(Using this Prompt provided by MagePie and Kasimova-dariia )
Tyranastrasz sat quietly in his home, the ancient Red Dragon has had a long week, and it showed. Dark circles hugged his golden eyes, that imposing stature now slightly hunched over, trouble resting at night, and irritable. This Orc body of his, was not as tough as his original body once was, or as virile. It scarred easily, it required vasts amounts of food to fuel, but had explosive potential and wold bursts of energy. Useful in the short run, but not for extended periods of labour and strife.
The warrior ran his large hands over his face, trying to rub the weariness from his eyes and visage, the smooth leather inside of his gauntlets scrapping against the coarse stubble and sharp tusks. It has been, a long week, but some things must be done. Tyran unbuckled and slid off the heavy padded gauntlets, setting them aside on the armor stand, before he fetches a series of whetstones and lays them out onto his bed. Then, he fetches the priceless weapon from the large strongbox set in the rock wall.
A weapon he has held onto for many years, waiting for the time it is to returned home, and reunite with its proper family. Till then, Gorehowl remains under guard by Tyran. Tyran sat cross legged on the bed, pulling a sheet of thick hide over his lap, and gingerly resting the ancient weapon ontop. While it is a weapon of war and conquest, it is also a masterpiece of craftmanship, and a treasured weapon of the Orc race. Centuries of combat and stress would have destroyed most weapons, yet Gorehowl had only gotten hardier and more lethal over the years.
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The quiet giant run a hand over the flat of the axe head, the coarse fingers looking for any imperfections or nicks in the metal, feeling for any stress marks or cracks. Not that he will find many, but it is better to be safe than sorry. And true to his word, nothing it found. Taking out a small piece of burlap,Tyran pulls the piece of cloth against the blade’s edge, the thick woven material sheering a bit roughly. Frowning, Tyran takes out a piece of cotton and then silk, testing them both, and finds the cut edges are jagged.
“Huh,, must have lost its edge a little. Bloody stone constructs,,” a soft growl comes from the venerable dragon, before taking out the first whetstone and slowly begins to work the axe’s edge, slowly working back out the sharpness the weapon held.
Gorehowl had been Tyran’s weapon for many years, after having collected it on the hidden isle of Pandaria, where the maddened Warchief Garrosh had left it. The Mage Jaina Proudmoore and Regent Lord Lor’themar Theron had been hunting the corrupted Warchief, and found the abandoned weapon in a deep Mogu vault. The two were discussing as to what to do with the blade, but before they could decide, Tyran had taken it, giving a look to the duo that brokered no argument.
They might be respective leaders of their people, and held much sway in the Alliance and Hords, but held no control over the Ancient. They knew better than try to force Tyran into doing something against his will, things tend to go his way when the dragon put his mind to it.
Gorehowl has seen much of the world now since that day, even taking a trip to Draenor,, well an alternative timeline of the ancient world of the Orcs, but their home none the less. The axe garnered a fair audience from various clans, as they recognized the blade with it's whistling rings as the famed weapon of Grom Hellscream, leader of the Warsong, and Slayer of Ogres. But in an outlander's hands,,
Tyran slowly turns the heavy blade over, running the whetstone across the other side of the blade, humming softly as the rhythmic grating echoed dully in the wooden cabin. This was a small time of peace for the old man, between the growing conflicts between the Alliance and the Horde. Undercity was gone, as was Teldrassil, both now smoldering husks. Tyran mused what it would take to unify the people,, the attack of the Legion unifed the world once,, but such trust was broken so quickly once the fight was over.
(Never really got around to doing these back then, but felt should just post and be done with it. @teechew @drew-winchester have a quiet moment with Tyran)
Peregrin gripped tightly onto the the dark red scales, her knuckles a bit paler than her skin. The air was rushing past her, whipping her hair around and her clothes flapping furiously. ‘Why did I even agree to this?!’ Perry thinks to herself as she tries her outmost not to look down at The Great Sea.
A series of thundering rattles reminded Perry to keep an eye out for the huge wings behind her, and again refreshing her thought. There she was, clinging to the back of the second biggest dragon she has ever laid eyes on, Khadgar not too far ahead of her, and the Great Sea all around them. When Tyran had said the other night he would offer to fly them along the coast towards Feralas, she had thought of something completely different.
But after seeing him as his true self later the same night, in that regal form, she knew she was going to have a whole different kind of journey ahead of her. So here she was, trying to not fall off the back of the former Prime Consort of Alexstrasza, on her way to Feathermoon Stronghold.
Its not even noon, and Perry can begin to see the faint shade of Feathermoon Isle on the horizon, its only an hour or so away now. Travelling like this seemed even faster than taking the Gryphon across Kalimdor.
Peregrin adjusted her position a little, trying her best not to let go of the spine spike and armor scale she was holding onto. She would not find it fun to fall off right now. ‘Urgh,, he was not joking about the saddle sore jest,,’ Perry muttered to herself, though she could barely hear herself in the rushing wind.
~Little one, I am beginning to descend now, hold on tight. The isle is not too far now.~ Peregrin feels/hears? Tyran’s voice in her mind, and wraps bot her arms around the spine spike and clenches her legs against the coarse scales. Her stomach begins to float up her body while feeling the huge muscles under her begin to shift, the huge body bending to dive down towards the sea. Her body wants to pull back, to tumble and bounce along the Red Dragon body but she presses herself firmly to the spike, praying to Elune she atlea urvive this bit of the journey.
She squeezes her eyes shut, as the sea comes barreling up towards her, but thankfully she feels Tyran pull up a few feet off the surface of the ocean. The smell of sea salt stings at her cheeks, telling Peregrin they are eerily close to the surface. She prays once more to Elune,, hoping they land in one piece.
-
With a jarring thud that shook her entire body, Peregin’s eyes snap open right as she is tumbling off the side of Tyran’s back, letting out a fairly unlady like yelp. “Ack!”
She lands on the grassy shore of the island, getting a face full of grass and sandy earth. Slowly righting herself, she spits out the intruding plant life, using the back of her hand to wipe the excess off. While she is trying to clear the rest of the smuck from her face, she hears a familiar voice call out to her.
“Perry?? Perry is that you?” Peregrin looks up to see up on the shore by some refugee tents and a makeshift field hospital, Stella. Perry’s eyes goes wide as she shakily gets up on her feet and goes to meet up with her teary eyed friend. Stellanoctis hugs her friend tightly, crying in relief.
“Stella! Oh Elune, are you okay dear? Thank the stars,, is your family here too?” Perry tries to ask, but as soon as she says the word family, Stella’s eyes well up with more tears, her shoulders shaking. “Oh no,, no no no Stella, oh you poor thing, I am so so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry sorry,,” Perry hugs Stella tight to her, the young druid feeling that familiar pit in the bottom of her stomach, only able to guess how horrid Stella must feel.
The duo kept holding onto each other, weeping into each other’s shoulder. They do not take note of when Khadgar walks over to where General Shandris Feathermoon and her aides were, trying to keep them from launching an attack on Tyran before he had the chance to transform back.
Peregrin manages to recover herself first, using her hands to wipe away her tears and Stella’s. “I am sorry Stella, I’m so sorry. We, sniff, we need to uhmm, we need to help others right now. Come on, come on,, up on your feet.” Peregrin was channeling some of Khadgar’s words through herself and to Stella, know it helped her numerous time when she herself was extremely low.
Stella gets back on her feet, using her sleeve to wipe off some of the tears on her face “O,okay,, but,” Stella blinks a few times as she looks over to where the giant Red Dragon was sitting patiently on the beach, “who is,, that then?”
“Oh. yeah,, him. Uhhh,,” Peregrin smiles sheepishly, fidgeting with her fingers slightly, while Tyran takes this moment to shapeshift himself. Khadgar frantically trying to calm down Lady Feathermoon and the guards, fearing the worst case scenario as the Night Elves pulled out their weapons. However,,
“Alah darnana dor, Shandris’do. It has been many years since we last spoke,,” the robed High Elf form of Tyran appeared on the beach, walking confidently towards Shandris and the group, much to the gawking of Shandris.
“L,Lord Tyranistrasz!” Shandris rushed over to the large Dragon, while Stella more or less was in a state of confusion and mixed awe, whispering to Perry “Wait,, as in,, the first husband of,, the Life-Binder?” Perry nodded silently which made Stella go wide-eyed before, not so quietly yelling at Perry,
“You had a piggy-back ride on the King of the Red Dragons?!”
(Again, this story involves @drew-winchester ‘s OC Peregrin, and her husbando Khadgar, on a journey following the events after the burning of Teldrassil. In this part, Perry rejoins her friend (and fellow white haired druid) @kittycatkissu ‘s Stellanoctis!)
(Finally! 15 weeks later, does my brain say its time to write more Warcraft stuff!)
(continued from here)
Peregrin sat quietly on her sleeping bag, her knees tucked up to her chin while her ears drooped slightly. Her mind was going in circles at the moment, and was not sure of anything anymore. The last month has been a goblin fun fair crossed with nightmare fuel.
Sylvanans’ Horde attacking Dark Shore, burning Teldrassil, using the Plague,, Peregrin absently reached a hand round to trace the barely visible scars under her jerkin. She should not be alive,,
Peregrin shakes her head rapidly, hoping to cast that dark thought out of her head, her hair shaking wildly along with her ears. Once settled and those dark scenes in her mind gone, leans back onto her knees.
“Urgh,, I knew Khadgar said that Azeroth was a complicated place, but this is just too weird.” Perry mumbles under her breath, resting her chin onto her knees.
The young Night Elf looked around a little, seeing Khadgar sleeping in his bag just within arms reach. He looked so peaceful when he slept, when the idiot was not trying to shoulder the entire world on his shoulders. Perry lets herself smile, ‘the softest of all things’, that is what Khadgar calls them. The Night Elf cannot help but giggle a little as she recalls years ago how Khadgar just blurted that out the first time they met. Seeing her smile had quite the impact on the boy,, no, the man.
Perry’s silver eyes look further on, but frowns as the sleeping bag where Tyran was supposed to be. It was empty, left open to the elements. She looked about to see where the man went, slowly getting up onto her feet and making her way out of the camp, her eyes seeing the clear path the huge orc made through the undergrowth.
Perry makes her way along the trodden path, soon ending up in a small clearing that ends with the edge of a cliff. Beyond was the Great Sea, the star speckled midnight sky and the moon hanging silently overhead. Sitting near the edge of the cliff, was not an Orc however, it was not Tyran there. Perry looks about in confusion, and is about to turn back to the forest when she hears the figure speak.
“My apologies Lady Peregrin if I disturbed your sleep. I thought I had made sure my clumsy steps did not make too much noise. But since you are awake,, I am certain you have questions.” the figure extends an arm, its long clawed fingers indicating to a flat rock beside the being. Perry could see the being wore some type of robe, loose sleeves that hung low with what look like ribbons on its seam. She cannot quite tell the accent of the person, but it was clearly a man, but the deep rumble behind those words sound similair.
The man turned his head over slightly, so an eye looks back to Perry. A eye that glowed a dim gold. Perry blinks softly as she finally feels her body move again, making her way over to the offered stone seat. “Tyran?”
Sitting this close now, and with the light from the moon and stars, Perry can see this man more clearly. He was old, in his later stages of life, lines formed upon his weathered skin, the hair on his head and the long trimmed beard was a shade of silver gray. But those long tapered eyebrows and high pointed ears made him a High Elf. ‘This guy must be ancient, maybe even older than Malfurion,, but ho-’
“How can that be? One of your many questions little starlight. And I would give you many answers. But perhaps we can do some more,, proper introductions, hmm?” Tyran smirks slightly, revealing a little of his pearly sharp teeth. He extends a hand over to Perry, clawed fingers outstretched with the palm upwards.
“My name, is Tyranastrasz. The Scholarly One. Former Prime Consort to Alexstrasza, The Life-Binder. Former King of the Red Dragonflight.” Tyran bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes briefly as he did so.
Perrigrin sat stunned, not quite believing it,, but also does. All the stories Khadgar shared, the trust and respect he had for the Orc, the way he spoke, those eyes,, She snaps out of it and places her hand in the offered palm. The skin was much smoother than she expected, and so warm.
“Uhmm, Perigrin, Druid of the Claw and uuh, practicing Mage I guess? I haven’t quite got the same level of titles you have though sir, my-lord? How would I even address you?” Perry shook the much larger hand, tilting her head slightly to the side.
Tyran laughs warmly as he releases the hand “Please, I would much prefer you call me Tyran for the while we are together. And do not keep yourself down little one. I see that in the future you will make a few names for yourself, fret not.” The ancient Dragon smiles warmly, his carmine and gold robes quietly rustling as he crossed his legs.
“So, Perigrin of the Claw, what would you ask of this Red Dragon? The night is young,,”
Christmas/Yule with a few of my characters. Thought this would be a nice long write in different verses with similar themes.
Enjoy it all below the cut!~
The Tower, Last City, Earth.
Amanda Holiday was working on a jumpship's turbo arc-injector, it had been her latest project the last few days and it was going nowhere. Grumbling, she tosses her spanner into the nearby toolbox, muttering some manner of obscenities as she stormed off to her alcove.
Her assistant-frame clinks over to reorganize the contents of the tipped over toolbox, as Amanda drinks from her water flask, still muttering and trying to solve this latest conundrum, when a gentle voice spoke.
"I do hope I am not disturbing you Miss Holiday." Amanda turned round to see an Awoken Warlock, with that sharp styled hair and dimly glowing golden hues.
"Nah, you're fine Tez. Just this ship got my springs all wound up and it ain't giving way for me. Sigh,," the blonde human combs ran her stained gloves through her messy hair, leaning against the steel frame of her little shack.
"Maybe you need to take your mind off of the,, springs, and look at something else for a bit. Clear your mind, see things in a new light." Tez'sara chuckles quietly before pulling out a parcel for Amanda, bound in emerald green paper and silver ribbons.
"Happy Dawning Miss Holiday." Tez'sara grins broadly while Amanda laughs softly, taking the gift and plopping herself down onto her workstool.
"Aaaw, Tez you shouldn't have. This is adorable, thank you baby. I got nothing for you tho-"
"I think you have given me a lot over the years Miss Holiday, and you've helped me more than just fixing up my ship. You've lent your ear and your thoughts to me."
Amanda smiles tenderly, what weight on her shoulders slipping away as she opened up the gift, to reveal a set of new tools of curious design. "What in tarnation,,?"
"They adjust their heads to wrap about what you are working on, so I call them 'Morph-keys'!" Tez'sara bounces a little excitedly while Amanda looks over the tools, holding up one the keys, before having a light bulb moment.
"Wait wait a hot second,, maybe,, yes! I think you helped with my problem!" Amanda rushes back over to the jumpship and a few second later, the drive roars into life, the turbo arc-charger purring happily.
"Ha ha! It worked! Tez, I swear I could," Amanda whirls around to look for Tez'sara but found that the Warlock has gone, her smile dropping slowly, "kiss you.."
Tyran sat at the edge of the cliff, overlooking festivities below in Stormwind. The humans, the elves, the dwarves and gnomes have decorated the city with lights and baubles, great pines from Dun Morogh set up in the squares and plazas.
Winterveil was in full swing below, yet Tyran sat alone at the top of the cliff, alone. It has been months now since the war between the Alliance and Horde started in earnest, and Tyran had now left the adoptive home of the Horde. The aging dragon, in his Orc form, sighed deeply, a dense cloud of hot air billowing away.
"There you are, I was wondering where I would find you,, you always had a sweet spot for this city."
Tyran tensed up as he heard that melodious voice, and did not need to turn to see who it was approaching. The armored heels cut through the snow with ease, the flowing red shawl and cape floating behind, as the Queen of the Red Dragonflight approached Tyran from behind.
“My Queen,, I thought you did not wish to see me,,” Tyran spoke slowly, turning his head slightly away as Alexstrasza stood next to the cliff edge.
“Tyranastrasz, I required time to process my emotions and mind. I mourned your passing, I saw your blood stain those tiles and the claws of Deathwing, your corpse dragged away to be burned or butchered or worse. Decades pass, and we all mourned.Then, my beautiful daughter Elestrasza, comes home with you in tow, not truly realizing who you truly were. I,” Alexstrasza falters, having started so strong but now those emotions she thought sorted come welling up again,”I saw right away. It was you, alive, changed and scarred, but alive. I was shocked, overjoyed, furious, lost and found,,”
Tyran closes his eyes, his chin dipping to touch his chestplate, sighing deeply. Alex clenched her fists, her clawed fingers digging into her palms before she relaxed. “You came back from the dead, I had just come to accept your loss, I had found a new consort and started a new clutch,,”
“Twas not my plan to disrupt the peace you had created, My Queen.” Tyran spoke quietly, but Alex heard clearly.
“I am not your Queen, Tyranastrasz,,”
Tyran flinches, his eyes squeezing tightly as he waited for whatever was to follow those words. He expected a blow, a vicious blow of words, something. But, all he felt was those warm hands gingerly caress and trace over his jaw and cheek, contrasting to the biting chill winds whipping the mountain.
“, you are my husband, my King, my closest companion I had ever had for millennia. Always by my side, the soundest of mind, and the fiercest of warriors. There can be no true comparison for such a man as you. Queen is not sufficient enough of a word to used.”
Tyran opened his eyes, looking into the glimmering hues of the Lifebinder, and smiled wholeheartedly. As the sun begins to dip behind the mountain, lovers once separated, are reunited.
30km off the coast of New York State, United States of America, Earth.
The massive vessel slowly drifted over the soft waves of the North Atlantic, its heavy engines and drives idle. The deep red and blackened armored hull almost indistinguishable from the night sea spray, salt and ice staining the void hardened metal.
Galaxus slumbered, the great carrier resting in these short hours of the early morning on Earth. The waves on this great ocean, he had found soothing to him, and would often land here when he felt weary from the conflicts and travelling. On board, many of the gang were either resting or tinkering with their hobbies. but some could not dictract themselves.
Cometstrike tapped her talons lightly against the bulkhead door, a door that led outside onto the outer hull of Galaxus. She wanted to fly for a bit, but knew it would reveal the position of not only herself, but also of Galaxus and the gang. Given the humans latest activites and organizations,,
A blast of chilled wind hits her visor as she exits onto the outer hull, icy water getting kicked up by the crashing waves against the hull. Acitivating her mag locks in her feet, the female Autobot walked along the top of the carrier till she was half way down. As she looked up into the night sky, she could see the myriad of stars and constellations softly glowing in the vastness of space.
She hesitates again, the call for flight is strong here, the whipping winds, the clear dark skies, the thrill of evading detection. But the sight of the night stars distract her.
The golden dermis and neon azure lights glint against the dark waves and armor. Lost for the moment.
“You cannot rest, but you cannot attain excitement for risk of bringing danger to your companions.” Cometstrike whirls around with her blades drawn, the visor locking onto the source of the voice, only to see no one around. Comet looks around again, before looking down to spy an opened service duct, revealing what looks to be a speaker of sorts. Sighing softly she retracts her blades.
“Aye, do not blame yourself Galaxus, I enjoy your hospitality but I do feel sometimes confined within your hold and walkways. I want to feel some openness and freedom, to feel myself soar again, breaking the sound barrier.”
“Nothing to apologize for sister. I know these emotions deeply. Even as we speak, I wish to feel the chilled embrace of the Void, the rumble of my drives as I traverse the stars, to find new realms to explore and to feel the silent roar of combat in space.”
“,, I recognized you, you know? When you and Earthquake offered to save Starlight. I did not say anything at the time, but I knew whom you were. You were at the Battle of Cretus Tertius, it was the first time any of the Autobots saw your kind. You and your siblings d-”
“They were not my brothers and sisters. I was awake, they were machines, forced into a war not of their own. They saw and killed, but could not get rid of Megatron’s leash. I resisted, I yanked on the chains they tried to bind me with. But the damage was done, and it would take me many years before I got the shackles removed.” Galaxus rumbled softly, the hull shuddering slightly underneath Comet’s feet, but they soon went away.
“Since then, I have fought against the shackle and chain, the rule of tyrants, and that anyone should follow their Spark in their inter-celestial flight across the sea of stars. Like you once did, long ago.” Comet snaps to look back down at the speaker system, squinting behind the visor before she feels something soft beginning to fall on her dermis.
Soft petals of snow had begun to fall down over the Atlantic, and starting to dust over the large carrier and Comet.
“,, remind me what day it is Sister?”
“On Earth, it is the 25th of their twelfth month. Why?”
“Then in the traditions of Earth, may I wish you a Merry Yuletide. It is a time to look to one’s family, think of the future, and what bright goals you set to better yourself, and to aide those you call friends and family.”
Tyran looked across the Great Sea, at the smoldering husk that once was the World Tree. He had always been calm when out of combat, the cold battle rage that usually took control would be a distant creature. Now though, a cold searing hate festers below his neutral mask. The tree had been burning for hours now, and showed no signs of slowing, the flames voracious as it ate through the great boughs and roots.
He was there when his wife blessed the tree, centuries ago. It stood against the test if time and strife,, but in just a short few days, it is gone. And possibly for good. When Sylvanas had ordered the attack,, he wished for blood. Oooh how he wanted to bury his axe in that wretched witch. Even Pa'chua, the ever calm and silent, had that raging ember of hate his his eyes, the Tauren even struck Sylvanas with a Hammer of Judgement before he was subdued by Nathanos and some half dozen orcs before he did anything more. Saurfang was needed to calm down Tyran and Pa'chua, he shared the anger, the distrust,, but they needed to wait.
Tyran stood at the shoreline, ashen waves crashed over the sandy beach, muddy ash beginning to coat his greaves before he moved away. Though he came across an elven body, a young female with white hair.
A young night elf, she still had a slight plumpness to her face and frame, she would be seen as a youth by her people. She was slumped over, a bush of blackened arrows grew from her bent back, dried blood coated her leather armor and clothes, her pale shock of hair was marred with mud and sand. Another casualty of this accursed war.
Tyran sighs and he slowly kneels down by the body, his gauntleted hand lightly grasps the young girl's chin, lifting her up to look in her face. Those usual glowing eyes were colorless, blank, empty, but the old aging dragon could sense the parting emotions and feelings. Sadness, despair,, longing,, and apologetic? Tyran frowns slightly, the thick brows knitting together. Who was this young child apologizing to?
"Perry? Perry! Where are you? Peregrïn??" Tyran looks up as he hears someone shouting, and spies,, Khadgar? His robes are partially singed, as he has ran through fires, his hair slick from the sweat running across the man's brow. Tyran was about to respond when Khadgar spies him first, and the body beside him. Khadgar loses what color was left in his face, eyes wide and vacant, before they fill with rage.
"Khadgar, what are y-" Tyran has barely time to finish his sentence before a massive Arcane bolt slams into his chest and sends him tumbling onto the beach. The wind knocked from his lungs and his head spinning, Tyran tries to get back on his feet, trying to breath in the hot air.
"You beast! I trusted you! How could you do this?! Why did you kill her??" Khadgar swings Atiesh, another large anger and grief fueled Arcane bolt is flung at Tyran, who this time is prepared for it. Tyrannastrasz may be ancient, but he can still use magic and has taken worse.
His large hand catches the bolt in the air, the unstable magic twitching and crackling in the tight grasp, wishing to detonate, to tear apart reality. Tyran growls low, as he focused on the magic, slowly dimming the power and light, rending it harmless.
"Khadgar! Calm yourself boy, you know as well as I do I do not kill innocents. What Kaldorei warriors who attack me get knocked out and cast aside to be picked up later. You know this boy!" Tyran raises his voice, shaking his slightly smoking gauntlet, pin and needles dancing over his flesh.
The mage pants heavily, his eyes still wide and jittery, but he is starting to slow down, his racing mind beginning to gain more control and calm. Tyran slowly removed his helm, moving towards the white haired mage, but is moving carefully and slowly.
"Khadgar, Peregrïn,, this is Peregrïn?" The old Orc indicates to the still slumped over night elf body, Khadgar visibly shaking before giving a nod. Tyran sighs gently, his eyes down cast before beckoning Khadgar over. "Come then boy, I will need your help with bringing her soul back into her body. She is an Adventurer like myself, there is still time."
Khadgar blinks gently before more or less stumbling over to the body of his lover, Atiesh almost forgotten and clattering to the ground. "W,wait, what do you mean? She can be,, saved? But I thought,,?"
"Ha, you forget sometimes that I do still wield power from my lineage. But I need your help to guide her back to her body,, and to remove the arrows from her back. I know this will be,, difficult, but I need you to focus on her, you have to."
Khadgar nods earnestly as he kneels down beside Tyran. The Archmage knew for some time who Tyran was, and had multiple times asked for the aging Dragon's aide over the years since their first encounter in Outland. Now the Ancient needed Khadgar's help,, to save his beloved.
"I am going to hold her steady, and I need you to remove the arrows. And careful, they might still have toxins and poison on then still. One at the time " Tyran spoke gently, but steadily as he gingerly moved the limp body of the Night Elf around, so that the Mage could get at the arrows. The white haired mage clenched his fists, taking a slow shaky breath, trying to steel himself,, before removing the first arrow, using both his hands and a bit of magic.
Clitter, clatter, clitter, clatter. All the beach could hear was the ashen waves crashing on the shore, the hot breeze coming from across the waves, and the wooden arrows clattering onto the boulder underneath the trio. It was this for many minutes, as Khadgar tried to remove the arrows without making too much damage to Peregrïn's body. But it is soon done.
"That's,, that is the last one. Alodi's beard,," Khadgar shudders as he sees the vast network of scars and spread of poison over Perry's back.
"Boy. Focus. Now, I need you to hold her head, both hands, that's it. You can have her rest in your lap to make it easier, there we are. Now, I am going to be using a lot of Nature magic for this,, but it will be difficult. Given,, well,," Tyran instructs the mage before glancing across the sea to the remains of the tree.
"Yes,, some of the Druids have said that the balance is,, tipping."
"Ha, that's the gentle term for it. Bare with me now." Tyran breathes deep, closing his eyes while unbuckling and removing the heavy plated gauntlets, putting them into the blood soaked sand.
The large green hands are scarred and coarse, the nails cut back and trimmed close to the digit, the palms are scrapped and worn smooth. Ever so gently, Tyran places one hand on Perry's forehead, the other on the middle of the chest. As Tyran exhales, yellow starlight begins to trickle out o his maw, brilliant points of light racing along his arms to his hands. Across the sands comes fireflies of gentle greens and emerald, coalescing in the palms of the ancient warrior.
Khadgar had seen numerous times Druids and Priests healing others, but very few resurrections,, but they are usually more public, dramatic, with chanting of hallowed Psalms or ancient tongues. This feels,, more intimate, personal. No words are spoken, no grand gestures. Just,, flow of energy.
Tyran's eyes are screwed tight, rumbling lightly under his breath, the flow of starlight has stopped and his hands are wreathed in clouds of the fireflies and golden light. As one, he presses the hands down into Peregrïn, feeding the magic into the cool limp body. "Speak her name boy. Call her back from the beyond." Tyran spoke gently, still trying to control the wild magic in his hands.
Khadgar blinks rapidly before looking down at his lover, the one woman in the world he couldn't be without. "Peregrïn. Peregrïn,, please come back. Please come back."
The magic flows into the body, sewing flesh back together, mending bones and nerves, leaving all but scars behind. Color returns to the skin, warmth spreading throughout, warming up Khadgar clammy hands slowly
The realization that one of the last true orcish heroes, a living symbol of honor, willingly chose to stay shackled by the Alliance rather than returning to the current Horde must be utterly devast...
(by Zeon-in-a-Tree)
Tyran did not like this. Breaking into Stormwind, in broad daylight, and work their way into the Stockades and find some vital political prisoner.
Tyran knew Saurfang was taken in and shackled up, he knew Anduin would treat the High Overlord with respect and would make sure the warrior was comfortable, and taken care of.
Rohkan looked at the locked cell and shook his head, his face paling a little before motioning to Tyran “ You bettah be taking dis ,,” Tyran moved past Thalyssra and Rohkan, and yanks off the simple lock from the thick cell door. Inside on a cot sat Saurfang, The Veteran, the Ancient, the Might of Kalimdor. He wore only a simple leather tunic and linen shorts, his armor nowhere to be seen.
Tyran took off his horned helm, hanging it on his belt as he stepped inside the cell. Rohkan and Thalyssra stood guard by the open door, not truly daring to walk in further.
“You think you are here to take me back to Orgrimmar. Back to the Warchief. You are mistaken.” Saurfang rumbled slowly, not looking over at his long time friend Tyran, his eyes boring holes into the far brick wall of his cell.
“Varok,,” Tyran began but he was interrupted when his fellow Orc stood up and looked him dead in the eye. “ I have have lost track of the time I have sat in this cell. But it matters not in the end. After all she has done, I will never return to her Horde.” Saurfang growls low, waving an arm in disgust as his mind recalls briefly the horrors and sacrilege during the War of Thorns and the Siege of Lorderon.
“Varok, I am not taking you to the Horde. I just want you out of this Cell and out in the open. You need not go to that Witch’s Horde,,” Tyran spoke carefully but earnestly with Varok. The High Overlord sighs heavily before looking over at the duo by the door “ Make sure you know the difference between loyalty and honor. And pray you never have to choose.”
Shan and Vaard looked between one another then back at the huge Orc who was in the process of cleaning off his knife, the butchered and quartered Talbuk set aside to be grilled later.
“You? A red dragon? Puh-lease, if you think you could fool us you might have come up with something a little more convincing. Quel genre d'idiot me prends-tu?“ Shan’h’tra scoffs softly, leaning on her staff gently, while Vaard has finally managed to sit up somewhat straight, resting an elbow on a folded pile of clothes.
The orc laughs broadly, the heavy plate armor clanking gently in time with his din. He slowly stands up and with a gentle snap of his fingers, his body begins to change under a gentle golden glow.
A small cloud of gold light and black flames rush down the green skin’s body and armor, peeling away the guise. Heavy plate armor gives way for flowing silk robes and embroidery, thick greying braids and hair giving way to long golden locks and chest length beard. The squared and brutish jaw line gave to the sharp lines of a Highborne elf, but those golden piercing eyes remain, the pupils simply black slits, deep and hungry gaze.
Shan and Vaard seem dumbstruck for a moment, as where once a huge Orc warrior stood, was now a High Elf noble in black and red robes. A majestic being, where once a brute stood.
“So, High Arcanist Shan’H’Tra and Vindicator Vaard, does this form seem more convincing? Or would you prefer I take on something more,, scaled?” The High Elf spoke now in Draenic, and barely a hint of an accent is found in his speech. The Elf glanced down, and sees some of the Talbuk blood has lingered on his fingers. He lifts up the long talon like finger nails, and with a short sharp flick of his forked tongue, cleans the nails of the intrusive blood. Once clean, he brushes the long thick beard with his manicured fingers.
“Wha-how, but,” Vaard starts before interrupted by Shan “You are a High Elf? No,, those robes and iconography, those are of the Red Dragonflight. But, who are you? Why would you not be among your people at Wyrmrest Temple?”She immediately switches also to Draenic, her emerald eyes glaring and examining the tall noble across the fire pit.
“Because I do not desire it,, and because my Queen does not desire me to be her mate again, not yet at least. I have not made enough amends yet. And,, she is still healing from the wounds inflicted by Neltharion. As for who I am, well.” The High elf grins gently, revealing those pearly white teeth, gleaming in the fire light.
“I go by the name of Tyranastrasz, The Scholarly One, Prime Consort to the Life-Binder of Azeroth. Though, most of the world believes I am dead, killed at the hands of Deathwing at Grim Batol. The Dwarves, in their audacity, think that my skull resides in their capitol of Ironforge. Ha! The nerve,,” Tyran grumbles softly as he waves a hand, the dimming flames of the fire pit flaring up again.
Vaard gapes at Tyran, still trying to put things together in his mind. Here, in the same room as him was a Red dragon, but claiming to being probably the oldest dragon who isn't even an Aspect. Vaard recalls Senegos from Aszuna, who is millennia old, who was seemingly at the end of the life cycle of dragons, even with the aide of the mana pools and ley-lines coursing through the Broken Isles.
“Then what are you doing, masquerading as an Orc warrior?” Shan asks the obvious question hanging in the room. A Red dragon who died at the hands of corrupted orcs and Deathwing now being a part of the Horde.
“Twas not the form I chose. Twas what the Titans gave me. To humble me and teach me an important lesson. Judge not the Mortals by only a select group of individuals. Were I to judge your people as a whole, I would call you fel-addicted heathens who aide the Burning Legion in the conquest of the Stars. But you aren’t. You are a proud misplaced people who want to try and save your new, and old, homeworld.”
“And, despite your thoughts, I do not serve the Horde. I aide those who try and better the Horde, not to turn it into the war-mongering people they once were. If Garrosh was still alive, Id be putting him on the chopping block. But I also aide, in a part, the Alliance. I curb those who would try and fan the flames of war, but I fear humans are a mortal race who enjoys stirring the pot and up-ending tables.”
Tyran grumbles gently, toying with his beard with his sharp nails, while Shan sputters and scowls at the dragon who dared call her people fel-addicted heathens. “Why you little,,” Shan looked ready to drop an Arcane Bomb on the man before Vaard speaks up.
“Wait so,, you have been living among us, and tried to help both Factions into co-operating? To what end though?”
Tyran stops and looks at Vaard, blinking a few times before doing the ‘Are you serious face’. “To what end? To. What. End? To save this sorry excuse of a planet! To make a world safe enough for my children, my children’s children, and their children and their children to live in it of course! I am the father of almost an entire dragonflight, and spouse to the frakking ‘Life-Binder’. Why would I not fight to save this world and it’s people? I have seen the wars you mortals fought, the tyrants and abusers, plagues and the undead, demons and Man’ari. This is my home just as much as the other creature on this world. To what end. Aman’Thul’s Beard!”
