fel embers of hers. Finally her gaze cleared.
“It hurts,” she breathed, strainedly, her head falling forward onto his shoulder.
@halenvar @roewyn @priestess-priscilla @asharri @lledwynlomeriel @thebuildingcacophony @theron-darksunder @dariuszfrostblade @eclipseillidari @safrona-shadowsun @thefirstperished @kerrwynn @grandynetheroshan @wolf-queen @scions-of-antiquity @eclipsesyndicate @wolvesof-winter @velerodra AND MORE, so sorry if I didn’t tag you!
Dreadlord and blood elf swiped at each other, in a moment where the surroundings felt solid. Then the moment changed, and gravity and spatial definition all blurred together, twisting into formlessness.
Twisting. Ever-twisting. Nothing constant in this plane of existence.
It was the plane that threaded and intersected all other planes, and yet could not even be properly called a plane itself at all. The Twisting Nether.
“Rather bold swings, for a girl who just collapsed to the floor,” Tezzakel taunted Aranya. He lunged, his claws raking at her sleeve before she blinked out of reach. The torn robe revealed her bare arm, and the red mana inked under her skin, glowing bright enough to blaze. The elf was drawing reserve power from what the Kabal had given her. “Still full of surprises, I see,” the demon growled. “But how long will it last?”
“Long enough,” said Aranya, darkly.
Pulses of arcane crackled and flew at the demon, which were answered with the blistering essence of deepest shadow, launched at the elf. Both of them threw up wards and magical barriers which lasted to varying degrees of effectiveness as they flew, blinked, dodged, and lunged around each other, firing away. Every so often their dance would bring them in close to each other, and they would slash or swipe if they saw any opening to exploit.
There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. No terrain to use.
There was only an endless, insentient presence all around that enveloped them. Where sounds and colors that could not be audible and should not be visible - and yet they were - hummed in every sense. One moment Aranya’s boots ran in what felt like a direction, before she doubled back with a blink to a more advantageous position around her nemesis. The next moment she would feel as though free-falling, or flying, her toes touching nothing, her heart hammering with adrenaline and her stomach too light.
A massive, clawed hand slammed into Aranya’s chest, dazing her, and then shot out again to grasp her by the neck.
“I held you like this once before,” rumbled Tezzakel. “Dangling in my grasp, over a depthless infinity.” The tips of his claws curled inwards to poke into her slender throat, just barely hard enough to break skin, yet still restrained. “Troublemaker you were then, as you are now. I should have dropped you to your death.”
Aranya gasped, “But you didn’t.” Her much smaller hands clutched at his, his fingers holding her like steel, but without the pressure to choke her - as they did ten years ago. “You underestimated me. Toyed with me.” The blazing orbs of her eyes never ceased boring into him as she began to laugh, mockingly. “And I made you pay for your arrogance... Shame enough to make your mother weep, if you had one.”
The dreadlord’s grasp tightened. “I could break you right now,” he growled. “Snap your fragile neck and be done with you. Dispense with my aims for you.”
“So what’s stopping you?” Aranya goaded. “I always have been - always will be - more trouble than you ever bargain for.” The embers of her green eyes flashed as she glared. “End me now, you bastard, do it!” She yelled, “DO IT!”
In the split-second that it took for the nathrezim to care more about glowering back at the defiant mortal, the arcanist lifted one hand, and quick as a flash, one of her boot knives came whizzing up into her grip. Aranya jammed the knife into Tezzakel’s forearm, between muscle and bone, and as he reacted to the wound, she ripped the knife free and broke from his loosened grasp. Dodging behind him, she jumped upon his back and drove the knife into the side of his neck, hanging on one of his wings to the point of near dislocation.
It had been eight long years that the sin’dorei woman had kept her abiding hunger on a leash. Never indulging in the art of siphoning magic from another creature for more than a sip, and always only to just taste it and give it back.
To finally let go of restraint, after so long... to pull deeply... to feed...
Aranya tapped into the demon’s essence, his inherent power, and drank it in greedily, restoring what energy she had lost and gaining more.
More...
Tezzakel thrashed and fought to dislodge the elf from where she clung onto him, but as Aranya siphoned his magic and his strength began to waver, she spoke in a vicious tone, “It would have been sweeter to see your eyes, fading forever.” She put one hand squarely at the demon’s back, and his dark armor began to grow hot where she touched. The metal began to glow with the heat of the arcane charge that crackled around her hand, fueled by the magic she drew from him, and the demon faltered. “But I’ll content myself with burning through to your heart and tearing it out.”
To Be Continued...
@halenvar @safrona-shadowsun @thefirstperished @theperished-wra @asharri @priestess-priscilla @lledwynlomeriel @kerrwynn @velerodra @grandynetheroshan @theron-darksunder @wolf-queen @rizzythemonk @thebuildingcacophony @eclipseillidari @eclipsesyndicatewra and more, very sorry if I missed you!
Recounting the events of Thursday the 29th of June.
Aranya stood on one of the hills of Deliverance Point, with Halenvar at her side. It felt reassuring that he was with her, that he had been the first to come find her and be at her side since earlier that day.
He was always at her side, whatever she did.
The arcanist gave the valarjar a warm smile, which he returned. Asharri Kelanthis, good to her word, was soon to appear. Aranya hailed her and the blonde woman inclined her head in greeting. When Lledwyn and Priscilla made their way over at last, the sorceress addressed everyone who had come to aid her, “Good to see everyone here. Thank you all for coming, I appreciate it.”
"We could do no less,” said Halenvar. “At least for my part.”
Asharri grinned. “Well, I do seem to owe you one,” she said, and Aranya grinned back at her, chuckling softly. She had been glad to help Asharri, and Caitira, even with them at odds with Captain Thorne - though that was hardly their fault.
Lledwyn inclined his head in a faint nod towards Aranya and murmured quietly, “Of course, Lady Aranya.” He offered the other woman a faint smile, though the death knight had obviously come dressed for battle. And evidently, still felt the only-half-accurate title of “lady” was the most appropriate for the dark-haired woman.
Priscilla just sat quietly listening to the rest of them.
Aranya looked to Halenvar, who gave her a nod. It was time to brief the group. “As some of you know, there’s been a grudge between myself and a dreadlord I did some irreparable injury to ten years ago,” she began. “I all but thought of him as a trophy story of my past, but in recent days, since the opening of the Tomb, he has shown that he has not forgotten nor forgiven, and threatens the people around me. “
Halenvar grunted, “I have been waiting to bloody my blade on that demon.” the remark earned him a smirk from Aranya.
Lledwyn stayed silent, his piercing blue-eyed gaze focused upon the woman speaking. His lips thinned almost imperceptibly as his hand moved to the hilt of his sword, as if making certain the weapon were ready to be pulled at a moment’s notice. He flickered a brief glance at Halenvar when the other man spoke before shifting once again back to Aranya, waiting for her to continue, clearly.
Priscilla chimed in, “So the time has come to end it to keep from the Mr Nappy pants demon lord thingy will not come at you or the people that are clos eto you Ma'am.”
Aranya smile at the priestess. “Indeed,” she said. “What we are to do, is to enter the Cathedral of Eternal Night, and using the ambient energies of the Aegis of Aggramar and the felstorm, force the demon to manifest before he can gain any more strength than he already has.” She gestured to the runed necklace that she wore, its violet soul gem gleaming in the early evening light of the fel-tinged skies. “With this necklace Lledwyn crafted, and the soul gem Safrona gave me, he’ll be bound,” she explained. “He can be taken to the Netherstorm’s heart, and destroyed forever there.”
It was known to all, that only within the Nether, or on a world within the Nether, could a demon be destroyed utterly and forever.
Halenvar nodded, glancing to the soul stone necklace. It was clear that he disliked the item, but knew it was needed.
Asharri lofted a brow, listening quietly as her eyes swept the perimeter; falling upon each face she saw. “Kick him while he’s down then? I hope it’s as simple as it sounds. It never seems to be.”
Aranya nodded in agreement to Asharri. “I don’t suppose I need to warn you all that despite the best efforts of the Wardens, Illidari, and Legionfall forces, some demons are more than likely to have trickled back into the Cathedral since we took it,” she pointed out. “There will be quite a fight on our hands, regardless.”
"Which means I will be on my toes,” remarked Priscilla.
Halenvar cracked his knuckles, looking at the rest of the group. “Fighting has never bothered the Valarjar. Nor will it now.”
Lledwyn merely nodded his head.
“Are we all ready to move then?” Aranya asked, looking around at each one in the assembled group.
Asharri nodded, “As ready as ever.”
“At your word,” said Halenvar. With that, they all mounted and lifted off into the sky, the Cathedral gleaming with an ominous light ahead of them.
Asharri grimaced as she looked up at the looming structure, a shudder running down her spine. Gripping the hilts of her blades a little tighter, she narrowed her eyes and focused upon the entryway. Halenvar drew his vrykul blade, Ragnorok Who’s True Name is Odynsblade, from his back. His eyes set on the entrance.
Lledwyn murmured, “I’m quite certain that we will encounter many foes within by the looks of the forces that have encamped out here.” Th death knight looked over at the valarjar and said, “Let’s hope you can keep swinging that sword.”
Priscilla looked between the two men. “Okay if you two have so much built up steam why not fight it out? Starting to think it’s a male ego thing.”
Halenvar glanced to the priestess. “My rage is saved for the enemies of Aranya,” he said. “There is death to dealt.”
Lledwyn also spared a glance back at Priscilla, and then with a mirthless smile he murmured, “I’m saving myself for when I get my hands upon Mavas.”
Asharri smirked softly behind her mask, the corners of her eyes creasing a bit and giving away a slight pause of humor.
“You two can save yourself on things, keep the ego going but I am the one that will have to work to keep to hot-head males up,” retorted Priscilla. “Even if one needs a push type of healing form the shadow so the light does not burn him.”
Aranya drew The Stars’ Design from where it rested at her side, its translucent, white-gold blade glimmering brightly in the sickening light. “Here we go…” she said softy, to which Lledwyn nodded and Halenvar shouted a Valarjar war-cry.
And in they all went.
Once inside the Cathedral, Aranya looked around, checking the surroundings, while Lledwyn looked ahead to the doorway and the corridor beyond. All seemed quiet, at first, until a wrathguard demon appeared, shouting, “You will burn!”
Battle ensued, blades flashed and streams of magic flew, and within moments all demons in the room were dispatched. Thus it continued, steadily further into the Cathedral, as the lackeys of the Burning Legion - hopeful of taking back the once-sanctified place - all but crawled from every hiding place with each new level the elves climbed. There was little incident beyond the expected battles, but at one point, a succubus held Halenvar in her thrall, which Aranya freed him from with a counterspell to the demoness’ charms. Asharri found herself bedecked in the webs of spider demons and continued to have an utterly impossible time of ridding herself of the strands sticking to her clothes and hair. At last, they reached the topmost sanctum of the cathedral, where rested - still as yet un-maligned - the Aegis of Aggrammar.
Though everything had lead to this one pivotal moment, Aranya was yet the last one to enter the room. “Alright,” she said, taking a deep breath and preparing to focus on the task at hand. “Now we begin. We may have company to fight off once they sense that power is being channeled here.
Halenvar grunted, “Then they come to die.”
“Everyone is prepared?” Lledwyn murmured.
“Depends on what you want up to prepared for,” answered Priscilla.
“We came this far,” said Asharri
Halenvar concurred, “It’s time we finish this.”
Aranya began to invoke the ambient power surrounding the aegis and coursing through the felstorm, weaving it together. It was like reaching out and pushing through water, sending her will along the strands of magic, and then beckoning them back.
Unsurprisingly, demons appeared, drawn to the magical activity within the sanctum. Asharri, Halenvar, Lledwyn, and Priscilla succeeded in fending them all off, as Aranya ended her evocations with a loud, demanding shout of the true name of the demon she sought to force manifest. “TEZZAKEL!”
The dreadlord appeared, as if nothingness rolled off of him like a silk curtain from his form. His dark armor seemed to absorb and devour all light that touched it, his massive wings flexed imposingly. A sickening smirk pulled wide on his mouth and a dark chuckle rolled from deep in his chest. “We meet again, troublesome little elf…” Tezzakel rumbled in his deep, thick voice. “How quaint that you bring allies.”
Asharri stood to the side of the other elves, sizing up the nathrezim; silently making note of any visible weak points she could find - if any.
Halenvar growled at the dreadlord, “Aranya has called for your death demon. You should make peace with what you hold dear, fel scum.”
Lledwyn simply fixed his gaze upon the demon, his hands going to the dual blades that he wore at his side and drawing them out carefully. His look shifted to Aranya when next she spoke.
"No more games, Tezzakel,” said the phoenix-mage, in a tone that was low, clear, and dagerous. “Your threats are done with.”
Tezzakel laughed loudly. “You think the game is done?” He looked quite amused for a moment. “That we FINISH this today?” His amused expression shifted, his look hardening into a glare, and he shook his head. “Little fool, you have only played yourself right to where I want you.” The demon flared his wings, his arms and clawed hands spread wide as if in invitation, his stance settling lower, as if getting ready to spring. “HAVE AT IT IF YOU THINK YOU CAN,” he goaded.
Halenvar was the first to charge, the other elves dashing into the fray, swinging his greatsword viciously. Lledwyn held Tezzakel’s attention with deadly prowess, the ebon knight was not to be ignored. Asharri was quick and light, and a blur with her blades, striking at whatever she perceived to be a weak point. Aranya stood further back, incanting fiery counters to the demon’s shadow magic, while Priscilla remained focused, keeping the group mended despite how Tezzakel thrashed, slashed, and blasted at the elves.
Ultimately, it was too much. The five elves overwhelmed the demon, and he buckled under the injury and exhaustion.
Aranya stood over Tezzakel’s battered, dying form, pitilessness on her every feature.
Halenvar looked between her and the demon. “Do it Aranya,” he urged. “End this and end him. Let it be done.”
She nodded.
Tezzakel gasped, “Not going to feed from me as I fade away this time…?” The demon chuckled, though he clutched at his aching ribs, trying to keep his gaze level with Aranya’s, as he was sprawled in a widening pool of his own blood. “You think… So sure… That you are utterly the master of yourself, that your nature can stay leashed forever.” His horned head shook slightly. “Fool,” he spat.
Lledwyn murmured, “We are only monsters if we choose to be.” He fixed his gaze upon the demon for a moment longer before shifting to look at Aranya, his expression a thoughtful one, through his usual stoicism.
Aranya invoked the words of binding that Safrona had taught her, drawing the essence of Tezzakel to the soul gem, the necklace glowing and pulsing as the demon’s form dissolved away. “And I choose,” she murmured “to always be master of myself. Whatever my darkeness is.” The glow of the soul gem dwindled, and the necklace lay quiet, resting about the arcanist’s neck with two others that she always wore. She lifted her gaze to the others around her. “We’ll need to journey to the Netherstorm to kill him utterly. Only so far into the Nether can a demon be destroyed,” she said. “Will any of you be with me then?”
Aranya could just hear the wry smirk in Halenvar’s deep voice from behind her, as he replied, “Need you even ask such a thing of me?” She turned and gave him a broad smile.
Asharri nodded. “I’d like to see the thing I’ve come for completed to the very end,” she said.
Aranya nodded to Asharri, thanking her, and the blonde woman smiled in return.
Lledwyn murmured, “I offered you my aid in the demons destruction, Lady Aranya. You know that I would not leave my oath half-fulfilled.”
The dark-haired sorceress gave a smile and a nod to everyone, happy to be among friends, then turned to lead the way out.
But no sooner had Aranya moved half a pace, when she suddenly seized up, eyes wide in a silent, shocked gasp, and dropped to the floor in pain. A bloodcurdling scream tore from her mouth once breath found her again, as the runed necklace and soul gem began to blaze unnaturally.
Halenvar rushed to her side, kneeling beside her. “What is happening?!”
Priscilla moved quickly to Aranya’s side as well, checking her pulse and the state of her vital signs.
Lledwyn frowned at the sudden glow emanating from the necklace and the gem in its center. "It most certainly should not be doing that,“ he growled.
A deep, dark voice pulsed through the room, seemingly on the threads of energy that course through it. “THIS IS NOT FINISHED,” it boomed. “YOU HAVE NOT WON. THE GAME IS FAR FROM OVER.”
Asharri had started to follow suit and be at the mage’s side, only to halt immediately in her steps. Frozen for a moment. She quickly looked to the others, and back to the fallen arcanist, approaching carefully.
Halenvar grabbed at the necklace, attempting to crush the gem in his fist. It did not work, but it did not stop the Valarjar from trying.
Asharri eyed the woman on the floor with concern, yet couldn’t seem to keep her gaze torn from that gem for too long. “Befouled demon,” she vocalized. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t this work?”
Aranya began to go limp, her agonized contorting lessened, as it seemed her energy drained from her. The pulsing glow of the soul gem in the necklace grew brighter and brighter, appearing to draw from her essence, until it exploded.
In the flash, Tezzakel, in regained form, appeared once more in the sanctum with the elves. A thick, sinister laugh rumbled from deep within his massive chest, his eyes on Aranya. “I repay you, tenfold,” he growled. “All of you.”
With a slash of shadow at his claws, the demon tore a hole in reality, a portal into the Nether, and escaped through.
Aranya lifted her head up from the floor, watching him retreat. “No…” she choked, burning green eyes fixated on the rift that her nemesis had gone through. This couldn’t be happening. “NO!”
At the last second, she bolted after him with whatever strength she still had, running through into the Nether, the rift closing up as smoothly as water just behind her, leaving the others to watch her disappear.
She was gone.
@halenvar @lledwynlomeriel @asharri @priestess-priscilla @safrona-shadowsun @kerrwynn @thefirstperished @wolf-queen @rizzythemonk @velerodra @shaded-hawke @eclipsesyndicatewra @sunspireport @scions-of-antiquity @theperished-wra If I’m missing anyone who’s involved or interested in this arc, forgive me.
Thank you everyone who participated in the ritual event to pull Aranya back home from the Nether! Her post-traumatic self will be an interesting thing to work with as her development from here goes, and I am truly happy and blessed to have all of you sticking with me and being a part of that to see where all of this goes. <3
Within the further depths of the once-sanctified Cathedral of Eternal Night - now the tomb of Sargeras, and the font of power for the Burning Legion on Azeroth - a particular demon, an inquisitor, hovered before a fel brazier. His chilling voice invoked a connection, deep into the Nether, for there was someone he needed to confer with.
“Tezzakel, I call you,” spoke the demon, in the tongue of the Nathrezim. The image of a dreadlord - armored, massive, his powerful wings flexing - appeared in the fel flames. It spoke.
“The information you gave was useful, for a time…” rumbled Tezzakel, his blazing eyes flashing with contempt, though not for his fellow demon. “Your insight into the sin’dorei troublemaker’s connection to the Tanari, and all the opportunity that his predicament could afford, was enough to get her attention.” The dreadlord turned, flexing his hands and wings like a frustrated habit. “Regrettably, my implications of forcing sway on him are no longer of any value. She has seen him in void-induced state. She knows now that I am not one that can influence or directly harm him, as I am.”
“Such a pity,” rasped the inquisitor. “It was hoped that, through such carefully arranged fear and intimidation, the mortal woman would expose her weaknesses, make herself vulnerable.”
Tezzakel made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “You underestimate her, as I once did,” he growled. “But few who have ever fallen by the ‘phoenix’s’ hand make that mistake any longer.” He narrowed his glance sidelong at the inquisitor. “And for all the fact that you tore her mind apart, after capturing her in Suramar, you still know nothing.”
The inquisitor hissed, cold, indignant. “I know that she learned your true name," he said. “I know that there was another YOU, in Draenor; this is how she learned of it.” His tone became urgent. “If she no longer feels that her Tanari king is threatened by you, she will have the power to act against you.”
The nathrezim stood silent, still, listening to this, absorbing it… And then began to laugh, dark and deep.
The inquisitor remained expressionless, silent, and patiently waited for an explanation.
“So the goose chase is at an end, now the phoenix will bring her fury,” mused Tezzakel. “Perfect.”
For all his unholily-gained knowledge, the inquisitor did not quite follow. “Perfect?”
The dreadlord smirked widely. “Oh yes,” he said. “Perfect.” He swept out one of his clawed hands, in a gesture akin to laying forth something to be seen. “You see, her course went in never-ending spirals on the Shore, searching for answers. How to move against me without also endangering the blind fool?” Tezzakel’s wings stretched outward, languid in motion, but impressive in effect. “My threats had the power to force her hand, but her hand was stayed. Now it’ll come straight for my throat.” A sinister smirk curled his lips. “But it will be she who chokes on the next move.”
On the hill of lilies, within the township borders of Sunspire Port, Aranya stood upon an upper balcony of her house - the house that former Purveyor Blaque, the First of the Perished, had built her. The man had since relocated from his dwellings and doings as the purveyor of Sunspire, to have his sanctum beneath this very house. The balcony on which the sorceress stood lead into her own arcane sanctum, on the topmost floor.
It was an interesting duality. His was a space for matters of shadow and the innocent or worthy dead, within the earth, and hers was a space for matters of stars and storms and fire, close to the sky. It made the phoenix smile a little to think of at times.
Her Shadow, she called him, and not without merit. He understood her troubles as well as his own, and yet he also had a perspective that… gave her a bit of peace, in a way. Eased away any fears that most of the living had about the future.
Aranya’s fear was of a different sort altogether. Not of death, for she already knew when she became Perished that she was destined to die a thousand times, a thousand different ways, her fate spoken of from the mouth of Bwonsamdi himself. Her fear - as only a phoenix could fear - was what will I become?
The arcanist turned from the view of twilight over the port and strode inside, to a desk, where rested Kerrwynn’s enchanted quill in its crystal inkwell that he had commissioned as a surprise gift to her. There were a few letters she needed to write.
The first was to Kurel.
I told you before that I didn’t want you caught up in what started with me in Outland, what the demons want to finish with me now. What happened in my past isn’t a secret, but there are things about it, which I only hope won’t threaten any secrets of yours.
She told him everything, but with a surprising level of succinctness and brevity - Aranya knew the blind captain had little patience for long-winded stories - about what the Withdrawal and learning to tap mana had brought out in her. Her history as a predator, of demons, of ethereals, and the grudges and enemies she’d earned because of it. How Tezzakel was the first of a scant handful of nathrezim that she had managed to defeat single-handedly in her life, but also how he was different, how she had drained him of his power as he died in that nether-washed world and crippled him for all eternity. The last thing she wrote of was the dreadlord’s threats, and how she finally came to know that they were only half-empty.
You told me once that if I went too far, asked too much, got in too deep out in the desert, you would come for me.
I’m in deep, Kurel. Always was, even if I didn’t know it or see it for a long time.
But this isn’t the desert. This isn’t your element, and is just barely mine.
Keep looking after everyone in the Port, and after Demy. I may survive what comes next, I may not, but whatever happens, know that I still mean what I said on your doorstep: I would fight all the harder at your side, than I did at Anasterian Sunstrider’s.
The next letter was to Riz, care of Velerodra, telling him very similarly about what really happened in Outland, and what was coming full circle to her now. An explanation that she felt she rather owed him.
If I live, I may need you, Riz, need your help to find my way again in the world. I know I haven’t ever said it, but I hope I’ve always shown you, as well as I can, how you’ve been the brother I never had from the moment I walked into port.
The last one was to Demytrya, also following the same vein of enlightening her to what all had happened, and what Aranya had yet to do about it. But as she drew this last letter to a close…
I know you have a good heart Dem. Light knows it, loas know it. You’re always trying to look after everyone. Trying to protect everyone, trying to save everyone. But no matter how badly you may want it, no matter what you think you can try,
Aranya had to blink back her emotions, staring at the page, a lump rising in her throat, looking at her own words to a woman who had offered to stick her neck out and very nearly done so for her before. But her hand flicked the next words resolutely into being all the same.
Aranya sat in the dimness, gazing into the slick, iridescent sheen on the water that flowed through the Dalaran sewers, the relative isolation of the Underbelly providing cover for her contemplations. Around her were the glowing and cracked remains of bottles of discarded magical substances, crystals and dust. Despite how well her business with Kazakus and Killian turned profit from all this mana trash delivered to the alchemist's door, it was not the subject that preoccupied her mind.
The sin'dorei woman thought of her past. Things she done, things that would never let her go, and the things that were re-surfacing to take her back to everything she used to be. Was there a way for her to survive it? Was it possible she could do things differently this time around? And who would she be?
She felt a gaze on her before she turned her glance to find the face of Mavas observing her. "Master Hawke," she greeted with a tone of blithe spirits and well-practiced politeness, yet it was clear that the man had come upon her at a time when she was brooding. A thing she was never keen to let others see. "The master of shadows has found the flame out in the darkness, I see. What brings you?"
The warlock stayed silent, fel eyes gleaming as he seemed to just stand there, watching her, never blinking. Finally the sin'dorei spoke, to her side where she wasn't looking, his seemingly normal self vanishing before her eyes as he simply stood next to her.
"You spoke to me once about trust. Trust in you...your trust in captain An'diel. Tell me, has something changed?"
Aranya at first blinked, silently looking back at the man, processing his question.
"No," she said finally, and then looked away. "And yes," she admitted. Some part of her proverbial armor cracked just then, a tiny fracture in the blitheness and bravery she always comported herself with to the eyes of others. "Not in trust, but in..." she trailed off. "I'm supposing you've heard some of my past by now, or pieces of it, at least. What I was and what I did with the Sunwell gone."
A deep breath, a heavy sigh.
"What enemies I made and what they would do to have me pay for what I did to them."
Aranya finally met Mavas' eyes again. "Threats have been made, Mavas. Kurel was a figure in one such threat, that's what's changed."
"Did you tell Phantom about the defenses of Sunspire?" Mavas asked after a long pause, studying her, his body never moving but his eyes flickering like candles. "I need to know the truth, and I need to know exactly what I must do to protect my home." It was obvious the elf was tired, he had a bit of strain on his face, but he could not, would not, falter.
Aranya gave the warlock a look. Her whiskery black brows arched at him like he had just asked THE most utterly out of left-field and completely ridiculous thing that she had heard in years. Sunspire was just as much her home as it was his. And for one who gave every show of being so ardently dedicated to protecting Kurel, he seemed entirely uninterested in who could have made threats on him to the arcanist, or what the nature of that threat even was. She may as well have given him no answer at all.
"No," she answered. "I did not." She rolled her eyes and added, "Furthermore, I haven't even seen Phantom in weeks, so if you're looking for him, then I can't help you and you should be on your way."
The arcanist turned her head with dismissive deliberateness and elegance to turn her eyes to the sheen-slicked water nearby. "Or," she said after a minute. "If you would rather stay and explain what in the fel would ever give you such a fool idea as to think that myself, or Halenvar, or Colpeia would ever have the complete idiocy to go yapping off to someone outside the port - let alone any soul that isn't Blaque, Kurel, or Riz - about all that we put into the defenses of Sunspire Port, you're welcome to sit down and do just that."
The woman's smooth voice positively dripped with her unamusement.
"Blaque has stepped down as Purveyor. I am now Sunspire's Purveyor. Phantom threatened to blow up the Port, to kill everyone inside, and to send Magister Firavel and an army there to murder, and capture Kurel and place him on trial on false charges. They also threatened to erase his mind." Mav slowly lowered to lean down over her. "And he said quite clearly that he had spoken to one of the creators of the defenses...the titan defenses. Now, being as you are and have always seemed to be the chief designer and fabricator of these items...you can see why I came to you first."
"Mmm," uttered Aranya, impassively, after he had finished speaking. She still did not grace him with her gaze, but simply took in all the things he said, putting pieces together and filling in blanks, and then filing them away in her mind. The corner of her mouth pulled up slyly as she said, "Not to pick at your words, Master Hawke, but one would have to capture Kurel before murdering him, no?"
The sorceress chuckled. Then she became all business and command. "Much of what you say I've already been given notice of by other sources. Blaque himself told me - in his way - of his resignation, though it is only now that I come to know that it is you in particular who are his replacement. Lady Crimsonrose and Lord Lomeriel informed me just the other night that Phantom was up to something explosively not good, and I'm further aware that Pompouspants Firavel presses accusations of an absurd nature upon Lledwyn as well. Oh!" She looked at him now, with an expression of a kind that feigned a girl speaking over some particularly amazing gossip with one of her schoolmates, her sarcasm for such light sentiment rather evident. "And that Azure'Eish and An'Diel came to blows! Quite marvelous, that, don't you agree?
Aranya sighed, heavily, and still very unamused, turning her look away from him again. "The sheer mountains of disaster that happen every time I leave for a few weeks never ceases impress on me. And unless you can tell me exactly what Phantom said - word for word - I can only tell you these possibilities," she said, once again looking him in the eye, her smoldering fel green orbs locked to the candles of his. "One: Phantom did speak with one of the defense system's three creators, but speaking with someone at all is not always what it seems. Could be about anything from bloody swords to butter-knives. Speaking with someone does not necessarily mean speaking of the matters that you are lead to believe, and it is very possible that he would say one thing to have you believe something else."
The arcanist continued, "Two: someone is either divining or spying on port affairs, whether or not Phantom has in fact spoken to anyone, and in such a case we have a mole in our midst." Her tone of voice began to seethe, "And I, for one, would be gratified to hear of a swift end to such a problem... Alas, Hawke," she turned her gaze away again. "It may, possibly, be a problem you'll have to see to yourself." Her tone went softer, but there was a weight in it that sounded purposeful, "You're not the only one who desires to protect Kurel or Sunspire, and Phantom is not the worst thing that could happen to either one."
Mav listened to her, never losing her gaze, and he stood up then as she finished. "At the moment, he is, and considering everything, I had assumed you would be more concerned. However, my question was answered, I appreciate your honesty. It leaves for me to interrogate Halenvar, and Colpeia in turn, if they are also tied with the construction of the item."
"Have a good evening, Aranya, I will not trouble you again." he offered a small bow, before turning to move away.
"Be careful, Mavas," called Aranya after him, and despite how her words had simmered to him just a moment ago, she was in truth quite sincere.
She did not, however, press him to stay or tell him that he was very, very wrong. He couldn't help her do what needed to be done, anyway.
I don’t know whether I want a hot bath or to set something on fire and watch it run screaming.
Worst part is there’s no one around to calm me down.
... Like leaving an open fire unsupervised and hoping it won’t spit sparks into the air and set something else ablaze. Ha, ha, ha, how funny!
I need a sleeping draught. I need to switch off before I do something that puts me right into the corner where Tezzakel wants me and not even care.
...
... Would this have happened all along? It’s been how many years? Eight? Six?
I fought a whole war with myself the entire time I fought a war against the Scourged bastard who shattered my kingdom. It took me that long to get a full rein on myself.
Now I’m slipping... He knows it... He has to know it...
WHY DON’T I CARE?
Sleeping draught. Now... And some of Colpeia’s incense and tea.
{This whole thing was written and posted after 1AM, with the writer not entirely in her own head. Perfect time to channel that creatively, oh yes. Mentions to @beamgully}
Why... Why did they both have to be so damn prideful? Why couldn’t they just straighten over their words and come to an accord?
Aranya had thought this to herself ever since she left the gala.
Halenvar had gotten less humble than he should have about his crew and his ship when Kurel had told him to mind that if there were gun-ports on it, they were to be closed while entering the bay. The scorpid king had not reacted so jovially to the valarjar’s response, and things had wound into disarray, insults, and both men storming away while Aranya tried to keep the peace.
She was going to have to talk to both of them.
Halenvar could perhaps be cajoled towards some humility, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The circumstances by which the valarjar and the arcanist had met, and gradually come to mean so much to each other, showed that well enough. It was possible it would take more than one go at speaking with him, for no matter how Halenvar regarded Aranya, he was not a man who could just be bent.
Kurel could be persuaded, Aranya had done so before, but there would always be his snapping of claws and brandishing of stinger first, and whenever he came around it was always with terms and conditions of his own. Such was the way of a man who would be torn apart in the deepest hell of the Nether before he ever bowed to anyone. Such was the way of a king.
Yet, for all his pride, the Tanari was not a fool, he had sense. Aranya sometimes suspected that one of the reasons he continued to respect her, was for the fact that she wasn’t frighted away by any amount of his growling or harshness, but persisted in finding the right thing to say to him, to illuminate reason or some situation to him. She also suspected that sometimes he delighted in it, presenting a challenge to her, seeing what she was made of, and watching how she didn’t disappoint. It had seemed to become the nature of many - though by no means all - of their dealings.
Aranya needed to sleep on the whole matter. This was not going to be pretty, when both men were going to be all growls and scowls to start with.
Warped skies shimmered and glittered above her. The air felt charged, raised a tingle over the blood elf’s skin. Wasted land and geysers of fire surrounded her for miles...
There was a sense of troubling familiarity creeping through Aranya. Not from this place, but from this feeling that itched in her veins. A familiar sense of hunger, physical and unyielding. A hunger that had driven another appetite to emerge from within the deepest parts of her nature, and fostered it into something that she kept on a leash for the past several years.
The physical hunger and addiction to magic, which had revealed the true predator that she was.
I’m dreaming... This is a dream...
There was someone behind the sin’dorei sorceress. She knew it without needing any sign of it, and she felt who it was before her dream-form even turned around.
Dreadlord by CrazyTaco93
Tezzakel...
The nathrezim smirked as recognition and disdain played over the fair features of his killer.
Aranya’s first reaction was to stay still where she was, wary, yet sensing no aggression from the massive demon. “You’re dead,” she vocalized, deadpan.
A rumbling chuckle rose from the dreadlord’s chest, low and dark, “Oh, come come, surely you know that I am not.”
“I killed you,” said Aranya, glaring, stepping cautiously as the demon inched slightly forward and then to the side, mirroring his steps as the two began to circle each other.
“You did more than kill me, troublesome elf,” replied Tezzakel in a deadly voice that was something of a mix between a deep murmur and a purr, the edges of his mouth still playing upwards at the corners.
“You’re a dream,” sneered Aranya, fel-washed eyes emitting tiny sparks with scorn.
“Am I?” Tezzakel in a mild tone of voice with a smile, the many points of his teeth gleaming just behind his lips.
“I feasted on your power, as you lay choking on your own blood,” retorted the Thalassian woman, her fair, refined chin jutting forward. “I felt it singing in my blood for hours upon hours after I had watched the life drain from your eyes under my hand.”
“Oh, you did that,” admitted the demon in a low growl. “In this world, so saturated by the Nether-” he swept his thickly muscled arms outwards, gesturing about them “- you had me right where you could have wanted me...” A bitter note entered his voice then. “Ironic, how you turned the tables on me, when I was hunting you.” His hooves stopped their circling pace, and Aranya did the same. “You crippled me. Irrevocably,” he admitted. Then a slow, thoroughly unpleasant smile crept over his sharp features. “But you did not destroy me. We both know that this region of this shattered, wretched world was not so far into the Nether for you to have done that.”
“Is this your circumspect way of making threats?” Aranya snapped, losing patience. “Warning me that you’ll return for vengeance? Is that what you want?”
“Oh, I want more than vengeance, elf,” growled the nathrezim, his smile disappearing into a hard-eyed glare. “Much more!”
Tezzakel launched a blistering ball of fel at Aranya, and she dashed out of its path in barely enough time. Flame and arcane flew at the massive, evasive winged demon, as felfire and shadow rained and erupted around the blinking, elusive sin’dorei. For what could have been a minute or an eternity they carried on in this way, as if they were bent on blasting each other apart.
Until one ill-timed blink brought Aranya within Tezzakel’s grasp. The dreadlord slammed his large hand into her comparatively diminutive chest, knocking her on her back as he pinned her to the ground. He brought his face down, right next to hers, his sizable horns making no sound, though they must have scraped the ground.
The nathrezim’s lips just barely touched her, brushing the side of her face as he spoke. “I want vengeance, yes, but killing you would not satisfy me,” he said in a smoldering whisper. “I could tear you apart - piece by bloody piece - a thousand times, and the music of your screams would be nowhere near enough to gratify me.”
Aranya turned her face to the side, away from him, but he persisted.
“You watched the life in me bleed away, as you took all the best of me,” growled the demon. “But I was watching you, too. I saw the hunt-lust and the triumphant ecstasy in you. I saw what truly lies in the very making of your soul.” He smiled as he taunted, “Your hunger has always gone so much deeper than your blood, hasn’t it? You are more like myself and the demons that you have fed on than you will ever admit.” Tezzakel chuckled, low and dark in his throat. “What I want, little ‘phoenix,’ is to watch,” he continued, his clawed hand gripping her a little harder. “Watch as that hunger you think you can hide as you please completely consumes you. To watch you break under the burning in your blood...” His mouth was right by her long, pointed ear as he said, “Until you go up in flames, and there is nothing left you. Only when I have seen that, will vengeance be mine.”
It was eerie, how he called her “phoenix” as everyone did, and then swore to see her go up in flames in such a way.
“I don’t think so,” said Aranya, eyes narrowed.
Blink!
The sorceress got free of the demon’s hand with magic, but now all around her was new terrain. A fel-storm shrouded the sky, the ground was blackened sickeningly, and demons wandered and flew about a structure that dominated the landscape, with a pillar of pure magic emanating towards the clouds. It was the Broken Shore.
“Oh, no?” Tezzakel laughed in reply to the elf arcanist. “Look around! Don’t think that because you doomed me to be diminished that I am entirely limited,” he admonished, gesturing to the Tomb of Sargeras, the font of the Legion’s power in Azeroth. “The game has changed, in ways you did not anticipate.”
Suddenly, a hand reached from behind Aranya, grabbing her by the throat and dangling her over an infinite void that appeared beneath her feet. She clutched at the hand, momentarily dazed... until she saw exactly whose hand it was that had hold of her.
The mage’s jaw went slack in an amazement and horror. Kurel stared impassively as his grip never lessened around her neck. “No,” she gasped. “No... Kurel...”
A chuckle rose from the blind man’s throat, but it was not the oddly reassuring, gravelly voice of the man whom Aranya liked and respected. It was Tezzakel’s sinister voice.
And just like that, he dropped her, screaming, into the void.
Aranya awoke with a start. Sweat soaked her raven hair, her heart raced and her breath came in gasps.
“A dream... It was a dream... It was a dream...” she repeated, over and over.
It still didn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of anxiousness and dread that gripped her now.
If it wasn’t a dream...? What did that mean?
Kurel had confided the nature of his resurrection to Aranya, he trusted her enough to tell her that, and knew by now that she would not betray that. The arcanist had not been serious when she quipped about Tezzakel possibly being one of the demons whose essence had brought the blind, horned captain back from the dead.
... But... if he was...?
Tezzakel would have been weak enough at the time, for certain, to be bound by any number of things, it was possible. If he tried to assert himself within Kurel, assume control or outright kill him...
“BASTARD!”
The demon was luring her into a no-win game. He wanted to watch her suffer, see her become the monster she once was and then some, and watch it tear her apart. He was willing to harm those she cared about to corner her into it.
So what if she could save Kurel by draining the last vestiges of Tezzakel’s power from him? It would glut her with the demon’s magic, she would go into withdrawal not long after and begin to hunt again. And if Kurel could not be saved in such a way and was instead outright killed? There was no knowing what Aranya would have to do if Tezzakel re-manifested and confronted her anyway.
And this was assuming Kurel was even the dreadlord’s first target. It was possible Tezzakel was not even bound to the Tanari elf at all.
The whole nathrezim race were cunning schemers, there was no saying or knowing what Tezzakel would do or who he would go after to get what he wanted.
Aranya reached down over the side of her bed into the cuff of one of her boots, withdrawing the ivory scarab that Kurel had given her.
She held the precious thing awhile in her palm, her thumb stroking over it’s carved wing-covers, the red stone on the chain bracelet that Halenvar had given her gleaming just beneath it.
Please, let it only have been a dream.
Aranya couldn’t help herself, her fingers closed around the smooth token and brought it up in a fist close to her mouth. The red mana inked beneath her skin in the armband design given to her by the Kabal pulsed with her emotions, flaring with power, and she found herself reaching out as she only did when urgent to her horned friend. “Something’s happened,” she whispered, her distress evident in her shaky breath. “Something’s going to happen.”
Not really trusting herself in this state, she withdrew and said nothing else.
Mentions to @kurel-andiel @halenvar and tags to @mrblaque @shaded-hawke since Blaque would have heard those whispers, too, through his connection with Aranya, and Mavas rezzed Kurel.
Prior story with Tezzakel here: Old Hungers by AranyaVerSarn (that’s me).
