#torithas

[thanidiel]

Prompt Three: "Scale"

Even in her self-directed educations, she learns from another.

She shaped out the wisping nature of Auri with Esen, a language she had thought her heart had ached to learn for another but turned out to be for love of the once-ugdan instead. Signing, seen and referenced and returned, with the manual surrounded by the crossed legs of her and two; waving fingers that seemed to dwarf three of her own, sticky with mechanical grease and flecks of sandwich crust. If she gives herself a few seconds to think, she can remember in a tactile way, the light pressure of Avenai’s hands against her wrists and shoulders, steadying that handgonne pointed towards the cracked plateaus of Thanalan, while she gave unto her the secrets of succession fire. Alchemy, she accredits to Vander’s tutorial moons ago in the clinic of that dripping alembic; Mazin’s texts, of properties and the meld of blood and metals, given so freely to her. Even ‘alcohol’, ‘mixology’, a domain that all souls so easily espouse her lordliness in, was discerned from the observation of a ginger-haired, towering, woman who was so much more than she ever would say - this seamless way that she had the knowledge of centuries in exactly what paired with what.

This, however, is the only thing that she can attest to have learned herself.

This is her’s, her’s alone, and she worked for her capacity here.

It’s something she has been doing longer than she thinks anyone, except perhaps Yellow Rose, could ever guess.

It started when she was uncertain of herself, this new life. Trapped, in the ways that count, in the lurching and thrumming sway of a vessel above sea and sky. When she disliked the nature of being seen in a manner beyond that ever-present chord of low-throated, and yet accepted and compromised, violation. When her muscles ached in the need for some activity when the blocked nature of her suns was suddenly not there, when the mindlessness of pacing compounded squares along the training room started to drive her mad. When she realised she needed to make her opportunities, than to leave her incapabilities as they are.

And here is the fruit of it.

While everyone else floats high above her to that tiled rooftop, she has to put in a little more finesse. Like she always does. Like how it always takes her a little bit of work to take things granted in this life. She never cares to wonder what it would be like if she had the easy way too.

It’s the sort of thing that makes even Xiaohu feel fucking heavy.

This fluctuation of gravity impending down upon your body with every tug and burst of muscle-flow.

But it’s rewarding nonetheless.

This brief moment where her starting run compresses its momentum against stone, a force that wants to move and move forward but instead finds itself shunted up against a barrier. ‘Sticking’ her to it for the requisite half-second of continued movement of some couple fulms of the wall until she can twist and lunge for it, the first ledge in the map she had made with a swoop of her eyes along darkened shapes.

And in lunging for it, transfers some of that stupoured energy up. Then it’s time to tense more than her lower core, the steadiness of knees that wanted to shake; a whole bodied firm centered in the solidity of her gloved fingers burrowed into the balcony, tugging at her chest. Snap, springs the cord, hinging to its latch while its weight is denied the crash below.

After that?

Levers and pulleys: sometimes she lifts herself up onto something like the first balcony, tilts herself over on it with iron clutching her belly; other times she pulls herself to it in a steady bow’s draw, felt from the expanse of shoulder blade to shoulder blade and hugging the curve of her ribs.

And like everyone else, she gets her fucking way up there.

[trained-trainwreck]

⁂ - grab my muse by the front of their shirt, possibly shoving them back, ⌧ - grip my muse by the back of the neck, ♧ - slap my muse’s hand away from something they shouldn’t touch, ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground

“You don’t have to do this!”

Pleasant enough words, he supposed. Torithas looked down at the hands clutching to the collar of his cuirass and gently covered them with one of his own. She shoved him fruitlessly, trying to press him back and prevent him from marching to what was certain doom. No matter how hard she shoved, no matter how hard he wished things had gone differently, nothing would change the hand that fate had dealt them. Things were what they were. and that’s all there was to it.

Normally rough hands turned soft as he gently pried Avenai’s hands free of his armor with one hand and wiped away some of the smudged blood and grease that streaked across her face with the pad of his thumb. Her hand settled gently on his wrist and she shook her head, unable to bring herself to speak but desperate to change his mind all the same. One of the others called out to them from somewhere deeper inside the dwelling that had become their makeshift refuge.“There’s a way out in the back! Come on!”

Avenai turned her head toward the source of the voice and Torithas took the opportunity. His fist clenched around the collar of her shirt and he shoved her hard toward the waiting arms of the Runner’s crew.

“Take her. I will buy time.”

Torithas did not wait for confirmation or give Avenai a chance to argue the point. He took up his sword in one hand and stepped over the threshold of the doorway out into the smoke-choked streets. His failure to keep Sicrius’ hounds off Avenai’s trail had led to this, had endangered her and the entire crew. If he could not keep her safe any longer, then Torithas would do the next best thing:

He would make Sicrius pay for every step gained on her trail with blood.

_______________________________________________________________

How in the Emperor’s name had he let himself get wrangled into this? Torithas heaved a heavy sigh as he lay on the floor of the Runner’s engineering deck, half tangled up with Avenai as she all but crawled over him to reach whatever very expensive piece of magitek she needed to continue her work on the other very expensive piece of magitek she was working on- neither of which he understood at all. For the last bell and a half she’d been muttering to herself about conversions or converters or...something to that effect while twisting them both into shapes he didn’t realize the Hyuran form capable of so that she could reach the necessary nooks and crannies.

Finally she had found whichever of the million tools she needed at the moment, rolled back over him, adjusted her coveralls, and squirmed her way back up into the access hatch she’d been fussing with. Magitek engineers were a bizarre lot true enough, but Avenai took it to a completely different level. Even now he could hear her muttering something and he wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself or to the ship. Neither one would surprise him, honestly. Finally Avenai tapped him on the shoulder with the ball of her foot- the sign to pull her out of the hatch, which he did.

With a practiced hand, Avenai replaced the cover to the access hatch and waved for Torithas to follow her. Their next stop was another nearly identical hatch, only this one was overhead. Normally Avenai would have used a ladder to reach such a thing, but most of the ones in engineering had mysteriously vanished over the past several weeks- something he was certain Xiaohu had orchestrated- and so she was resorting to more unorthodox methods. One gesture of her hand had Torithas stooping so that she could hook her wrist and hand around his thick neck and hoist herself up to reach...only to find that she’d grabbed the wrong wrench.

“The quarter.” she said flatly. Torithas moved to oblige and offered up what he was fairly certain to be the correct sized tool. She looked down. Frowned. Swatted his hand away. “That’s a sixth. I need a fourth.”Torithas sighed.________________________________________________________________

Clang. Avenai’s back hit the deck with and she wheezed as she had the air knocked out of her. Torithas lay atop her, using his weight to pin her in place as the both of them gasped for breath, and she struggled to twist her hips and find any purchase to shift his weight. Even from full guard with her legs wrapped around his waist there was none and once again she had to admit defeat. Both of them were drenched with sweat and half their clothes had been discarded throughout their now hour long impromptu sparring session

“Well,” she panted as she tapped him on the arm, “you win again.”

Torithas nodded. She had fought admirably but the difference in size between them was too great for her to effectively grapple with him. He could muscle his way into and out of whatever position he pleased and there was very little she could do to resist him, technique or no. On many occasions he suggested that she spar with someone closer to her own weight, but Avenai had flatly refused: if she was to sharpen herself again, she would do so in opposition to the deadliest weapon on the ship. Him. 

Before they could disentangle from one another, however, the sound of a familiar voice.

“Hey, Ave? I was wondering if you-” Xiaohu stopped short as she rounded the corner and took stock of the position her comrades found themselves in. “You know what? I’ll come back later.”

( @stormandozone, @thanidiel )

[thanidiel]

Simulacrum

The body has a problem with realising when things have really changed.

It’s simply not made with that sort of paranoia, hypervigilance, in its nerves. It is an effort, an education, to have the sort of perceptual sensitivity that Xiaohu is so infamously known for amongst her fellows. Or maybe more than that; some days she thought of it like a rewiring. Like those before had pulled her squirming channels from her and threaded something more cool, mercurial/reactive, into her.

With more forgiving suns, moments of revelation like this debunked that conspiracy. Brought her feet just a little closer to the soil.

It is not common to be so placidly adaptive - to forget the onset of newness until a coincidental look over shoulder reminds her that there used to be yellow earth where a sea lay; blood where a smile forms.

It is something very innocuous in someone who is more ambiguous than that.

And it is something that only strikes her when she is engulfed in it, this, them, us.

This is calm.

This is calm. Not calm as in, quiet. Nor calm as in, there is no reason to be otherwise. Not the kind of calm she feels in most other moments, people, where the dearth in her is like an impossible weight. This is calm like, she is only existing and nothing more intensive than that.

What a rare, delightful, circumstance.

Could she say she has felt this same lax note outside of this?

Not really.

Not with other people.

And it doesn’t feel this same sort of pretty when it’s just herself.

It feels inaccurate to attempt to say that she’s gotten close. She’s never gotten this close, not under this name, this life, with those others. Nor the skin previously worn. Calm as in, steady and accepting, is not the same as calm as in, comfortable.

Avenai’s always been her respite from it all - that sanctuary to slam the door shut on, to barricade with her shoulders riding against wood, and to breathe within. Always, always, and always. Ever since the start, before anyone else, after anyone else. No one could even move to deny that bond between them, to overwrite it. To say that she loves Avenai is too shared of Xiaohu’s feelings with others. It feels better to label it as she is connected with the stark woman.

Torithas, well, Torithas was a bit more new to this, them, us. But not unappreciated and never unwelcomed. He is his own sort of safety. Not a room, nothing so bleached (and thus so uniquely Avenai), but an oak. A gnarled thing bigger than a person will ever be, everlasting and enduring. A metal shorn-and-scarred thing that simply crept its wood over attempts to shape it. Someone she could always shelter under and speak to, and observe the fashion in which his very grain hears.

That is calm.

Calm as in, comfortable.

This, them, us.

They crowd her currently, atop of this bed meant to be grandiose to Eastern travelers, and thus entirely too small to contain the two Garleans. Nevermind adding herself to the mix, nevermind the meals taking up the scant space not occupied by form, and nevermind how they all have made reverent room for the little booklet centered here.

This, them, us.

“...everything is a story, like I was telling Torithas. The doublespeak in how we speak - allusions to previous literatures, people. But then it goes deeper than that. The language, itself, is structured like a story. It requires a sort of interpretation that is not there in the same way as Eorzean or what was spoken in Ilsabard.”

"It is the knowing of calculus before physics and architecture. Without the formative context, the varying levels beyond are without concrete source and explanation...  or, the way statesmen utilize history and understanding of the propagated narrative to cajole concessions. The methodology goes deeper, the way you describe—— as though the self referentialism comes down to the very syllables and rhymes in the words, which I do not believe is shared in other languages, for the most part."

IT IS NOT. ABSTRACT. Decisive motions of his broad hands communicating thoughts as lengthy as their own in such few ‘words’: this commentary on the unfamiliar poetic fashion of language that Xiaohu has been introducing to the man more and more. Its keen contrast when held up to the concrete, uninterpretable, and demanding language insisted to the two militant individuals here. Strange, this idea of communicating through ideas as ‘optional’ as these stories.

“‘Bingo’,” the foreign slang rolls from her tongue as she presses her fingers delicately against a column of characters. “We’re starting with proverbs, tastes of wisdom, because I think it’s the easiest way to get an idea of how this all pulls together. Let’s look at this one for example:”

自

“This is the character for ‘self’ from ‘eye’. Look at it side-ways, and you see that eye. The sclera flanking top and bottom, and the iris in the middle. Then you see this dot right here, yes? That’s a finger, it’s pointing at the eye, the individual, like you’re pointing at yourself.”

知

“‘Arrow’, see how you can see the head, then the shaft, then the fletchings in this context. And ‘mouth’ because it’s open like one does. This is what makes a word for ‘knowledge.’ Knowledge is swift and sharp, like an arrow, and it comes from you speaking; your mouth.”

之

“You see that dot again from ‘self?’ It shows up here again because you’re pointing again, but with a different context. Those strokes below are a foot. You are pointing at a moving person; thus you are speaking of someone outside of you. This is a character you use for others.”

明

“‘Bright’, the first character is ‘sun,’ the second is ‘moon.’ Sources of the world’s light. Following?”

“Yes.” YES.

“Put it all together without looking at it as a story, without being artful about it, and you get gibberish - self knowledge other bright. It sounds wonderfully unbright, it’s a crime, really, to read it this way. But if you read it more delightfully, with more spirit and more willingness to have fun with it, you get something much more meaningful. Let’s look back at this character again,”

之

“This is a proverb that deals with the self as we’ve established, right? So now this character is no longer as literal as it is when you force it to stand by itself. It’s as abstract as the pictogram that forms it. This is no longer ‘other’ but an extension of the self. You are looking at yourself as you would look upon others. You are examining yourself objectively, this is what this means now.”

Her fingers drags back down to 明.

“And this is not literal in this context either. Now we source the context that we are speaking of something to do with knowledge. Now it means bright as in, wise; intuitive; comprehending; understanding.”

自 知 之 明

“‘Know oneself’, this phrase says, in a nutshell. Wisdom comes from being able to look at yourself objectively; judge yourself accurately; these are just a few ways, out of many permutations of the common tongue, we could understand the phrase, right?”

"A calculation that has many answers, variable by..." she watches Avenai pause, lips pursing, "...context. It seems... an artistic method of communication, rather than concrete." Another gap of her words, and then a raise of her mismatched eyes above. "It suits."

SUITS repeats after the engineer; agreement, simple as that. MANAGEABLE CONFUSION, he’ll figure it out as they go, simply. That comparison of ‘muscle memory’, training, given to him earlier is still prominent in his approach to many new bewildering concepts introduced.

Then she watches him concentrate, thoughtful and deliberate as always, then demonstrate his feelings about the lesson entirely. Something not missed by the other, who follows up right on his heels, committing that signing to her mind in snapping gesture.

This.

ENJOY TeEnAjCoHyteach.

Them.

Her smile is more closed than Avenai’s, but no less in its magnitude. It is only more wryly applied, more observational than simply pleasant. This view of their quirks tumbling together, this exchange of their feelings. She feels more good, more calm— calm as in, comfortable— than she has before. And she’s felt this way since they’ve started this vacation of their’s, since they have shared this much time with one another.

Us.

“Now, here’s how you actually say...”

@stormandozone @trained-trainwreck

[thanidiel]

Prompt One - “Crux”

What she feels when she gazes upon her friend is nothing short of warmth blooming from the deepest parts of her - pushing aside mortar and stone as though their durability were nothing.

Or perhaps to say it only occurs when she ‘gazes’ is, ultimately, inadequate.

Maybe what is more adequate is that this is what happens when there is awareness.

Yes, that would be what is accurate.

Yes, that is how she loves.

Even when she is pissed. 

With the way that her vision both clouds in the steamworks of a temper crushed into the mold of a girl, and yet clarifies on the pulsing muscle columns in the throat and underneath the edges of a jawline: she is loving and cognisant of the way she likes to trace smooth and tight-packed ebon scales, run through coarsely chopped pale hair. Reminded of giggling, yet, husky laughter, the heat of two safeguarding flames; phoenix and wildfire. The past quips of a boy, and the glacial pale of a man.

Even when she is pissed.

And this is no exception.

She loves Avenai, but fuck.

Xiaohu can feel, intimately, the annoyance grinding and firming her tongue into something sharper and more fatal.

And because of this, she focuses her attention not on the former Praetorian‒‒ not as though she is like to notice‒‒ and onto Torithas. Centering herself on the fond image of a man who is pretty only because he looks like the force of nature he is. An oak tree broader than men had lifespans with its twisting and gnarled barksurface. Already, she notates that amusement is bubbling up through the black smoke in her lungs, traveling up her throat and into her mouth, with the way that she sees something close to apology on another’s behalf tilting his head as he looks back.

The Doman meditates on him, and by extension, Avenai. Going through dual-memories like she were going through files to be put away with a curious eye, and softening when the thought strikes her as it has before, and before, and before, that she likes every aspect of these two in one space.

She enjoys being witness to a connection she has no part in.

And like that, her temper eases in its build like how molten metal contents itself to solidify.

She breathes.

And Xiaohu leans over to snap her fingers once, twice, thrice, in the other woman’s face. Her other palm spreading atop of an open book in support of her forward weight. 

“‒‒Ave. I can’t be here forever to listen to your manifesto about animal byproducts. I’m here on dinner before I go back to work, and we need to learn these signs so we can stop spelling out shit letter by letter. C’mon.”

@stormandozone @trained-trainwreck

[thanidiel]

TENSION because I'm a trash child and also curious to see how arguing with a mute goes

The cermet wall that is Torithas has chosen to settle directly in her fucking way.

This can’t be fucking happening.

Of course Avenai had to be taken missing, dredging up all of these feelings in her breast and leaving her with a Garlean that won’t fucking listen to her besides ‘follow’, ‘guard’, ‘attack.’ He’s supposed to be on her fucking side. Everyone’s supposed to be on her side. This is her fucking Fate-cursed business.

She pushes a breath through her teeth, then sucks it right back in as though the air would bring coolness to her spirit like she’s shot back alcohol.

Spoiler: it doesn’t. It just stokes charcoal all in her diaphragm and belly - sending the heat already there spiraling and wild, coursing through her insides in a bursting inferno. It cracks, and shatters, and sends this shockwave of invisible force racking through her muscles in a shudder of barely contained tiger-like ferocity.

“Torithas,” The giant tilts his head silently, his good eye plainly staring and his jaw lax, “Get the fuck out of my way.”

He shakes his fucking head like a golem, slowly crossing over the thick barrel-like form of his arms over his chest and then pulling away in a ‘No’ too pristine to be purposefully muddled.

“You can’t just keep me here, I should be helping them. We both should be helping them.”

The cords of muscle at the flanks of his neck raise like pulleys to the gate of a stone fortress. A shrug. A fucking dismissal.

That makes her more fucking angry. Makes her feel the muscles in her face flare her eyes and makes her want to claw the rest of his bad eye out of his skull.

“I’ve seen Ave work here enough. I can pull open the right hatch in the ship innards. I’ll kill both of us.”

The Halfblood‘s lower jaw sets as his machine-like, even, posture breaks its weight off towards a hip jut out towards her, ‘Oh really?’

Fuck you.

Don’t call my fucking bluff.

This isn’t a fucking bluff!

Take me fucking seriously!

Let me the fuck out of this engine room!

The universe occurs like she is looking through a bullshit scope-lens of white flower jelly. All cloudy and everything that moves, moves incomprehensibly and yet not at all - just reverberating everywhere and nowhere at once.

Her body feels numb.

It’s raised above the level she was before.

Because the marid-turned-man had picked her up by the waist and slammed her full-force against the ship hull.

Her gun scrapes, metal against metal, against the square of grating close to Torithas’ feet.

They are close, his face, blotting out the world, shoved almost into her’s is unabashedly, in his diminished way, frustrated, and frustrated, and frustrated, and worried; perhaps as much as her with their friend’s safety, and yet moreso, she realises then, witnessing the related drive in her that impulsed such a decision.

And suddenly her arms are wrapping around the hulking frame of her comrade, her cheek turned and profile against the crook of his shoulder as the tears begin.

@trained-trainwreck @stormandozone

[trained-trainwreck]

✂ - point sternly at a chair and tell my muse to sit down

“Sit down.”

 Xiaohu stood straight in front of him, eyes narrow and brows knitted together, and pointed to a chair in the corner of the room- a pebble attempting to block the path of a boulder for all the size there was between the two of them. Everything in his bones wanted nothing more than to shove her out of his way so his blade could sing the sonata of death his blood so desperately yearned for. Fists clenched at his sides, Torithas tried to step past her, to body her out of his path and destroy the enemies that had wounded him and threatened the others but she refused to budge.

“Sit. Down.”

She did not plead with him like others might have, did not try to appease his sense of duty or placate the beast raging behind his ribs. No, this tiny Doman woman would cut him down to her size with two simple words and bend him to her iron will. For a long moment he stood there and glared down into those dark brown eyes of hers in the hopes that he could force her to relent. Still she would not. A fruitless endeavor on his part: there were few things in the world that Cao Xiaohu would submit to and he certainly was not among their count. Frustrated, defeated, and unable to raise a hand to physically brush her aside Torithas relented and dropped himself into the chair in the corner of the room.

Xiaohu nodded once and turned to the outsider the crew had enlisted. “Now then, Doctor, you may work unimpeded.” There was a moment of clear hesitation on the Elezen man’s part as he glanced from her to Torithas and then back again. She gave him a wide, all-too-sweet and reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. He’ll behave.”

@thanidiel

[trained-trainwreck]

Character Profile - Music Edition: Torithas Bloodtalon, Mongrel

For many of us, music is a source of inspiration for our characters, so I want to know what songs inspire and/or relate to your muse! Choose between 10-15 songs, compile them into an album and tag some friends to share the beat!

Rain - Yoko Kanno & The Seatbelts I don’t feel a thing and I stopped remembering The days are just like moments turned to hours Mother used to say “If you want you’ll find a way” But Mother never danced through fire showers

My Brother - Shirio Sagisu Lyrically, this one doesn’t suit him so much as the relentless, driving nature of the song as a whole.

Nightmare - Brendon Small I don’t think you know who I am But I have a tale to tell Born from a wicked spell Mephistopheles isn’t me But they’ll see what they want to see

The Pot - Tool Who are you to wave your finger? You must have been out your head Eye balls deep in muddy water You practically raised the dead

Bullet with Butterfly Wings - Smashing Pumpkins The world is a vampire, sent to drain Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames And what do I get, for my pain? Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game

My Name Is Murder - Brendon Small We’re maggots born to die The hourglass just measures time No difference tomorrow or now Consider it a mercy killing taking them out Evil Ways - Blues Saraceno I found out The hate grows cold The god rise up To damn my soul Elm - Yoko Kanno & The Seatbelts

The Measure of Our Reach - Nobuo Uematsu, et al Liberty or Death - Nobuo Uematsu, et al

This was a lot more difficult for me than I thought it would be at first. Torithas is both earnestly straightforward and a complex hypocrisy at the same time and finding a group of songs for him was definitely a challenge. He’s conflict given form, both within himself and toward others, and has this strange duality of character; he is both calm, rational, and logical to a fault while also being a bloodthirsty monster in a lot of other ways. This was friggin’ cool to do, though, and made me think a lot about him in ways I really hadn’t up until now. I’m not tagging anyone for this because, well, most of the people I can think to tag already has done at least one!

Thanks for this, @thanidiel. You a real one.

[trained-trainwreck]

Cornered

Contained below is a short story set to serve as the introduction of a very old character of mine, reworked time and time again as the years have gone by. Torithas has been with me in one way or another since 2007 and I’m happy to have a place for him again.

The story is violent, gory, and brutal. If these things unsettle you, skip ahead.

Silvermoon. A proud city-state, the self-appointed crown jewel in all the lands of the Eastern Kingdoms, the center of magical knowledge and trade and all of Azeroth. Not too long ago, all of these titles had been true- and then came The Fall. Near twenty years ago now, Arthas Menethil had led an undead army to war against one of the most powerful nations in the world and utterly decimated it. Even after all this time, the damage had still not been repaired in its entirety. While much of the city had been reclaimed and, to some degree, restored to at least a shadow of its former glory there was still a great deal of work to be done. There were still dark corners, pockets away from the prying eyes of the all-seeing State where those who wished to plot in secret could gather to whisper in relative safety.

In one such place, deep in the shadows where even the most dedicated of Silvermoon’s servants dared not tread, gathered those who called themselves The Loyalists- men and women doggedly dedicated to their Sun Prince and his ambition. Dark clouds and driving rain had given them the cover they needed to gather as only those loyal to the Prince knew the path to take. In hushed voices they schemed, they cursed the traitor Regent-Lord and all those who turned their backs on the Prince in favor of the usurper. Justice, they said to one another, would need to be served. Back and forth the snakes hissed, each unable to agree with the next when and where to strike and how best to deliver their venom. Hushed whispers escalated to a fever pitch- and were summarily cut off by a deafening boom at the door.

A dozen heads turned in unison, wide-eyed and pale-faced. They had all been accounted for. No one else knew of their gathering. Did they? Petrified, none dared budge from their place around the old table at the center of the room in hopes that they had collectively imagined the sound or that whoever it was would just continue on their way. No such luck. Another thundering boom echoed in the empty hall. The Loyalists looked among themselves, silently asking who would be the one to check. At long last one worked up the courage to draw a knife and silently pad across to the door, hand shaking as he reached for the knob. With one last glance back at his fellows, he turned the knob. It would be his last act on Azeroth.

Without warning, the door exploded off its hinges with an ear-splitting crash followed by a shrill shriek as the most courageous of the snakes disappeared through the doorway. His companions stood stock still as panic and dread began to overwhelm them. There was silence for a brief moment punctuated by the shallow, staccatoed breaths of the Loyalists. From the darkness, a shadow stirred. It ducked through the doorway and began to rise to its full height once across the threshold, towering over the Loyalists by a full head or more. Each step was accompanied by a thunderous clap and the rattle of heavy plate. A flash of lightning backlit the massive figure- and ushered a horrified gasp from one of the snakes as the light revealed what had become of their fellow. His twisted remains dangled limply from the beast’s gauntleted grip, skull caved in and expression frozen in horror and agony.

Like so much refuse, he was tossed to the floor at the feet of the Loyalists and landed with a wet splat and a thud. A few recoiled away from the remains of their colleague as the shadow crept forward, looming over them in the darkness. Two mismatched eyes, the right a pale green and the other a ghostly white, peered from the darkness, predatory gaze akin to a jungle cat perched and awaiting precisely the moment to strike. Silence descended again as dread strangled any thought or action the Loyalists could conceive.

“Wh-...what are you?” one of them weakly managed.

The shadow’s gaze shifted to him and it spoke, its voice an unearthly rumbling bass.

“Judgement.”

Whatever spell had been cast over the Loyalists to freeze them in place broke as panic overwhelmed them completely. The two nearest the shadow darted for the doorway behind it in a blind attempt to escape the storm. Neither made it more than two steps. In a flash of violence the shadow struck at the man to the left, gauntleted fist catching him cleanly on the chin with enough force to catapult him across the room and into the wall. The second shrieked as the shadow whirled about and caught her by the hair and threw her to the floor. Her wailing quickly turned to gurgling as a booted foot crushed her sternum and her ribs into powder. She convulsed violently on the floor in her death throes, choked by blood and vomit. As the shadow turned back to the group, a third Loyalist found his courage. He drew a knife from his waist and shouted as he rushed forward at the creature, consumed by blind fury.

A poor decision.

His thrust with the knife was swiftly intercepted by the shadow’s vice-like grip and he found himself dangling in the air, held aloft like a child’s toy. He struggled and kicked and writhed but found himself unable to free himself from the shadow’s grasp. Venom laced every word as the Loyalist cursed and spat at the shadow, damning and hexing him with every dark phrase he could think of. Then, with all the effort of twisting his wrist, the shadow silenced his prey with the sound of shattering bone and shredded tendon. The Loyalist whimpered and clutched at his ruined arm as he was dropped to the floor. He never saw the silver flash of his own knife being snatched up from the floor and plunged to the hilt through his throat. Satisfied with his grisly work, the shadow turned his attention back to the remaining Loyalists. One of them, the leader, came to his senses and bolted toward the stairs at the rear of the hall as the shadow approached.

The others made to follow, but too slow. Like lightning, the shadow surged forward and kicked the table they had abandoned as hard as he could manage. Heavy oak legs protested, screeching across the stone floor and slamming into the wall at the rear of the room. One of the Loyalists yelped as he found himself pinned to the wall by the heavy furniture. He scratched and clawed and begged for his fellows to aid him, but his pleas went unanswered as they saw to their own survival and abandoned him to his fate. The shadow approached and his prey began to beg for mercy, pleading for forgiveness- but there was none to be found in the shadow’s heart. The cold grip of unfeeling justice wrapped itself around the Loyalist’s neck, table held in place by the shadow’s immense weight, and it wrenched the upper half of his body back, snapping his spine. Before he could even think to shriek, the shadow drove his skull into the wall and shattered it. Blood and gray matter sprayed across the wall as bone and flesh ruptured under the overwhelming force.

Upstairs, the remainder of the Loyalist group had scrambled for a solution. Several heavy bookshelves had been had been dragged from the study and into the landing, then toppled over to block the stairs. They looked to their leader, pale-faced and wide eyed, for guidance.

“We must push our plans ahead. The ritual will be carried out now.” he said, voice low and somber.

“So soon?!” asked a second. “But it isn’t ready! We don’t have near the materials-”

The leader cut him off. “I am aware! We have no other choice! The hounds of the State have found us and I will not allow our cause to die here!”

They looked to each other, the remaining five, and nodded in unison.

“You two! Retrieve the weapons from the stockpile. Delay the beast as long as you can.” Those selected needed no encouragement; they took flight as fast as their feet could carry them, ripping up loose floorboards and tearing away at false walls to retrieve the weapons they had so meticulously gathered in secret over these many months. “The rest of you will come with me. We make for the observatory on the top floor.”

And so they climbed. Heavy footfalls echoed in the stairway below, booming and ominous as though the apocalypse itself nipped at their heels. No sooner than the leader and his followers reached the top floor did they hear the panicked shouts of their comrades from the floor below. They would have to hurry. Each knew their duty and needed no instruction as they raced from shelf to shelf in the ruined observatory, gathering the reagents for the profane ritual to take place. Dark tomes containing heretical magics, fel-touched crystals that pulsed with the barely contained rage of the demonic essence within them, scales and horns of dubious origin and several phials of a thick, viscous, sickly green fluid were all assembled in a ring around the leader at the center of the room. Each of his disciples, hands shaking and hearts racing, hastily traced the runes they had so painstakingly memorized into the dilapidated wooden floors around him.

As each piece fell into place, the ruined observatory began to hum with wicked power and was cast in a pale vermillion glow as the runes were finally complete. The faintest flicker of hope began to bloom within the Loyalists. They could do this. There was a chance. Enthused, the leader of the Loyalists stepped into the center of the runes and held his arms out wide beside him. He and two of his followers began to chant their incantations, each word more vile than the last, and the foulness in the air began to intensify. The third made for the stairs, to watch for the creature that had murdered so many of his comrades. He peered into the darkness, straining his eyes and ears for any sign of the beast. Suddenly, there was a flash of silver from the dark and he jumped back as quickly as he could. What was that?

A beat passed. Something was wrong. His chest was burning. Every nerve ending felt as though it had been dunked in ice. That sensation radiated outward into his shoulders. Why was he so cold? One of the others shouted something to him, but he couldn’t understand; the words were distant, muffled by the hammering of his heartbeat in his ears. Next he realized he couldn’t move his hands- they were clutched out in front of him. Why? His gaze drifted slowly downward to his chest and his eyes went wide. There was blood on his hands. Was that...his blood? Dumbstruck, he continued staring as he tried to process what was going on through the thick fog that had descended over his mind. Something was clutched in his grip- something wooden, coarse and splintered. Realization struck him like a hammer blow.

He’d been stabbed.

Terrified, the remaining Loyalists could only watch as the beast that had been hunting them stepped into the light for the first time. It was massive, easily pushing seven feet tall with shoulder so broad it almost had to turn sideways to get through the door. With little more effort than a child would put into picking up a favored toy, the shadow lifted its victim high aloft impaled on the poleaxe gripped in its two massive hands. It allowed him to dangle there for a brief moment, squirming and struggling as life slowly left him. Mismatched eyes burned with a furious anger as the shadow stared up at its impaled prey ensuring that the last thing he would ever see would be his tormentor.

“What are you fools doing?!” shrieked the leader as his remaining followers stayed rooted to their spots. “STOP IT!”

They both glanced at each other, then back to their friend as the last life faded from his body and he fell completely limp. Being faced with the embodiment of death with no way out seemed to spark something within them as they drew their knives and charged ahead. Was it courage? Was it desperation? Neither was sure. The sudden movement drew the shadow’s attention, setting it in motion with frightening speed and precision. A massive, booted foot swung around and kicked the butt of its poleaxe outward allowing the now very deceased Loyalist to fall to the floor with a wet thump as the spike was ripped free from its victim. He pivoted on his back foot, using the momentum from kicking his poleaxe free to swing himself around, plant his other foot, and drive the butt spike of his poleaxe deep into the chest of the nearest loyalist.

Before the loyalist even had a chance to realize all the air had been driven from his lungs, the shadow ripped the butt spike free, stepped out wide, and swung the head of the poleaxe with as much might as he could manage. The flat of the axe head caught its victim squarely in the side of the head with such violent force that it twisted around with a sickening crunch as his eye ruptured and his body was sent sailing through the air. His colleague stopped squarely in her tracks as the shadow- no, the monster turned its attention to her. That feral gaze told her everything she needed to know; that she was little more than an object, an obstacle barring the way to the beast’s objective. Her leader’s voice called to her from over her shoulder and she craned her head to see him.

“You know what you must do, child.”

Hands trembling, she nodded to him and turned back to her foe. What must be done. A necessary sacrifice. Yes. As the shadow took a lumbering step toward her, the last of the loyalists summoned her courage and raced to close the already miniscule gap between them. She swung with all her strength, hoping to at least offer some kind of resistance and wound the creature- but there was to be so much fortune for her. Her blow was batted aside effortlessly. Stars exploded in her field of view as the pommel of the poleaxe struck her temple and she stumbled, struggling to find her balance. She never saw the hammer head come around an instant behind, shattering her jaw with such force that she lost her footing entirely and collapsed to the ground. Fingers numbly clawed at the floor as she struggled to crawl away from her assailant and, blinded, she reached for the comforting presence of her leader.

A yowl of agony was wrenched from her throat as the crescent head of the poleaxe bit deeply into her shoulder and pinned to the floor. That final act of life was quickly snuffed out as a heavy boot crashed down through her neck and into the floor, pulverizing bone and tearing flesh. Alone and with no route to escape, the leader of the Loyalists should have been terrified, pleading for mercy or for parlay. He did no such thing.

“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” His foe replied by casually lifting its foot and wiping the bloodied on his most recent victim’s robes. “You fool. You’re not the first to hunt us. So you’ve killed my followers. A simple task for even a rabid dog to destroy a wretched nest of vermin.”

His hands rose to his waist, palms upturned and face twisted into a wicked sneer.

“You will not find me such easy prey, beast.”

A low rumble rose from the floorboards as the old wood creaked and groaned. The pale lavender hue of the air intensified as blood began to seep up through the floorboards and pool at the leader’s feet, filling the intricate rings of the runes that had been carved into the floor.  Bookshelves began to shift as the room shook with energy, spilling their contents into the floor before toppling over with a thundering crash. Fel energy licked at his hands and feet, swirling around his body and lifting him from the ground. Warped by tainted power the Loyalist lifted his hand to eye level and curled his fingers, fascinated as they transformed before his very eyes. Wicked laughter filled the room as the power coursed through his vein, pulsing with his heartbeat and irreversibly twisting his soul.

“Now then!” he bellowed, voice echoing with unholy fury. “Begone from my sight dog of the Regent-Lord!”

Fel flames licked at his fingers then coalesced in his hand as a rapidly growing orb of pure evil. With a curse on his lips, the Loyalist rolled his wrist over and thrust his arm outward as though he were driving the wicked magic straight through the heart of his foe. What a glorious moment this was to be! The fireball rocketed from his palm and streaked across the room toward the shadow, who had hardly moved an inch, and as it grew closer a warped grin twisted its way across the Loyalist’s face- and then was immediately wiped away as the shadow reached up and swatted the foul magic to the side with the back of his hand and sent it careening into the far wall where it exploded with a deafening boom.

“Impossible!” the Loyalist shrieked as the beast took a step toward him. He conjured another fireball, whipping it wildly in the shadow’s direction with the same result. “Die!” he shouted, voice cracking as fear took hold. “Die! Die! Die!’

Each word was punctuated with another bolt of fel energy, and each bolt was dismissed with all the effort it would take to shoo a fly as the shadow drew nearer and nearer. “I’ll kill you! I’llkillyouI’llkillyouI’ll-gack!”

As the shadow neared, the Loyalist felt as though the wind had been sucked from his body. He collapsed to his knees, hands flying to his throat as he struggled to breathe the suddenly very thin air. All sensation had fled him, leaving him numb and cold and struck by a stark realization. His eyes trailed upward to the towering shadow above him now backlit by the rolling flames of Fel fire. One colossal hand descended and clasped around the loyalist’s lapel, dragging him up to eye level though he suspected the shadow barely noticed the weight. This was not some beast, some creature of darkness summoned by the Lords of Silvermoon to track him. This was an Elf, one of his own kin, shrouded in a thick cloak black as the night and likely enchanted to enhance the darkness that seemed to cling to it.

“I know what you are.” he gasped weakly. Mismatched eyes burned from behind the shroud, daring him to speak.

“Half-breed!” spat the Loyalist. “Mongrel!”

He felt the shadow’s free hand encroach and the strength further leave his body. The Loyalist’s hands dropped to hang limply by his sides. Both hands closed firmly around his neck and the shadow began to press slowly inward, collapsing the Loyalist’s windpipe one agonizing inch at a time. If he was to choke to death, he would at least choke on his words.

“You repulsive, detestable creature! Weak! Feeble! You could be more- so much more, but you content yourself to being the State’s lapdog!”

His eyes began to roll back in his head and his vision began to fade as the air was choked completely from him. Then, suddenly, a reprieve. The shadow’s grip loosened and the Loyalist sucked in a greedy breath, life unexpectedly renewed. Delirious from the lack of oxygen and confused, the Loyalist turned his blurry sight to the Mongrel in silent question.

“I know what you are.” rumbled the beast.

With all the contempt he could muster, the Loyalist answered.

“And...what...is that?”

The Mongrel’s reply was non-verbal. A quick twist of his wrist filled the room with the snap of breaking bone and shredded cartilage as he effortlessly broke the Loyalist’s neck. For a moment longer, the Mongrel gazed upon his handiwork. Then, with a contemptuous scowl cloaked by shadow, he discarded the wretched filth by flinging it to the floor. Thirteen. That was the count for tonight’s endeavor.

A good night’s work.

He turned, satisfied, and began to make his way downstairs as hellfire consumed the top floor. Down he went past the disemboweled remains of the two that had been left at the stairs, around the table that had crushed the one too slow to escape and over those few more he had slain near the front doorway. Once across the threshold, the Mongrel cast one last look up at the ruined observatory as it collapsed in upon itself and was swallowed by Fel green flames. With this, there would be no doubt in the message sent to those who plotted in the shadows of Quel’thalas.

Torithas Suntalon had returned to the ruined Kingdom.

Judgement was coming for them.