Sharpened Arrows for Mitigation
Musical Inspiration: G. O. A. T, Polyphia [Spotify | YouTube]
She had long ceased holding the claim of a ranger beyond a simple technicality as well as the rank earned by centuries of long, honourable service, but had maintained her ability to shoot very well when the time called for it. The battles ahead now that the supposed ‘King’ Merik of the Quel’dorei Reborn had been betrayed by his own would tax Cere’thien considerably without preparation, and thus, the woman had made a choice.
There was no one that could help her, now and as it was, she had caused this difficulty by trusting the wrong Druidic spirit. Not all of them were good, and not all of them were kind, nor gave of their gifts and magic without a grave price. Despite that, she still saw the twisted, Void Archangels in her thoughts the night before, unable to forget them. The sounds of the Archon calling for a retreat were still sharp in her ears even after the fact. The personal problem she had of a druidic spirit haunting her, so to speak, would have to wait until the greater issue of Quel’thalas being invaded, was dealt with.
There was a tradition that House Blackwood had kept once and abandoned, that the ranking Ranger-Lord was responsible for slaying those with their own hands and weapons that did not choose to hold to the law. Rather than allowing her Magister-Captain attend to the bandits upon her own property that had refused to repent for their crimes and were on fourth and fifth strikes, she decided that she would end their lives in the old way, and thus, follow through upon the deal that had been forced upon her by The Messenger.
The wind howled, and the retired High Confessor grit her teeth against it, and let out a low snarl. A line of ten men and women stood still, waiting in solemn and fearful silence. Each one trembling as it came to their turn keen to beg for why they should be allowed another chance, content to laugh and die like the sociopaths some of them were, or simply threats to her rule of law.
They stood against the gleaming white stone walls of the moongates to prevent them from running. Those that tried to run would be struck down by the latent power that had been directed to work against their presence. She hated it, and felt sick; had since the night that the creature had come to her, and been unable to rip her fully into his realm. Sick, and terrified that she’d die, or end up captive in the pocket of the Dream he controlled with no one to hear her, no one to save her because she had failed to save herself. So for now, Cere’thien would do exactly that.
“Are you certain, my Lady, that this is what you will do?”
“I said that four days ago, Captain Oakweave,” Cere’thien replied in a steely, steady voice that she didn’t feel. Each shot would have to be perfect for minimal suffering, or none if she could manage such a feat. Beyond time spent checking on Lord Firestorm, she’d shot against moving targets until her hands were raw with blisters and she was nearly choking on her own enraged tears. She speared the Magister-Captain a cold look a final time. “Do you question your liege? Do you question my rights?” Even if she didn’t mean to, Cere’thien growled the words, her blue eyes glowing slightly with the rise of arcane magic in the air twined with a brush of a roughened druidic kiss in a perfect pairing.
The man’s face, weathered from his position, and centuries of work, went white in response. She’d frightened him before, but now … Oakweave shook his head, only long discipline being the reason he didn’t break and run from her then, his bowels on the edge of turning to water because he knew that she knew it, but it was worse when she smiled sweetly at him. The man’s lips parted, and he licked them. “No, Lady Blackwood. There is no cause for question, I was only—“
“Seeking to address me in a familiar way because I am not my father or grandfather? Worried that the little girl I was once cannot handle a simple summary execution? Would you like my foot permanently lodged between your asscheeks, Captain Oakweave? I cannot imagine either of us would, but such would be awfully unpleasant for you, I believe.”
They stared each other down, and the Magister-Captain bowed his head. “N-no …”
Cere’thien grinned, and laughed softly, the sound a soft, contralto raspiness from the cold. “Well! I am pleased to hear it, good sir. Carry on, and make sure they don’t move. Let’s get this shit over with,” she snapped with alacrity and irritation riding her. The double recurve Blackwood bow was a tradition in her family, and the one she used currently had belonged to her grandmother. It had the most arcane imbuing to offer the lady an edge to her shooting. The arrows were her own armour piercing variety that exploded arcane through the inside of the body in a single fluid motion without making the slightest bit of waste and could be recalled with a simple spell after use.
Waste, after all, was one of those things the lady simply did not like, and in one way or another, each of these men and women was many times guilty of it. She settled the bow into position with her right hand even as she squared her stance, and allowed the world to fall away into whispers of greying dreams. “Bring the first one in range,” she murmured, the fingers of her left hand a fraction of a second faster were the reason for the unorthodox arrangement. Most people tended to shoot right-handed.
The first of the twenty was tall, and brown-haired, with scars upon the right side of his face where he had fought someone and likely won. He had been allowed, like all of them, to keep their armour to die in. She was not heartless, after all. Each had expressed words some time ago, but they were always given something final to say if wished. Several of House Blackwood’s Assassin Guard looked on in interest, quietly. While several had been lost in the attempt to save Shallowbrook and Havenblaze, there were quite a few thousand more where those came from. Currently, there were twenty-five observers. “Have you words to say, lawbreaker?” They were never addressed by name, in the end. This one laughed sharply, grinning. “I have no regrets. I’d do it all again if I could.”
Cere’thien listened, stone-faced, stomach still churning. Fuck people that made her life difficult more than it needed to be, and that included that evil monstrosity, Palecrown. Liar, liar. “You have been sentenced to death for a litany of crimes, prime of which is banditry during warfare. Do you understand this?”
He spat in response, and a blindfold was placed over the man’s head.
“I see. We’ll assume with that colourful display that you do. An arrow at the ready!” The Magister-Captain called, to distract the man being fired upon, while Cere’thien had already drawn, nocked, and fired in less than two seconds. The arcane sped through his body and stopped the heart and breathing, and she spoke the words under her breath as it did. “Tribute to the Messenger, this vile soul is yours to take. May it soothe your wrath,” she growled.
Time seemed to stop at that moment, just as she was watching two of her own move the first body, and two of the men in the line began to cry, understanding there would now be no reprieve or further forgiveness of their crimes.
“Beautiful Lady. You give me a gift,” he crooned in her ear, looming over Cere’thien’s shoulder in spectral form. No one else could see him, she knew, so she remained very still as The Messenger laughed, and stroked her left cheek, renewing her healing power with its first real, truly strong essence in some time. The noblewoman’s jaw twitched with deep anger. “Next.” She ignored her tormenter and moved on to the second felon. It was, after all, the best thing to do with nightmares.
“More,” said The Messenger, once again. He rested his clawed, immortal hands upon her hips, but still, no one could see him save for Cere’thien.
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