Summary: Danny is attacked by a ghost who's out to kill his closest relatives. When Danny discovers that the Fentons aren't related to him by blood, it's a race against time to find his last remaining family before the ghost can.
Comments: I love this! The idea is that Jason and Danny are twins who were separated at birth and never knew each other. The first story is a lot of Danny wandering around Gotham and really, really disturbing Bruce and Tim because they think he's the recently deceased ghost of Jason. (Going around asking for Willis and Sheila doesn't help). They second is Danny trying hard to form a relationship with his brother but it's really hard - he doesn't want to reveal he's still half alive and Jason is in his violent phase, wanting nothing to do with Danny and criticizing him for his 'catch and release' policy of ghosting hitting a bit too close. All of their interactions are so thorny - they never go well - but Danny keeps trying for reasons he's just not sure of.
And oh, the secrets between Vlad and Maddie here. Amazing.
There were rumors that the Sentinel was not well. Whomever thought they were just rumors never met the man. They didn’t hear his cries. Didn’t witness his pain. Zalin Shadowsunder. Sunward of the Sunspear, Knight-Lieutenant of the Sunguard, Shield of Quel'thalas. Was completely broken.
It should have shocked the Dawnmeneder more to see the empty bed then it did. How many times had Zalin scolded the rank and file. “Obey the menders, you need rest to be strong… Of course, he didn’t take his own advice.”
Fortunately, though the injured man had not gone very far. Nor did he go with much stealth. Zalin had left a trail of disarray through the infirmary halls. A trail that his assigned mender followed, and once again should have been more shocked to see the High Cleric’s Office lit up in an orange glow.
Stowing himself for confronting a Superior officer the mender reminded himself of the rank of the infirmary over the rank of the Sunguard.
Pushing into the office his resolve melted with the sight of the man. White robes and sterile wraps covered the phantom visage of a proud commander. Gently bobbing stars furthered the ghastly illusion with their weak light. “Sir you should be resting. I know you and the High Cleric where close, but I have to insist.”
Zalin’s was hovering over a book stand, pouring over an ancient text. Shifting his gaze to the intruder he gave him an icy glance before focusing back on his work.
“Sentinel Sir, I have to insist you need rest to heal. How many times have you chastised your own men for doing just this?” Stepping further into the office the Dawnmender started to shiver. It was cold.
This time Zalin didn’t even move his head in response. “Then bring my bed here. There is too much work to sleep.”
“Sir, we can’t do that, we can bring whatever you need to your room, but you really must stay there.”
Zalin pounded on the book stand sending out a jolt through the air that showed more strength then his fragile form should have possessed. “AND have to wait on you people? There is too much to be done, I will not rest until she is safe, until she is back.”
“Sir, please…”
“Another word and it will be insubordination. Am I understood?”
Pushing down a chilled breath the Dawnmender advanced again. He needed to do something or Zalin would reopen his wounds again, if he hadn’t already. “Please Sir. I need you to understand that we are all doing what we can. I have no doubt the Suncasters are hard at work deciphering everything that took place over there. But from your state… over 70 percent of your body is covered in shadow burns. The fact that you are even still alive is a miracle!”
Miracle….
An act of the divine...
An event that can’t be explained…
His voice was low, a whisper muttered only for himself. “I am alive because she made a choice…” Bandaged knuckles growing white. As his violet eyes began to burn with wetness. “She is gone, because I made a choice.” The room grew even colder. The heat of his breath showing in the light of floating suns.
“She would want you to rest.”
She would want…
“Please. Sir, go back to the infir..” The Emberward’s plea fell silent. His request died in the frigid air along with the rest of his voice. Brilliant streaks of arcane light flashed just under the oathsworn’s chin before a sense of constriction coiled throughout his body.
The Sentinel was unmoved by his guest’s increasingly panicked movements. “It wasn’t a miracle, it was spell.” Returning to the book stand before him he reached for the next weathered tome. As he pushed his hand forward his eyes fell back to the lines of drawn ink. Memories flashing of just nights ago.
They had marked one another with intricate runes and symbols, all of which told the tale of whispered promises and long-awaited love. Letting go of his breath he released the spell. The silence of the office vanished with the crash of something heavy hitting the stone floor.
“And any spell, even a Tel’dorei deal is still magic, it has flaws and ways to reverse it. A life for a life. My future, for ours…”
While the rest of the Guard dedicated their energies in the aftermath of the Battle of the Dawnspire to recovery and repair, Thanidiel Highdawn had supplied only two days’ worth of efforts before she had taken her horses and mourning clothes to make for Quel’thalas’ Capitol. It seemed almost as though the Blood Knight had wiped her hands entirely of the Guard and their affairs in favour of preparing for her coming duties with the Blood Watch - if it were not for the presence of a Blood Knight cadre later in the week, leaping over debris and navigating broken city streets to make delivery on the Lightward’s behalf from the backs of their rounceys.
First, they make to locate Knight-Lord Ethalarian Dawnstalker. Presented to him, is a sturdy, simple claymore at face-value. Deeper study proves the weapon to be a masterful reforging of the blade he had shattered in Thanidiel’s hands on the morning of their first spar. Blood-red mineral has been worked into the grey steel; staining it with the Order’s favoured colour. Unsheathed, a note spills from the oiled lynx-leather scabbard.
“Everything of Elven-make proves stronger when it is reborn.”
@trained-trainwreck
Second, they make for the main triaging center to locate Elleynah Stormsummer. To her, the Blood Knights supply a good set of iron horseshoes meant for long journeys and a square saddle-blanket of a well-padded wool quilt. For Brightdawn, of course. She earns lengthier words from Thanidiel,
“The Feast of Winter’s Veil was one of the most favoured holidays amongst us who lived in Quel’thalas’ most severe backcountry. In all of my years, I’ve yet to experience anything quite as endearing as soldiers warding away the bone-chill of the air, our stomaches half-full, and still managing to find camaraderie in the dark nights with what we could scavenge for one another - or hoard earlier in the year - in our winter migrations.
I find it only fit to maintain such military traditions when blackness seems to be a trend of Dawnspire winters.”
@stormandozone
In the same vein, they make to locate Prisa Violette amongst the medical staff. In broken Common the transfer of an old book of Thalassian-Common translation predating the Second War to the Human is made. She manages to earn a note from Thanidiel, too.
“Stop listening to Bricini.”
@pyrar
To Zalin, his gift of sharpening-stone for a favoured blade is countered with a tin of a dozen cigars of a unique blend - tobacco and bloodthistle rolled in silverleaf. No words are left for the Sentinel as their dedication to their work speaks enough on its own.
@curiouslich
After that, the Knights seek out Ithanar. For the closer from whom the Lightward would call comrades, he is given… a shirt. It’s a good shirt. Comfortable in its fit and fabric for the large man. But, uh, the design has managed to -exactly- mimick Islesun’s favourite red-shirt. What kind of sick joke.
“Your last one is started to grow ragged like you.”
@captainswingbeard
From Ithanar, they spring to Esheyn and provide to her a potted plant. Shimmering arcana guarantees the bonsai-specimen to last an eternity. The unique twisting form hints at a Suramarian origin although manipulation has turned its leaves crimson and its bark pale in a Thalassian twist.
“You have a better heart for these pretty things than I do. Take what would be wasted on me.”
@kinari
Kyranyx, too, is found by Thanidiel’s Knights. To her, the soldiers endow a simple mantle of an orange lynx’s coat. The ruggedness hints that it was not bought - but a creature hunted down by the Lightward’s spear itself. Running one’s fingers through it, the undercoat shimmers in a paler shade of gold.
@commander-ryther
Lastly, they make for the outskirts of the Dawnspire, hunting down Kaltaia through the bold signals of her presence. To her… she is presented with a long length of Legion-forged chain; one of the dozens used to enwrap and take down the Ultimate Weapon early into the assault by Baal’s vanguard. The Construct’s red paint intermixed with Mo’arg blood still marrs the metal. No words, nor announcement, come from the Knights. They make their delivery swiftly and ride equally swift back to the Main Road. Another ‘gift’ reminiscent of the bloodied spear from Tyr’s Hand.
@azriah
The services of Thanidiel’s Blood Knights are dismissed for the time-being after that. However, one last gift is imparted by the woman. Awaiting in the mail of Bricini’s residence when she, too, eventually concludes her services to the Dawnspire for the time being, is a letter enclosed by the waxen seal of the Thalassian Magisterium.
To Doctor Bricini Lightwing,
Your research in the field of regenerative medicine has not gone unseen by the State. The potential in your work, as observed with your treatment of a Lazarus Redmorn and Thanidiel Highdawn, has been noted.
In light of the State’s Will and Desire to encourage the powerful innovations of its citizenry for the good of our Kingdom, you have been granted credit in the worth of three-thousand gold coins by the Magisterium.
This credit will be used solely in the pursuit of your research as relating to the medical-field. Should you continue to display excellence and potential of great service to our People, you may see more substantial reward. It is to be stressed that any fraudulent misuse is highly unadvised.
The same Hand that feeds you has the same potential to gouge out your cheeks in an instance.
Hand of Belore Renalays Bloodhallow of the Inquisition; Magistrix of Quel’thalas
The swift momentum of an arrow to her shoulder spun Vivvienne away from the Dread Commander Baal and to the sight of the withering Nightfallen that had just taken four more arrows that put him down with a pitiful wail. The slow creep of dread and the idea of defeat had just started to enter her mind.
“Spectre?” She called up to Esme as she tried to raise herself from her knees. She wasn’t sure why she had called out to her because something in her gut knew what would be called for next.
“Retreat! Albion has fallen and our mission has failed! Gather the wounded and retreat! Go!! Go!! GO!!” Esme’s orders barked in her ear and the world seemed to spin in slow motion. She seemed to be stuck to the ground, watching the carnage around her as the pathfinder next to her took off in a sprint.
Her eyes widened as she felt her feet fall out from under her before she could even take a step. Her fingernails tore at the blood stained ground, trying to purchase some sort of hold, but Baal’s chain grip already had her flying through the air, set to land in front of him. Whatever cry of pain she would have had was swallowed by the sheer terror of the demon that lay before her. With one last burst of energy she began to siphon the very soul from the Dread Commander, hoping that this would give her the energy that she needed to turn and run.
The adrenaline that ran through her veins strengthened her and told her that it was time to run. She dare take no more time chipping away at the creature’s life. The battle however had begun to take its toll and she didn’t make it very far before another arrow sunk itself into her thigh. She looked up to see her once clear path blocked from behind with a slew of archers and bodies. She was alone.
She wanted to call out for Faervell, Esme, even the Sentinel, but those were few precious moments that she did not have. With her mortality creeping ever closer, she made the decision to turn and limp towards the cover of the brush just beyond the ruins.
When she reached the relative safety of the others her eyes scanned those that made it out alive. So few. She wanted to collapse and rest, though the slightest bend made her ache, the shaft of the arrow being made very apparent. Instead she ended up looking like a mechanized creature that was shut down for the night, bent over and legs very slightly bent. She wasn’t able to bring anyone back with her. She had failed.
The man was helpless in this state. Eyes covered. Mouth sealed. Hands wrapped over his shoulders around a thick piece of wood. Chains strapping over his waist as thick leather straps kep. Finally the prisoner’s ankles cuffed to a steel spike jutting out the wall. He seemed like a macabre marionette.
Lifting an eyebrow at the dreadful scene the medic glanced over to the warden serving as a guard. For a moment he contemplated the situation. “Are, you sure this is all needed? He is just one man, and injured man at that.” Doctor Luxford was perplex. Who was this man, what happened to him.
Bloodied bandages covered much of the captives left side. Reports said he took a spear clean through. It was a miracle none of his organs were ruptured, or fates cruel twist to force him to linger on.
The warden though shook her plated helm, an aura of disapproval. “This man is an enemy general. Zalin Shadowsunder.” Turning to face the bound individual on the floor before delivering a kick right up against his bandaged side.
The captured commander grit his teeth. No doubt he would have howled in pain if he was capable. In this state though…. He may as well be dead. Perhaps he’d be better that way the doctor mused. Quickly shaking the thought from his head. He was a doctor, he was tasked in ensuring this. Mr. Shadowsunder survived. Loathe as he was to admit, every life was important. Even a Sin’dorei combant.
“The horde may be a barbaric force, but does he really deserve this?” Human eyes still looking over the scarred man on the floor. Almost transfixed by the figure. Bound and held up like a battered sheet out to dry. Glowing runes arcing from blue, to green, to purple covered his chest, and one of his arms. What was he even? He didn’t seem so dangerous. “Couldn’t we at least remove one of those things.” Reaching out to the elf the doctor’s fingers touched the blindfold. “Surely his eyes can’t do much?”
Like a flash of lightning the Warden grabbed the Doctor’s hand and scoffed at the offending human. “This man is a wanted criminal. He is a Spellbreaker General, one that has literally bathed in the blood of our people, your people.” Even behind the plated helm the Doctor couldn’t help but gulp. He must be staring down a death glare. “Do you even know what a Spellbreaker is? What he is capable of doing?”
Shaking his head the doctor couldn’t place the title beyond being something of elven creation. “I imagine a magic adept of some sort?”
Relinquishing the man the Warden replaced her grasp with a lock of the prisoners hair. Pulling back to expose his obscured face. “Correct, and that is why all this is needed. If our magic isn’t enough he will break it. If our restraints are too weak…” Delivering another kick into the now reddened bandages. “He’ll find a way out.”
The Doctor couldn’t help but to wince at the treatment.
“We are under orders to prevent his escape at all costs. That, is why this is all needed. A ruthless man who’s cold actions will earn him Elune’s judgement. “ Turning the Spellbreaker’s head to the side she offered him up. “Now do your job Doctor and sedate him. I won't have him have his complete faculties.”
The doctor lowered his head. There was no other option. Though was against his oath, against what he stood for…. but he made a pledge to fight for the Alliance. To defend his home… He just never imagined that protecting his comrades meant abusing captives.
Feet moving over their own accord he stepped forward and drew the needle. Making sure there was no air in the syringe he offered one more look to the poor man beneath him. Wordlessly he pressed the metal to the man’s exposed neck. He couldn’t help but wonder if his measurements were right, would this dose kill him? Still he delivered the ‘medication’ hoping it was at least ease the suffering of this lost soul.
It was quick, and almost an instant later the prisoner’s head start to droop.
He was out.
A smile grew on Zalin’s masked face. First the compliments then the familiar feeling of a needle laced with sweet relief. At least it would dull the radiating pain from a poorly sutured wound. Closing his eyes he started to slip.
Leaving the cold prison cell the Spellbreaker found himself floating on an empty ocean of serene water. A flash of red and green and the smell of earth and herbs soothed his exhausted mind.
News was swift to reach Zalin’s tent. The dawnspire was safe… but even more then that.
Metal scraped against stone in the purposeful rhythm of a commander’s stride. Slow, even, methodically, and demanding pressense. As the boots stopped a series of hushed voices and the adjustment of plate sliding as another soldier shifting in armor.
“Sentinel, I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Aren’t you supposed to be in the Southern theatre?... “
“Oh, yes, he is right this way I can lead...”
“Are you sure?”
It must have felt like eons, before the door to the room creaked open. Creeping forward the thick steel revealed a lone tired soldier. An exhausted man with a deeply satisfied smile. Violet and piercing eyes cackled at the sight of the room. Zalin strode towards the barred cell eager to see his prey.
“Well then, look how old you’ve gotten. We have known each other for what a year, maybe more. And yet, the Great Knight Townsend looks like he is once again standing above his grave.” Arms wrapping around himself Zalin stopped just at the wall of metal.
Opposite him. Chained to the wall by the neck the Knight Captain lifted his defeated face. The Alliance had made their plea, the Sunguard had accepted it. Then their ranks spat on it. Erik had been promised vengeance upon the Sin’dorei. Revenge for the sake of his fallen daughter. A chance at true and honest justice.
This was so very far from what he dreamt about. He should have known that the same faction that was lead by this man would never uphold the duel. Aged eyes falling away from his tormentor. “Leave me Shadowsunder. I will not speak with demons.”
“Hmmm, it's pretty ironic you label us as demons. That you would label me as such. I am Zalin Shadowsunder, Knight-Lieutenant of Falcon Company, Sunward of the Sunpear Battalion. And we are one of the same. Sir Erik Townsend, Knight Champion of Gilneas.”
Erik twisted his face before spitting onto the floor next to him. “Even such noble titles sound profane coming a soul with no honor.”
“You see Townsend what is just it, that is where we are different. What you label as honor is nothing more than our your own shackles. Just like the metal on your neck.” Watching Erik recoil was the signal he wanted, he struck a nerve.
“Your desire to cling to the ways of old in the hopes that you can prevent the sun from rising. That is where you have failed. You have failed to change. Magic is change. Life is change, Everything is change Nothing will remain the same.”
“To this, you must go with the stream. Because there is not enough water in this world to wash the blood from our hands...” Reaching down to his belt Zalin drew a small knife. The flashing steel in the cold room brought the tempo of the moment to a peak. “So with the degree you resist this stream, you will notice that the current Is rushing past you. Fighting you. Drowning you, and the blood still remains.”
With a flick of the wrist the Spellbreaker let the knife fall to the ground between them. “So swim with it, go with the steam, and be at peace.”
