ALL THE FUCKIN EVEN NUMBERS BITCH CLAP CLAP GET ON THAT SHIT
02. What is one of your character’s biggest insecurities? Are they able to hide it easily or can others easily exploit this weakness?
I guess people can really make her feel like shit if it were brought up that she ‘fucked up’ with her deceased loved ones or said something pointed about her being a bastard child. Both of these parts of her history are really under wraps though in spite of being a very public figure.
04. What are their favorite traits about their lover? (one psychological and one physical)
Psychological: She finds Bricini to have an indomitable personality and really likes it.Physical: Out of everything, she digs Bricini’s expressiveness the most.
06. Do they have any hobbies that their lover finds unusual, odd, or otherwise annoying?
i mean i asked you and you said fuck nothing so.
08. What is, perhaps, their biggest flaw? Are they aware of this or oblivious to it?
Her biggest flaw as a person is probably her inability to not be a fucking robot. She… doesn’t do much for herself. Her entire skill-set is based around soldiering as she and Bricini have gone over before. She doesn’t have much genuine hobbies, either, outside of horse riding and sparring.
She is pretty aware of it but fixing such a thing is, uh, difficult. She’s 149. Been in the military since she was 15.
10. Is your character more feminine or masculine?
I see her as a feminine creature. She might have some masculine mannerisms but I see her style of dress as more feminine than masculine, her vocabulary has a very feminine tone and flow, her nature as a whole is something I find very feminine.
12. Is there some particular talent, skill, or attribute that they simply could not give up?
She cannot compromise her dedication to the Kingdom for anyone. She lets minor things slip, because that’s just life, but as we’ve seen recently, she would stand against anything and anyone that acts in a truly unlawful/unright state.
We are seeing this dedication transition from blind service to any State organisation to something more thoughtful on her part, however.
14. Do they live alone or with family? How do they feel about their family/roommates?
She lives alone but has an estate outside the Capitol’s walls for her mom. They live separately bc she fucking hates her lmfao.
I headcanoned she had residences in the City itself due to her work with the Blood Knight Order and also probably uses the Dawnspire barracks a lot.
With her recent resignation she’s probably crashing at Bricini’s a lot and probably renting out rooms at an Inn waiting for the Phoenix Guard to take her up for basic and provide their facilities.
16. Is your character the athletic type or more of a couch potato? What are some sports/games that they like?
Obviously athletic, lmao.
She likes sparring, horseriding, jousting. For more sporty-sports I imagine it’s like military stuff; football, marmotball, she’s probably an okay fencer.
18. What kind of home would they want to live in? Where would they place this abode?
Ideally, without any obligations or service, she’d want to build her own cabin in Southern Quel’Thalas. Close enough to a village to make trips easy, far enough for her own solitude.
20. Does your character like animals? What are some of their favorite animals? Would they want pets? What about mythological creatures?
She likes animals a lot more than people would think bc she’s so reserved, lmfao. She has been wanting hunting hounds again - she used to have a pair of Stromish hounds back in The Day. She is also an enthusiast with horses which… hurts my soul OOC because I can’t stand the creatures.
22. What kind of tattoos, piercings, birthmarks, freckles, and other such unique physical features do they have?
There’s the iconic crest of the Sin’dorei on her right cheek below the eyepatch and scarring.
She USED to have a huge tattoo of the Blood Knight Phoenix taking up her upper left-arm and shoulder. Vynthius replaced it with the emblem of the Sunguard instead. @captainswingbeard
Scars all over her right eye and around it as can be seen in her art.
Huge scar that starts at her hip and side and curves upward across her body to end at the opposite collarbone.
24. In their own words, how would your character describe what their lover is like?
Answered.
26. What is their lover like sexually? How do they feel about their lover’s quirks, needs, etc?
I think we’ve come to a solid agreement that Bricini is 1. Needy 2. Bratty. Honestly this works just fine w/ Thanidiel because she’s definitely into that shit and I’ve always figured her as a person that likes giving attention to a partner vastly more than receiving.
28. If your character became a celebrity, what would they be famous for?
Military poster-child shit. Maybe she becomes Marmotball Champion of Azeroth idk.
30. When it comes to the arts (music, film, theater, etc), what does your character like?
Not that talented, and uncaring. She’s very left-brained, so to say.
32. If your character’s lover offered to take them out on a dream date, what would they want to do?
She’d honestly just want to spend time with Bricini in private. A lot of talking, a lot of touching, etc.. She really adores (in her reserved fashion) intimacy with Bricini and hearing about Bricini’s work and all, and doesn’t really care about activities in a ‘special occasion’ kind of way.
34. Does your character have favorite foods? (breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks, etc)
Sausage rolls and tea, as always, lmfao.
36. Does your character have any medical conditions? Are they serious or minor? Do they affect their day to day life?
PTSD w/ depressive traits. As for physical - her stellar service to the State so far has gotten her a lot of treatment for any possible detriments to her body.
38. What kind of weather does your character like? Cloudy skies, rainy days, sunshine, etc?
She likes really, really, warm days or cloudy, crisp, days. Rain is tolerable but she doesn’t look forward to the mess afterwards.
40. Does your OC have any guilty pleasures they enjoy? Hobbies, past times, music, etc that they wouldn’t want known by others?
Oh man, I don’t know if I have a solid answer to this question. She’s such a boring person in her day-to-day. I… guess she realises her daily logging is lowkey kind of creepy and doesn’t talk about it LOL.
42. Is there anything in your character’s past that they regret, haunts them, or they wish they could change?
She blames herself for the deaths of her close ones over the years as y’all can tell with her reoccurring nightmares, etc..
44. Is there a particular event that would emotionally devastate your character.
The recent debacle that had her resign not only from the Blood Watch but from the Blood Knight Order itself was a very emotionally exhausting event for Thanidiel. I think that was the first time in roleplaying in her in which what felt more natural for her was genuine, unadulterated, grief in her quiet way.
Furthermore, I think something else that could occur in my roleplay that would fuck her up is probably being put into the same position as the question above: she would feel like fucking hell if someone close to her and ‘on her watch’ got really hurt or killed and she felt as though she could have done something about it.
46. What is some random affectionate thing that your character always does to their lover?
The kissing of Bricini’s hands come up a lot in their interactions - especially when Thanidiel knows she has just said something pointed in their conversations. But as a writer, I mostly key that behavior in particular to just whenever I feel like ‘Yeah, she’s feeling something close to affection in her cold, icy, chest right then in this moment of their interaction.”
48. Is there anything in particular that would ignite your character’s jealousy? Or does your character not get envious?
Answered.
50. If your character confessed love to their crush, boyfriend, girlfriend, etc, what would they say?
Honestly, once the relationship gets there, unless Bricini said it first and then harassed Thanidiel subsequently to say it back - I really don’t think Thanidiel would ‘fess up. She might get annoying like their One serious romantic conversation in Plaguelands and just kinda be like ‘well look at this, this is testament.’
The following is a collection of drabbles, short stories, and long-form writing which was posted on this blog in the last few months of 2016 and throughout 2017.
To everyone who has read and followed along with these stories so far? Thank you so much for your continued support.
Here’s to a creative and productive 2018!
2016
Gaining Entrance: The Bathtub Conversation
[December]
Practice What You Preach
[December]
I
II
III
IV
I Need a Canvas
[December]
Is the Glass Half Empty or Half Full?
[December]
2017
You Need a Will
[January]
Sunguard Site Write
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
Your Fear Was Always Crimson
[March]
Hunt
[March - April]
I
II
III
IV
You Break, We All Break
[April - May]
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
Less Distractions, Dreadnaught
[May]
What Was/Is She Like
[May]
Your Lack of Fear is Always Crimson
[July]
Perhaps You Aren’t As Dead [As You Thought You Were]
[August]
Deployment Dreams [Ithanar]
[August]
Deployment Dreams [Ildrielen]
[August]
The Color of Your Fear is No Longer Crimson
[October]
Break [Over and Over]
[October]
Last Day
[October]
Late Night
[October]
Lose No Steps
[November]
When the World Doesn’t End? What Happens Then?
[December]
The front being held by the Phoenix Guard was a bloody mess to be put lightly. A felscape hell of retreat and terror. The Legion crashed in with their demons before proper defenses could be established. Cleaving through the ranks all they could do was fall back with each demonic advance.
Zanarian’s Green eyes darted over the field. As their front line crumbled the Crushers moved on clearing room for their war machines. Praetorians and Faithbreakers took command of the assault shouting out orders and delighting in the havoc.
“Those shields won’t last much longer, they are going to charge up this hill, and if they don’t that cannon fire will” Running his hand over his face he shook his head. Against his better judgement he had stayed back to defend the healers. Two of his favored among the cabal and a contingent of Light users.
“Enough of this, If someone doesn’t help they’ll be over run. I am not waiting for them to upon us. I think it’s time for a snack.” Sliding off the rock he was perched on he walked over to Mara. A warm smile on his face. “The price is paid my Seer, so long as your heart beats I will keep going.” Leaning down he slid his thumb over her ear before giving her a kiss. First her lips then her forehead. Moving on he marched over the other illidari.
Claws wrapping around the back of Vilesun’s neck Zanarian knit his fingers into his friends hair. Holding his forehead against the ink binder he nodded. Felseared eyes boring into the other man. “Whatever happens, you know my orders.”
“I won’t disappoint Overseer.”
Releasing the man Zanarain nodded a second time. “See that you don’t, when this over gather who you can, we’ll have a party like we’ve never seen.” The joke never seemed to let him down and he smiled at his humour.
Turning to the field he charged down the hill his foot fall became heavy. Each step wider, each landing with more force. Blackened scales spread across his arms as spikes began to reach out from under his armor. By the time he slammed into the first demon he had finished the transformation.
Biting into his first target his draconic jaw clamped down hard on the fel lord. Closing on its neck he wrenched the flesh from the demon and with a spray of blood they hit the ground. Where one now struggled to breath the other was looking for his next meal.
In a battle he never had to wait long. The infernal let out a shriek as the construct greeted him. The lumbering machines were slow. Zanarian had more than enough time to dodge its ‘arm’ and capitalize on the strike. Claws aimed forward he pierced its vulnerable spot. The armor was weak below the chest. It was all too easy to grab onto its core. Pulling back he dislodged the molten center of the beast. With a second shriek it came undone and fell to pieces on the ground. He always liked the taste of Infernal, and with a delightful crunch he devoured the treat.
With the way open his real target was in sight. The Fel Cannons. Each war machine was pointed at a different location. Some near the healers, some at the front, and another at the casters.
The battalion of magi rained spells of all schools on the demons. This of course gathered their ire and as the cannons all changed to put an end to that threat.
With the force of the freshly consumed infernal Zanarian crashed into one of the cannons shattering it in his wrath. Tail flinging out he choked the operator before throwing him like a rag doll at the second cannon. He lived for this, and lept at the next one. In the midst of his wholesale slaughter he barely noticed the darkening of the sky, but the searing smell of fel-ionized air was a give away.
In a battle against the forces of the Legion the unexpected had to be prepared for, and when Baal’s forces marched on the Dawnspire there would be no difference. What was the point of a stable front line when facing aerial superiority.
The cry to look above rang out almost too late. In a rain of fire the green meteors shattered the clouds With a cataclysmic slam the sphere of stone and fel crashed into the ground. The final moments were here and Baal’s elite guard had arrived. Just as soon as the craft had obliterated the earth beneath it the behemoth inside surged outwards. Double edged spear swinging in wild arcs melting away the lines of casters.
Runes on the monster’s glave shimmered as he sent frost, flames, and lightning back at their casters. Sweeping the spells from the sky he advanced further into their back line.
Giving off a deeply satisfied roar the demon pierced another magi. Hefting their body up on the tip of his halberd he smiled as the weakened mage squirmed. “Your magic won't save you now wurm.” Plated hands clamping down on his target he dragged him forward on the spear until the reddened spike erupted from his back. “Pathetic”
Tossing the corpse aside the Praetorian was only able to react just quick enough. Slicing through a bolt of frozen fel flame he turned on his next targets. A pair of Suncasters one with hair like flowing honey, the other a raven’s quill. “Is that the best the Dawnspire can muster!” To end the sentence he sliced the second volley. Clearly the Dawnwards weren’t keen on talking. Eager to meet the Felravens the demon lept at them.
Glave held high in the air he was on them in an instant. With a cackling howl the Praetorian slashed at the pair. His spear stopped short and he was furious that instead of a clean cut and tattered cloth his blow was halted.
It wasn’t in Zanarian’s nature to protect people. There were only two types of people, the strong and the weak. If you couldn’t protect yourself you were weak, if you were weak you died…
At least that's what he always told himself, but he broke that rule often. Curling his arm he did the best he could to met the slash with his shoulder. Metal met demonic armor with a loud ring.
Dirt ground up over his feet as Zanarian was punished back with the blow. The sound of cracking scales filled the air followed by a wet thud the Praetorian was stopped in his tracks.
Blood flooding his mouth Zanarian coughed up the red fluid. His trio if eyes fell down on the fel steal of the spear.
It was strange to see a weapon sticking out of your stomach. The blazing hot sensation of split skin, the piercing ache of cracked bones, and the sense of what felt like frozen metal drinking in your blood. Though, to his surprise it didn’t hurt. Stumbling in shock Zanarian struggled to keep standing.
The Praetorian recovered far more quickly and went to free his blade from the lizard that clung to it. With a grunt he yanked his hand back, but to his dismay the Illidari insect refused to let go.
Biting down on his inner jaw Zanarian dug his feet further into the dirt. Wrapping his tail around the Praetorian’s arm his white knuckles held fast to the blade. Blood flowing from his mouth he gave a toothy smile. “The~ fuck you think your going~”
Dragging the spear deeper into his gut he knew the plan already. The taste of frozen air was one he had become well acquainted with, even missed it. As the ice began to race along the blade's edge it froze his tail in place around the Praetorian’s arm. The thought that neither would escape what came next was his only solace.
The worst of the ice didn’t touch him. Lovete’s magic merely helped to cement them in place. She was always kind to him, but for the praetorian there was a more sinister result of the freezing. His armor, his flesh, and no doubt his blood all ran cold.
From his dealings with her Zanarian knew that Melanei wasn’t exactly one for mercy… or restraint. With a score to settle with them both the heat of fel was only inevitable.
Sure enough the air began to crack as it was suddenly sparked ablaze.The bright green was a welcome sign, maybe she would calm down after venting this out.
An Inferno that could probably rival the core of Argus met the iced surface of an instant glacier. The result was a shattering blast that shredded the pair caught in the attack. Thrown to the ground in the violent reaction Zanarian had no idea what happened to his rival demon. No doubt he was in worse shape. As his armor was replaced with burnt skin he would have laughed at the situation if he could manage anything but ragged breaths. Darkness creeping into the edges of his vision his charred head slid to his left. Where he expected to see his arm he found the singed look of what appeared to be his legs.
Before the black took him he pursed his dry lips. “Fffff….”
Vynthius: FEEL. -How does your character react to a persons touch? A random stranger’s? A loved one’s? A friend’s?
Generally, Vynthius does not like to be touched by anybody other than probably Mara’tusargae.
He’s normally very shy and the strangeness of his abilities lead to him not wanting to touch others with his hands; no, he’d much rather paint on them or on more mundane surfaces with his mix of ink and demonic blood.
On occasion, he can be a bit more social and outgoing, unafraid to be touched by strangers, friends, loved ones, etc. but this is a rare thing. Such behavior from Vynthius often requires eating demon souls, especially ones that may be seen as “social” or a “chatterbox”, which is a word he favors.
(This probably isn’t a good way to go about dealing with shyness, but Illidari are strange creatures.)
YOU CAN READ PART X OF “YOU BREAK, WE ALL BREAK” HERE.
Ithanar wakes up to a calm light pouring through a window he knows, to a room he knows all too well, his own.
This time, it isn’t with a jolt however.
No, it’s something a bit different, more relaxed. But it isn’t the last thing he remembers, no, not at all.
He… the last he knew… the last thing he could remember…
“Don’t move too quickly. You just woke up.”
Inthius.
But it’s…
His voice is different, changed; gravelly and low, but a bit more refined.
“Inth?”
“Vynthius, actually…”
Vynthius.
“That name does not fit me… not anymore.”
Ithanar will have to remember that.
He sees his youngest brother now, standing near the edge of his bed. If not for that mane of off-white hair, still pooled around his shoulders, and that slender form… he wouldn’t know. Horns have sprouted from the elf’s head and a strip of red-and-gold cloth surrounds where once those calm blue eyes kept sight of all things.
He doesn’t see an Illidari here… as much as he just sees a loss of innocence...
Of something he could’ve saved.
“You… you’re here.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Our other siblings were unfortunately called away to business, but they stayed by your side as long as they could.”
Curious.
“Even Ildr-”
“Yes, even her. You had them worried.”
“Not you?”
“I’m the one who saved you from death, so no, I was not worried.”
The bedridden elf reaches out with a shaky right hand and sees it now, something new coiled around his wrist and spiraling up his arm; circular patterns of fel green and arcanic purple, a curious mix but… it appears a necessary one.
“What did you do…?”
Vynthius reaches out with his own hand to take Ithanar’s, but it’s more to look upon the tattoos, to see his own handiwork. However, after a few moments, he does give a small but reassuring squeeze of the older elf’s hand but returns rather swiftly to looking over those runes.
“You had a gargantuan amount of arcane magics centered in your right forearm… enough that it was killing you. I was able to quickly design a series of counter runes and channel Fel magics into them…”
Of course.
“And by doing so you-”
“Yes, I negated and neutralized an overwhelming majority of the arcane magics that were destroying you.”
“And the arcane layer you added on top of the Fel runes… stops those negative effects.”
“Indeed, and I learned that on my own… my choice.”
That’s how this all started, didn’t it?
Perhaps not all of their misfortunes, but Inthius? The ancient pact? Hantheron?
Silence, at least for a few long minutes.
“You know I tried, right?”
The youngest Islesun cranes his gaze away and then down. He doesn’t do or say anything, not at first, but eventually and slowly nods after a few moments.
“I know.”
A sigh of relief.
“I know you did, Ithanar.”
“I am truly sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for what our father did. You never had to.”
“I know, but I felt like I should say… something.”
“And so you have. What’s done is done.”
Silence.
It wasn’t like this… not years ago, no, not when they could talk for hours, when Ithanar could listen to Inthius give a lecture on some new artistic technique he had learned.
What to do? What to use to shift away from the topic...
“Hantheron?”
“Dead.”
“The… Legion’s…”
“I have informed my superiors.”
“The Illidari?”
“... Yes.”
“You chose that?”
“Are you angry with me for it?”
“No.”
“Then you understand.”
“I’ve met a few…”
“Of my kind? You can say it that-”
“I may not ever… truly understand, but I can see why.”
“Ildrielen wasn’t too pleased.”
“She doesn’t have much of a choice.”
“No, she doesn’t. I made the decision, and I did what I did.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
There’s a chuckle, low and gravelly…
It isn’t Ithanar though. It’s Vynthius.
A sound he missed. A sound he wanted to hear after all of these years.
The two talk for a few more hours.
Perhaps it isn’t as direct as it was years ago, but things do open up a bit further.
“Remember when Iltheria saw my first attempt to Blink across the courtyard?”
“Yes, but now you can fly… so that may be a tad bit moot.”
“Glide, not fly. It’s a bit different, but it was damn horrible. I resolved to never try again after.”
“She thought your form was so bad. Couldn’t stop talking about it for hours afterward.”
“... And that is why I don’t even try anymore.”
“Well, why would you? You can glide.”
“There you go. Now you get it.”
The back and forth, the gentle tugs and pushes, the little quips…
This is what it was like, right?
Ithanar tries to remember the feeling, the idea of having a positive conversation with of his siblings.
It’s a feeling that’s evaded him for a decade now, fel, longer than that.
No Scourge could ever tear the Islesun family apart.
No, they did that to themselves.
“I should probably leave at some point.”
“And leave me here with Hylaen? Oh, how could you?”
“He’ll take better care of you than I can.”
“You saved my life, Vynthius.”
“Normally I would not have even attempted to heal a non-Illidari…”
“But you made an exception.”
“Do not tell a soul, Ithanar.”
“Oh, of course not.”
“At least you still have some of your cheekiness.”
“If I’ve kept anything through all of this bullshit…”
YOU CAN READ PART IX OF “YOU BREAK, WE ALL BREAK” HERE.
“My lord… my lord… please… PLEASE.”
A sniveling coward as always.
Ithanar watches as the image of the Eredar fizzles out, and then Hantheron beginning to turn… or at least attempts to because the magister-turned traitor doesn’t get too far. No, instead the oldest Islesun reaches for the back of his head and then smashes him face-first into the console.
There’s a sickening crack as Hantheron crumples to the floor, shaky hands scrambling for his face, for his nose, to try and cover up whatever fate has befallen him and protect against any further assault. He cries out and then moans, blood already beginning to trail between his fingers and the place where his palms connect.
“FUCKING- oh… oh no, no, no…” Hantheron begins to scream, but stops short because he now sees his attacker. He uncovers the bottom of his mouth with both hands, revealing a nose that is gushing blood and bent at all the wrong angles, obviously broken.
A whimper escapes his thin lips, and then he gasps.
“I-I-I-Ithanar… I… I…”
“Save your bullshit for someone who gives a damn, Hantheron…” Ithanar trails off in a growl, teeth bared in a snarl and brows furrowed. He feels fury rise in his belly, a part of him wanting to just run the old elf through…
No, that just won’t do though.
No, no, he wants to make Hantheron suffer.
It isn’t Ithanar, it isn’t how he does things but frankly he doesn’t give a damn.
Not with the fury, not with the dark whispers in his ear, at the corners of his mind…
“I-I-I-ITHANAR!” Hantheron cries out again, trying to stop the flow of blood but failing spectacularly. He reaches up with a hand and waves it frantically as though such a gesture might whisk Ithanar’s image away, that this is all some sort of cruel joke or a dream. “I-I-... I…”
It isn’t.
This is no dream, no cruel joke, but it is a nightmare…
Just not for Ithanar.
Whatever further stammering Hantheron has to offer doesn’t come through as Ithanar swings his right leg back and then forward, connecting with Hantheron’s gut. He carries into the air but not too far before slamming against the console.
THUD.
Just like last time, and the time before that.
A cry, a holler, a yelp, of pain.
Hantheron clutches at his belly, hands cradling his stomach, and whimpers softly, crawling to his knees and letting his face rest against the floor. Blood begins to move across the fel iron slowly, surely… and then there’s laughter, almost evil, almost harsh…
Such a sound belongs to Ithanar, but he doesn’t recognize it.
He doesn’t care.
No, he just feels better.
The elf reaches down with a hand for the magister’s long mane of silver hair, fingers grabbing and then wrenching to try and pull him up to his feet, to get a better look at his face. Hantheron lets out a cry of pain, howling, eyes wrenched shut and holding back tears, or at least attempting to as he struggles to his knees.
“I-I-I-I-Ithanar… p-p-p-puh-please!” The magister finally gets out a stutter, barely able to talk through the flow of blood.
“Shut up… just shut the fuck up...” Ithanar growls in return, wrenching that gauntlet in Hantheron’s hair even more tightly, enough that he draws another cry of pain and then sobbing. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Fucking pathetic, Hantheron.”
“KILL ME THEN! FOR I AM ALREADY DEAD” Hantheron screams, blood trickling from between his lips, gaze lifted and glaring daggers at the armored elf. “My… my… fate was SEALED! MUCH LIKE YOUR BROTHER-”
What is he talking about?
No, wait…
Ithanar doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn.
“Inthius owed you NOTHING!” The oldest Islesun roars, wrenching the magister by the hair still and then tossing him to the floor. “I OWE YOU NO PROMISES! HE ESCAPED FROM YOU!”
The magister laughs and sobs, an unusual mix as he continues to wallow in his misery, knees and hands resting on the floor. His face is a damn bloody mess, nose still askew, mouth agape, and breathing shallow.
“I… you should’ve have tried to find him… you left him on his own…” Hantheron murmurs through blood and spit, gaze lifting. Laughter has begun to replace the sobs in full albeit uncontrollably, almost unhinged in a way. “You left him to suffer, worse than any fate I would’ve given HIM!”
As soon as he says the word, the magister flicks his hand and lets of a roaring fireball in Ithanar’s direction but the warrior sidesteps it and charges, drawing his blade. Hantheron scrambles up to his feet, hands slinging and swinging wildly as he unleashes more fire upon his foe.
Something screams in the back of Ithanar’s skull, familiar senses and instructions but he bashes them away for he does not have the tools at his disposal. No, instead, he ducks and then dodges as best he can, narrowly evading the spells and closing the gap before swinging his blade down upon the magister’s head.
Hantheron however has other plans in mind, raising a hand and conjuring a shield of fel green to parry the strike away. It’s a successful attempt, but it doesn't deter Ithanar who immediately raises his shield and bashes the mage in his already vulnerable ribs, connecting and sending him skidding then rolling across the fel iron floor.
“I’m going to kill you, Hantheron, I’m going to fucking-” He growls dangerously, angrily, as he continues stomping forward.
“IF I’M GOING TO TO DIE, THEN I WILL TAKE YOU ALL WITH ME!” The magister roars in response, dragging himself to his feet and moving his hands wildly, rapidly, fingers dangling as though attempting to conjure something yet again. “YOU HAD THE CHANCE YEARS AGO, ITHANAR!”
He isn’t wrong, no, not at all…
But Ithanar plans to make up for it here and now, damn it.
The magister finishes his conjurations, hands still swirling and moving, as he twists another raging fire into existence… but it’s fel green, dangerous and dark, a twisting cloud of brimstone that he launches at Ithanar with great force. As the thing moves, the matter unravels to create a twisting cloud that threatens to engulf the area the armored elf occupies.
But what part of the area? Above? Below? All of the spaces in between?
Ithanar tries to calculate, but finds that he doesn’t have the time and decides to make that split decision, twisting under the twisting felfire and brimstone. He sees Hantheron’s expression from the periphery of his gaze, a twisted and bloody smile that widens as his spell takes effect and then explodes.
Above then. If he had been standing during that…
No, now isn’t the time.
That bloody smile on Hantheron’s lips changes to something of fear and then he shouts incomprehensibly.
Whatever words he has do not matter to Ithanar. No, only actions do in this moment.
The off-white haired elf reaches the mage and is able to deliver a swift kick, boot connecting with Hantheron’s gut and then sending him backward but not before Ithanar brings his blade up and around, aimed at his foe’s right arm and connecting to bloody effect.
Hantheron collides with the wall behind, but he’s already unleashing a bloodcurdling scream of pain and terror, his remaining hand shaking to try and reach the bloody stump that was once his right arm. He screams and screams, huddled against the wall, teeth gritted… but that doesn’t stop Ithanar who continues to charge.
No, what stops Ithanar instead is another sound… laughter, chilling to the bone, the smokiness of brimstone…
It’s Hantheron.
<“I… I won’t die… no, no, not like this… NO, I WILL LIVE… I WILL…”>
His form shifts and shakes, rumbling forth as he begins to escape the bond of his robes. Bulk and brawn are drawn forth under the skin, and his features begin to take on something brutish, large, hulking…
None of it is good, no, no, not for Ithanar.
The oldest Islesun backs away with a growl, grip tightening on blade and then shield as he watches Hantheron become something monstrous, horns growing from his head, skin wrecked and ravaged by cracks of Fel energy… a monster, power only the Legion could ever give.
He’s seen it before in some of the Illidari, but this…
<“You should’ve killed me… when you had the chance, Ithanar…”> This new version of Hantheron growls, peering at a regrown arm, twisted and demonic, nails sharp like claws.
<“You had the chance, but no, no, I know you wanted… you wanted me to suffer.”>
Again, the magister-turned-traitor isn’t wrong.
Ithanar still wants to make him suffer, but in this moment such a task doesn’t seem entirely feasible.
<“I will make YOU suffer… I will make your FAMILY suffer… I will make ALL OF YOU SUFFER!”> The demon roars, gaze now upon the elf.
Hantheron lunges forward and grabs Ithanar, who fails at rolling out of the way. He feels himself picked up and then thrown into the air, tumbling and crashing toward a nearby wall. There’s a thud as armor meets fel iron, and then he collapses but isn’t out of it, no, not just yet.
But soon.
In this moment, Ithanar realizes his mistake. He had all the time in the world to put Hantheron in the ground.
Now he has none of it.
Perhaps his other self was right.
THEN YOU WILL FAIL.
So be it.
“Can this go faster?”
“I’m afraid it’s set at a-”
“Fuck your certain speed!”
“Ildrielen…”
“We’re here. Let us make some haste.”
“We need to-”
“Where is it? Where is-”
“Oh.”
“What the fuck? Is that-!”
“Hantheron.”
“What happened to him?”
“His master must’ve given him one last gasp of energy, one last thing to fight with.”
“We will need to take this-”
“No time, Ithaerin. We need to do this fast. Get Ithan-”
“No more talking. I’m going.”
“Inth- wait, no!”
“INTHIUS!”
“After him, Ildrielen! Move!”
“We need to get him! We need to-”
“SHIT, HE SEES US!”
“ILDRIELEN! MOVE!”
“ITHAERIN!”
Ithanar sees it all in slow motion, the world coming to a near stop before his eyes.
He can barely move to stop it, but it’s close enough, a great sphere of fel fire streaks toward him, toward Vynthius, towards Ithaerin and Ildrielen. They’ve arrived at both the right and wrong time.
A great and terrible thing, the green of fel fire glowing with each passing millisecond, moves toward Vynthius, Ithaerin, and Ildrielen. Summoning as much energy as he can muster, the old elf moves as fast as he can in plate, sprinting toward them and then staggering as he is able to gain some sort of better vantage point.
He feels his bruises, his cracks, his joints, his aches, feels all of it and then feels none of it. The battle with the mutated and fel-infused Hantheron has left him battered and nearly broken, but now in this moment it feels like nothing.
Because he knows what it’s like to break, both as the recipient and the one doing the breaking.
He still sees it all in slow motion, a moment in time standing as still as he has to, as strong as he does, spreading his feet shoulder-width apart and raises a hand.
He hears a shout behind him, a voice that can only belong to Ildrielen. She already knows what he plans to do, already understands what he’s going to attempt… and how it is probably going to kill him.
Probably being the operative word. He’s willing to take a chance for family, yes, even her. Forget their rivalry, forget their hatred, forget… all of it.
In this moment, he forgets. He casts himself into a void he only knows so well.
But it isn’t just him who’s here.
No, he feels a voice from beyond, the feeling of scorched grass and twigs on his toes, a crackling fire.
You really are stubborn, you know that?
The other Ithanar.
He’s here.
It’s here.
Not now.
You could take all of this, couldn’t you? All of this energy? This…
Power. I’m sure I could.
The void is a hell of a place to have a conversation like this.
Ithanar focuses as best he can, trying to keep out distractions, trying to keep it all out… but the Nightmare wriggles and worms its way into his mind, whispering as it always does.
You can have it all.
I’m well aware. How many more times will you tell me this?
I will continue to do so until you see my point.
Which is?
You have nothing.
That is true.
Yet you grasp at nothing.
That isn’t true.
Then what do you have?
Ildrielen.
She hates you.
Ithaerin.
He has no care for you.
Inthius.
They ALL despise you.
So be it.
SO BE IT?
I am going to give my family one last thing to cling to. I don’t care if they hate me or love me.
My mistakes have been my own.
THEN CORRECT THE COURSE.
THIS PATHETIC ELF FASHIONS HIMSELF A MONSTROSITY…
… WHEN HE IS NOTHING MORE THAN A MESS.
TAKE.
IT.
TAKE.
IT.
ALL.
No.
WHY NOT?
Because I don’t need it.
YOU LIE.
You want to believe that, don’t you? But if you know me so damn well then why don’t you tell me how we both truly feel?
YOU.
ARE.
PATHETIC.
A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A WARRIOR.
A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A SPELLBREAKER.
A PATHETIC EXCUSE AS YOU ARE NOW.
And I told you…
I accept who I am now.
Besides… I am no spellbreaker.
Ithanar isn’t wrong. He isn’t a spellbreaker, no, not anymore.
He hasn’t been one for a long time.
He may be able to speak of the methods, of the ways in which one does what they need to put the fear of death into a mage but…
He does not carry the powers of a spellbreaker. He doesn’t need to.
However, he is something else, isn’t he?
He’s a warrior, a fighter, a protector of something greater than himself.
Ithanar realizes that he’s forgotten that to some degree.
For a moment, even with his eyes closed, he swears he can see Inthius’s bright shining face, remembers the last words he had told his younger brother before he had left…
You break.
We all break.
But Inthius is here, isn’t he? He’s back in their arms yet again.
There is no more breaking to be done.
Only protecting.
“ITHANAR! WHAT THE FUCK-”
Ildrielen isn’t able to finish her shouting, watching her twin brother step in front of that gout of green fel-fire and reach out with a hand. She attempts to step out of the way and barely makes it, diving down across the fel-iron platform and coming up to a knee, gaze wheeling around to see what fate has befallen Ithanar.
He lowers his hand and reaches for his shield to bring it up, shouting something hard to hear amongst the din of fire and rage. The rune on the front of the shield glows crimson, and then unleashes a concussive blast just as the gout of flame reaches the old elf. It’s a mix of Fel and Arcane, each clashing against one another before combining into the only possible form of energy Ildrielen truly knows.
An explosion.
She’s thrown off her feet and farther down the ramp, eventually coming to rest on her belly. Quiet settles in the next few moments and Ildrielen is back on her feet shortly after that, reaching for her bow from the ground and sprinting as fast as she can in her leathers, tenacious as always.
“Where the-?” The Farstrider begins to ask, waving aside the aftermath of dark smoke and fel embers to try and get a better picture.
Her answer lies before her in the form of Ithanar’s body slumped against the wall, seemingly lifeless, limbs askew and shield nowhere near his person.
“No, no, no, no-” She begins to stammer, hurrying as best she can, leaping over displaced rubble to get to her brother. Her gaze turns and twists, disoriented and sick, but she swears she can see Inthius and Ithaerin from her the corner of periphery.
But they don’t matter at the moment. No, Ithanar does… for the first time in a long time.
She crouches as soon as she can, coming to rest beside him and dropping her bow to place her hands around his face, trying to see. He seems limp in her grasp, lifeless, eyes closed, obviously having impacted the wall given how he lays there.
“Ithanar! Ithanar! Don’t you fucking dare, I swear!” Ildrielen nearly screams in his face. “Please… ITHANAAAAR!”
He doesn’t respond, at least in the moment, but something else does… an insidious growl of a laugh that shifts from across the room.
The Farstrider’s gaze twists and turns, and she can feel color drain from her face as she watches Hantheron rise from rubble caused by the impact of his large demonic form across the room, which he seems to have brushed off for the most part.
His chest appears caved in and there’s an arm missing, but other than that…
The magister-turned-traitor seems terrifyingly ready for another confrontation.
<“Shame, isn’t it?”> The half-elf, half-demon states with a wide smirk. <“He gave so much… for so little. Seems a rather solid summary of his life, doesn’t it?”>
Ildrielen reaches for her bow almost immediately and nocks an arrow as quickly as she can, drawing and firing, tears streaming down her eyes. Her aim is off, for the first time she can remember, so her shot moves high and wide right. She’s reaching again for an arrow, but Hantheron begins his slow but lumbering march toward her.
It’s obvious he’s injured more than he lets on, but she doesn’t have a lot of time. Where the fel are Inthius and Ithaerin? Where-
<“I guess you’ll meet the same fate as he did, my dear Ildrielen...”> Hantheron gloats as he rumbles toward her, picking up speed. <“So much for so-”>
He doesn’t finish whatever taunt he has in mind.
The lumbering monstrosity doesn’t even make it across the room as something inky black and dark wraps around its neck, and then its remaining arm, and then its legs, tying him down to the floor. He goes completely immobile, eyes wide in shock as something begins to materialize on that broad shoulder, the form of an elf…
Vynthius.
He may have no eyes to see behind that blindfold, but the fury is palpable through the red cloth, an appropriate color.
“What was that you were saying… Magister?” The young Illidari sneers and taunts now, having stopped the mutated elf in his tracks.
Whatever Hantheron tries to say… doesn’t come out.
No, he’s caught at a loss for words given the tightening band of ink around his neck.
“So much…” Vynthius repeats, raising a hand and making a fist, ink forming around it. “... for so little.”
The ink moves and shifts, forming a some sort of blade or spike, and then the Illidari punches it through the side of Hantheron’s head, right through his brain, clean as can be.
There’s no roar, no yell, no screeching, no, none of that.
Just a gasp.
Hantheron Highwing dies as he never wanted.
(The hunger doesn’t mourn its losses. No, it moves onto bigger things.)
“I… Inth!”
“I’m coming… I’m here… move now.”
“He’s not dead, he can’t-”
“He isn’t. His pulse is week. Perhaps cracked ribs, a broken arm… but…”
“But what?”
“His body is out of alignment. There’s a deadly concentration of arcane energies…”
“Hantheron’s doing?”
“No, no, it’s-”
“An old wound. From long ago.”
“What?”
“When he tried to save Tandrae and Iltheria. He failed… burnt himself out…”
“And took on a large amount of arcane energy in the process. He’s been internalizing it for-”
“Ithaerin, why the fuck didn’t you say anything? Why DIDN’T YOU-”
“It wasn’t my place, Ildre.”
“FUCK YOU.”
“Enough. The both of you.”
“This may be-”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Inth?”
“I can save him.”
“No… I have to save him.”
“Even after everything?”
“Even after everything, after all the things I’ve seen… if he hadn’t cared, if you all didn’t care…”
“We wouldn’t be here.”
“There’s some humanity-”
“It’s a balancing act, Ildrielen.”
“Ith, call Hylaen. Let him know we’re on our way. Inth… can-”
YOU CAN READ PART VIII OF “YOU BREAK, WE ALL BREAK” HERE.
Their plan comes together and quickly.
Ithaerin is able to pinpoint their brother’s location, a small outpost on the edge of the area occupied by the Legion in southern Suramar. Felsoul Hold stands off in the distance, but the place they arrive to is quite a monument itself, shaped to stretch up into a sky of fel.
They figure they do not have too much time, and act like it, moving through the outpost with unhindered swiftness, something that very much alarms them but it does not deter them from their plan:
Retrieve Inthius. Kill Hantheron.
An easy enough thing, but… the unhindered swiftness, the quiet of the place… it disturbs them.
To all three Islesuns, it feels like a trap to the highest degree, especially when they come to a center chamber of some sort, a thing with a high ceiling and various walkways all centered around a central column that appears to be a lift of some sort or fashion.
“We… what the fuck?” Ildrielen asks aloud, looking around. She isn’t wrong. “Where do we go from here?”
It’s a solid question. The various walkways, the central lift, the darkest corners of the galaxy all in one place, or so it seems… where do they go?
“I… I’ve dealt with alien technology before, but this is-” Ithaerin murmurs, eyes wide with wonder.
“Out of your league?” Ildrielen pipes up, shooting a smirk as best she can manage in a grim place like this at Ithaerin, who just responds by rolling his eyes.
“Not now, either of you!” Ithanar interjects, giving them an order that seems to shut them both up. “We have a mission.”
“Who gets to kill Hantheron?” The auburn-haired woman asks, pacing down a ramp that leads to that center column. Her gaze is on a swivel, and she even raises her bow.
There’s quiet, a simmering thing at that question given the gravity of it all, but it doesn’t last too long.
“Let’s take things one at a-” Ithaerin begins to say, following her and closely too.
“I’ll kill him.”
Ithanar’s interruption draws a glance from Ildrielen and Ithaerin, who just stare at him with inquisitive glances.
“You… you will?” The youngest Islesun sibling asks, an eyebrow arched.
“Yes. You two will deal with getting-” Ithanar begins to relay the orders he’s thought out in his mind a dozen times already.
“Why don’t we just take him on all together?” Ildrielen stops him short with her statement, shrugging. “Would be easier.”
“She’s not wrong, you know!”
Silence again, but it’s a sharp and twisting thing.
“The whoooooooole family comes together! Finally!”
All three heads turn, almost in unison, as one of those platforms sinks down to their floor from high above. There’s a slight hiss that sounds throughout the lower chamber as it lands and fits neatly into place, revealing that sallow faced figure with his cropped silver hair and a frown that stretches across his face to reveal teeth.
Hantheron.
Celinth,
I’m going to be out for a week or two.
Ran a personal op. Had a bad run-in with some demons in Suramar.
Tell whoever the newest acting Ranger-Captain is. If he hasn’t kicked the proverbial goblin trash can, then great, that works too.
Ildrielen
Ildrielen doesn’t wait too long, drawing an arrow from her quiver with blinding speed, aiming, and firing a shot off that nears the mark, but doesn’t hit. No, instead of striking Hantheron, a glaive comes down out of nowhere and cuts it right at the shaft, stopping the momentum.
Something, or someone, rises from the ground, from a puddle of dark liquid. Ithanar knows what it is immediately, or at least has a clue as he watches a figure coalesce from the stuff.
It’s…
It’s ink.
“What the-!” Ildrielen barks, drawing another arrow and getting ready to unleash it. She doesn’t get the chance however as something streaks toward her, drawing cries from her siblings, but she steps back, keeping her bow raised.
The figure finally comes into being, a not-so-tall elf with a mane of off-white hair and a blindfold wrapped around his eyes, or where they would be. Tattoos shift up and down ruddy-red colored skin, obviously the trademarks of an Illidari.
The one they’ve been searching for.
Inthius.
“What a save, my apprentice!” The older magister responds with a gleeful laugh, almost manic. He claps his hands together slowly, smiling wide enough to not hide a fact that runs under the skin of the Islesun siblings who’ve come to oppose him. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, Ildrielen? Ithanar? Ithaerin?”
They know it. He knows it.
This is a trap.
All of this has been.
But what kind of a trap is it?
“Go fuck yourself, Highwing!” Ildrielen shouts at the magister who just sways from side to side, hands clasping behind his back.
“Now, now, why don’t we use more proper language here? I set the damn rules!” Hantheron replies with a cheeky smile, head tilted, waving a finger. “No, no, I’m the master now… finally, as your brother-”
“What did you do to him?” Ithanar growls, fingers tightening around his sword and shield.
“The thing I probably should have done years ago, to be quite honest! He would not learn from me then, not listen, but now… well, now he follows his orders rather well…” The magister replies, turning his gaze to the Illidari at his side.
Vynthius hasn’t said a word yet, instead staring at something… the floor perhaps?
He hasn’t moved much either, almost lifeless in his neutral stance, his skin still ruddy and red, veins showing almost with some of that Fel green energy.
“We won’t ask again, Hantheron… what did you do to him?” Ithaerin asks the question now, his own tone tinged with annoyance and some sense of anger.
“I mean, I could have him kill you but…” Hantheron states, ignoring the question, trailing off for a few moments. He reaches up to tap the side of his chin with a hand, gaze no longer set on the Islesun siblings but on what is around them…
Demons lurking in the darkness, moving in now.
This is the trip they had been waiting for, one they’ve walked right into.
“Well, I’d much rather watch than be involved in the fray. We don’t want to forget what happened the last two times you manhandled me, Ithanar!” The magister chirps up with a wink. “Perhaps I’ll come down to finish the job, or send Vynthius to grab the scraps of you, mementos he can keep.”
“You wouldn’t even give us the-” Ildrielen tries to argue, turning her gaze in a half-circle to see what threats near them.
“Last I checked none of our houses have much honor, so no, I won’t!” Hantheron almost laughs in reply, peering over at Vynthius, who stands still in the back-and-forth of this argument.
“Ithanar…” Ithaerin murmurs, gaze shifting to his brother. He doesn’t need to say anymore.
This is the trap, and they’ve walked right into it.
The demons around them begin to close the gap, or already have, coming closer…
And closer…
“I won’t go down without a fight, Hantheron! None of us will, and you know that!” Ildrielen retorts again, raising her bow and trying to aim as best she can.
“Then you’ll enjoy that gauntlet of demons then!” Hantheron almost sings in a victorious tone, turning on a heel with Vynthius in tow. They move toward the platform and as they do, the space they occupied is filled by demons, a whole host of them now surrounding Ithanar, Ildrielen, and Ithaerin…
Closer…
And closer…
A felstalker snaps its jaws at Ildrielen, and a doomguard brandishes its axe in Ithaerin’s direction.
Ithanar is the first to make his move, somethin almost out of character, but he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t have the damn time, so he takes his blade and plants it right in the head of the nearest demon, a felguard, swinging wildly and moving rapidly. His gaze centers on the platform, which slowly rises, barely catching the glance of Hantheron waving goodbye.
Fury builds.
“Kill them, and then we move!”
His words and actions are enough to break the standoff.
Chaos erupts.
Overseer,
I do apologize for my absence as of late. A personal issue took up my attention and I had to be away, some of it not exactly by own my choice.
I will return to the Doom Glaive as soon as I can, and with some interesting information I’ve gleaned from the enemy.
Vynthius
This is no cave.
The lift rises, and Vynthius Vilesun watches the chaos below.
His siblings are putting up one fel of a fight, and it all makes sense. There’s over a thousand years of combat experience between them, a dozen human lifetimes’ worth.
It all tugs at him, shifts with him, does not settle with his mood...
“Well, Vynthius, what do you think of this whole affair?”
Hantheron’s words break the Illidari from his reverie, and his body almost sways a bit with mad glee. His gaze is directed at Vynthius, but not for long as he surveys what he hopes is a victory below.
“Shall we head back up? Our Master does await us.”
Vynthius’s gaze, or lack thereof, sweeps across his three siblings and then the demons, watching the fray with teeth bared in a feral snarl that doesn’t seem his own… almost.
Almost is indeed the operative word, because the words that leave his mouth are shocking, at least to Hantheron.
“No.”
The ruse is up, his charade comes to an end.
No cave ever swallowed Vynthius Vilesun whole.
“E-e-excuse me?!” Hantheron stammers, and then stops, shaking his head. His eyes go wide as he watches the Illidari turn his gaze on him, and he takes a step back… and then another… but he doesn’t get too far as a tendril of ink wraps around his right ankle and holds on.
“I said… no…” Vynthius repeats in a deadly tone, brows furrowing. He raises one of his hands and squeezes it, making a fist; the tendril of ink seems to react accordingly.
Even as the platform shifts, Ithanar hears his brother’s words, turning his gaze up as he takes down a felstalker. He isn’t the only one as Ithaerin and Ildrielen both shoot glances up at the scene above, surprise and shock in their eyes.
“You… no, no, this isn’t supposed to-” The magister stumbles over his own words, and then looks down at the ink around his leg, and then back up at Vynthius.
“Perhaps you have gone deaf in your old age, Magister…” The Illidari repeats, reaching out to grab Hantheron by the wrist and succeeding, chuckling in a manner that could be best described as delightful and devious.
His hold only lasts for a few moments as Hantheron wrenches himself away, but stumbles and falls the floor, his face seized with a shock he had never anticipated.
“I… I…” Hantheron stammers or tries to, walking backwards and getting his robes in a mess. He’s stopped short though by the inky hold around his ankle.
“Broke me? You deal with an Illidari, magister, need I remind you? I BARELY cracked, as I warned you!” Vynthius almost roars, one of his hands tightening into a fist. He takes a few steps forward, summoning one of his glaives to a hand and brandishing it.
“I… I… no, no, no…”
“INTHIUS!”
Who said-
It’s Ithaerin who calls that name from below, which almost distracts the Illidari as he begins to take on the kill. Vynthius’s head snaps to his brother below, almost reacting in a way that someone might when a whip is snapped close enough to them.
Hantheron, still stammer, takes advantage of the opportunity. The old magister’s stammering turns into something fearful, and then he stops, unleashing a fury of fel-green fire which rushes for Vynthius in conjunction with his screams of rage.
“KILL THEM! KILL ALL OF THEM!”
Vynthius is blasted off of the platform, fel fire engulfing him and chaos erupts further as he falls.
No cave constructed by a mortal man, a dwarf, or a traitorous elf could stop eons of destruction captured within a century’s worth of fury.
“Hylaen!”
“Ithaerin. What’s your status?”
“We... it’s not good exactly. We made it out but...”
“What the fel does that- where are you?”
“Do you have supplies on hand? Medical supplies?”
“Yes, yes, but who’s hurt?”
“...”
“Ithaerin, who the bloody-”
“It’s-”
Up goes Hantheron on the lift, floating away to the upper level, which draws a cry from below.
But Ithanar is on it, moving through the fray of demons and Islesuns as best he can, to the edge of the platform or lack thereof. His gaze shifts left and then right, and then right and left.
Where? Where is a-
A console.
There!
He surveys his surroundings. Ildrielen continues to provide cover for Vynthius, who did not meet his death by falling to the fel iron floor below and instead reformed using his Illidari powers, or what he assumes to be. He’s injured, Fel flame having assaulted his skin, but he’s awake and conscious.
Meanwhile Ithaerin deals with a pair of felstalkers intent on ripping his head off, but he seems capable enough.
Always has, always will be.
“Ithanar! Where are you-”
He hears Ildrielen’s yells, watching her taking aim and firing at an incoming Felstalker. Her arrow strikes true, killing the demon, as she cranes her gaze to him.
“Take care of Vynthius! I will take care of-” The oldest Islesun sibling replies, slamming the console with a hand once, and then twice, and then a third time before something hums and there’s a grinding sound. He peers up, watching as the same platform Hantheron occupied returns and quickly.
“Ithanar! Vynthius is-!” Ithaerin protests, still dealing with a pair of felstalkers while keeping an eye on his back, more importantly Ildrielen and the downed Illidari.
“Watch him then! I’ll be back! Someone needs to get Hantheron!” He barks back at them, letting out a sigh as the platform hisses as it fits into place.
Ithanar steps aboard and then watches as the thing rises. His siblings continue to take care of the carnage below, enough so that he trusts them to join him, but there’s just no time.
So many choices run through the old elf’s mind, a hundred directions, a dozen ways this could all go, but in all of them one truth remains constant.
They need to get Hantheron now.
He knows it.
Ildrielen knows it.
Ithaerin knows it.
As the lift goes higher, and higher, Ithanar catches a glimpse of Inthius, who just watches from his nearly prone position. The look on his face is one of contemplative fury, an ironic thing if there ever was one.
The… whatever his brother has become, Illidari, monster, demon, whatever he is… well, Vynthius just merely nods.
He knows it too, knows that Hantheron needs to taken down.
That’s enough for Ithanar.
That’s worth it, even if it’s the last time he ever sees Inthius.
Or Ithaerin.
Or Ildrielen.
“You’re... you’re an idiot.”
“We’ve both been awful to each other, haven’t we? After all these years?”
“We have.”
“I’m... I’m sorry, Ildrielen.”
“I’m... I’m sorry, Ithanar. I’m sorry we couldn’t figure this all out earlier.”
“Well, we still have time, don’t we? To some damn degree...”
“We’ll figure this out someday, won’t we?”
“One day. One damn day.”
Here you are.
At a precipice once again.
Couldn’t just wait until I was asleep again?
No, no, I wanted to… to… hrm, what are the words again?
Go on a whole rambling explanation about power yet again, and how I’ve failed to grasp at it?
How did you knooooow?
I keep hearing it over and over.
So will you do it?
No.
But you are going to kill him?
Yes.
You won’t be able to do it.
Then you don’t know me very well.
You do know well how well I know you.
I don’t have time for this.
This lift is moving rather slowly… you may not have time for me…
But here I am anyway.
Lurking in the front, the back, the side, the around of your skull.
You.
Won’t.
Kill.
Him.
You.
Can’t.
I’ll try then.
Then you will fail.
You think I’m afraid of that?
You should be.
I’m not.
You.
Could’ve.
Avoided.
This.
You.
Still.
Can.
No.
ALL YOU NEED-
I do not need power.
You just will not listen, will you?
Stubborn until the very end.
“Inthius!”
“Do not call me that!’
“Fine then, IDIOT.”
“Not now, you two. We need to catch up with Ithanar.”
“Hantheron is not to be toyed with.”
“I thought you called him an ‘old fool’...”
“Some old fools still have tricks at their disposal, don’t they... Ildrielen?”
“I am going to let that one go. I am so going to let that one-”
“Enough. I cannot believe I am telling my- ah, there we are!”
“Let’s go.”
“We do have a lift to catch, don’t we?”
“My lord, my lord… please…”
“Highwing. You bother me now?”
“A-a-a situation… has…”
“You would bother me with yet another failure?”
“My lord… I did not… I d-d-d-d did not foresee-”
“The last time we spoke you delivered failures unto me. I gave you ONE LAST CHANCE, worm.”
“I DID NOT THINK THIS WOULD HAPPEN. I D-D-D-D-”
“SILENCE.”
“My lord… Vel’domis… please… p-p-p-please…”
“I ask again… did I say you could say that name?”
A sigh.
The hunger is somber.
“My lord… I need… I need your help with these intruders…”
“Intruders.”
“They would threaten your work… OUR WORK!”
The hunger finds humor in this.
“OUR work? You would supplement my work, fool. Nothing more than just an additional piece of the puzzle for which I have no need any further given your utter uselessness.”
“E-e-excuse me?”
“Our contract is finished.”
“No… please… no Vel’domis… don’t YOU DARE! YOU PROMISED-”
“I promised a reward for successes, not for… failures.”
“I HAVE SERVED YOU WELL! I… I…”
“YOU WOULD GROVEL AT MY FEET AND ASK FOR REWARDS?”
The sobs, the begging… they mean nothing to Vel’domis.
“We are finished, Highwing. Die… well, if you even have the fortitude to do so.”
“My lord… my looooooooord… please… PLEASE! PLEASE!”
The hunger is gone.
But Ithanar Islesun has arrived, and a hundred years of fury takes its place.
YOU CAN READ PART VI OF “YOU BREAK, WE ALL BREAK” HERE.
Where is he?
A technological and magical wonder of fel iron and energies from the beyond.
Vynthius feels out his surroundings, testing, trying, wondering what is where and what isn’t.
Shapes, forms, feelings, thoughts have changed…
But the cave doesn’t.
Things begin to fall apart again.
“I knew you would always come back.”
A voice.
Low, morose, brooding… familiar.
Vynthius struggles. He sees the room, a cavernous thing with a high curved ceiling. Various spires rise from the floor, a shape, a form, a being chained to them…
His comrades. The young Illidari struggles against his bodies, breathing, huffing.
Failure. He cannot tolerate it. He tries to call upon the ink within, but finds it stuck, unmoving, unshaped.
An oddity. He has no toleration for such devastation of his body, of his powers.
“Your ink fails you, just as it did then.”
“That’s not true.”
“Do not lie, Inthius... my old apprentice.”
“I am no student of yours.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“Fuck off.”
A laugh.
Low, morose, brooding…
Familiar.
“Insolent still. You picked up that from Ithanar.”
“Don’t say his name.”
“Or was it Ildrielen?”
“Don’t.”
“Did I touch a sore spot? That’s a foolish question.”
More laughter.
“Of course I did.”
There are too many sore spots.
Vynthius doesn’t talk about them.
He’s taken on the last name Vilesun for a damn reason.
For many damn reasons.
“The Islesun family hasn’t been united in a decade, fel, longer than that.”
“Don’t say that name.”
“So angry. Makes sense that you joined the Illidari. You had to direct all of that somewhere.”
A silence.
“We can all only take so many betrayals before we break.”
“I’ve barely begun to… crack.”
“We will see.”
Scribbled upon a piece of parchment that has been torn at some edges, this note from Ildrielen seems rushed, hurried, written with a scratchy script.
To my youngest brother who somehow gets himself in trouble all of the damn time,
Caught a lead after some assassins tried assaulting the estate. Told us that the Highwing family was behind their appearance.
Ithanar is hurt. Something wrong with his arm. Not sure exactly what’s going on. He won’t say but there’s no surprise there. Fucker.
Nonetheless we have a lead. Our old friend Hantheron has been making deals with the Legion. Found some documents stating so. We will bring those when we rendezvous for you to look over.
Also, we have your bauble.
Where are we meeting you?
Ildrielen
The reply addressed to Ildrielen and Ithanar is rather plain, but still appears formal enough, stamped with a seal belonging to House Islesun.
To the two hooligans who decided to break into a house,
It is rather hilarious you mention Hantheron’s name as I was able to decode whatever my former associate screamed as I fled:
STOP THIS HANTHERON.
Seems we have a second piece of evidence to corroborate what you found at the magister’s estate. Hantheron is indeed our man to find, if that is even possible given that most have thought him dead for a number of years.
I am currently on my way to the Isle given that recent events are now out of my hair.
Take caution however, as I am sure Hantheron is probably intent on sending someone else to try and kill you. He always fashioned himself someone who was undeterred by anything.
Ithaerin
The hunger is coming.
There’s an undeniability about it, a taste on the tongue that never exactly goes away but it doesn’t linger either.
No, the hunger is born of starvation, of anger and rage at unnecessary order laid down by long dead titans. It rakes at the soul, your very being, and drives you forward in an endless march toward a goal that should one day be accepted as universal truth.
Chaos.
The hunger descends, and then spreads.
The Eredar lord Vel’domis hungers for more, but he cannot have it without… knowledge, results, experimentation.
An image appears, an elf… Hantheron Highwing, the magister-turned-traitor.
Their source. He kneels as they all should, head bent low, expectant, obedient…
Good, very good.
“My lord.”
“Highwing.”
“You probably are wondering-”
“Just speak, and then leave me be as I do not have time for your-”
“Then I will be quick. Our research goes well.”
A strong tone. Pride.
Good, very good…
Excellent.
“How many have you cracked?”
“A fair amount, my lord.”
A quivering tone. Fear.
He can feel it. Why?
“And those broken to our will?”
“A few, but-”
How disappointing.
“Not enough. We need more. The greater the numbers, the more-”
“I understand, Lord Vel’do-”
“Did I say you could speak that name?”
“No, my lord, I… ach…”
The sounds of choking, gasping, lungs wracked without air.
Vel’domis revels in it.
“You are not fit to speak that name. Do you understand loud and clear, maggot?”
“Yes, yes, my lord, I…”
“Leave me be. Continue to crack them, to break them. Bring me your results.”
A pause.
“And do it quickly.”
“Yes, my lord, yes, of course…”
The elf leaves, and only the quiet, the void of nether-tossed stars remain.
The figure stands broad, stands tall, but his head is ducked, slouched, resting against his chest, eyes closed in thought. He ruminates, wonders, sees what could be and what could not though there is no foresight here, no.
Only assumptions. He cannot abide by such things. He will not abide by such things.
WE HAVE FAILED TWO TIMES NOW!
Harsh words.
WE HAVE NEVER FAILED BEFORE AGAINST GNATS YET HERE WE ARE…
Harsh truths.
BURNED BOTH DAMN TIMES!
It all has been burned into his brain much like their horde has burned and ignited the stars.
The hunger hates.
But the Eredar smiles nonetheless, head rising to look out amongst those stars once again. Breaking these Illidari is just the first step, but a second variation. The experiments continue.
The knowledge is coming.
Some beings just want to watch the universe burn, but why?
So they can remake it in their image, and this is just the first step in Vel’domis’s contributions.
