Jay sighs, "It's in a really inconvenient location."
"Build a transport pad, Mister Engineer," Tal Brightmane replies, coy. "I know you Pyreanor boys, always tinkering and making things. Make a transportation pad."
Jay lets out an even more exaggerated and dramatic sigh.
"Where am I supposed to get the parts from? Am I just s supposed to pull them out of my ass?" Jay asks, clearly sarcastic.
"Well yeah," Knight-Lord Brightmane grinned, "That's also a Pyreanor thing, right?"
Jay yells, "An ass of holding is not a heritable trait!"
It was a Wednesday morning at about three when a courier arrived at the Pyreanor shop. The courier found the shop closed and rang the vestibule bell. For twenty minutes, she rang the bell. Finally, Iviaen Brightblaze lowered the wards and opened the door.
He was a night owl (in many ways). A chubby mage with long white hair clad in crimson, gold, green, and black robes answered the door. Over his robes, he wore an off-white apron and matching chef hat. His long white ponytail rested on his back and the shop smelled of baking bread. The man opened the door with caution, "W-who are you and why are you calling so late?"
Before him stood a petite woman with long black hair bound in a bun. She had darker skin, a tabard of the Blood Knight order on her chest, and a forlorn look on her face. Her gold-flecked feel green eyes expressed a profound sort of sadness. A messenger calling so late meant two things. Something important happened and someone died.
"Oh. Won't you come in?" The mage welcomed the woman into the empty shop. Dim golden crystals illuminated the employee half of the shop. Long glass counters separated the customer from employee areas. It was on the employee side that the residents of the boarding find their amenities. Iviaen led the woman through the lift counter walkway and then to the kitchen. "I assume you're here to speak to Pyreanor?"
"Yes, please tell me where he is and I will go find him," she answered.
"I think Pyreanor is... in the workshop. Sometimes, when he's focused on a project he forgets to sleep. The workshop is a safety hazard so have a seat; I'll let him know you're here." Iviaen urged the woman to eat and left her with a basket fresh sourdough rolls. Along with the rolls were a knife, a tray of butter and small jars of assorted fruit preserves.
The kitchen consisted of into two halves—A dining area and a cooking area. The dining area had two long cherry wood tables with seating for many. Cherry wood counters divided the cooking area from the seating area. The cooking area had several ovens, stoves, a sink, and preparation areas. Matching cabinets furnished kitchen and the walls were tan. One wall, on the cooking side, had a door to a back yard while cabinets lined another wall around a broad metal door.
The chubby mage opened the workshop door. Unfinished sheet rock lined the walls. A parallel walkway with a thick firewall lied on the other side. There was a door straight ahead, and a door to the right for lighter crafting uses. Iviaen could hear Zandrae Pyreanor humming a jovial little tune. It echoed from the other side of the firewall through the open door at the end of the hall. The mage called out, "Pyreanor!"
Iviaen received no answer. Whistling joined the jovial humming. Iviaen sighed and entered the workshop. He closed and locked the door behind him. The heavyset mage moved to the left and into the workshop area. Storage cabinets, chairs, and workbenches lined the wall of the workshop. The lights were dark except over one bench, and a dim crystal illuminated a single workbench.
Zandrae sat at that workbench in a backless chair. He wore a crimson red tank top and black trousers. His large, round, red lens glasses with delicate gold frames rested up on his head. His hair was a wild, unkempt, coppery red. He had a round face, freckled, and wore goggles with a light attached as he tinkered, hummed, and whistled. After The Society experimented on him, Zan spent some of his time in half shape-shifted form. A state of compromise between his elven form and the form of a bird they merged into his body. This was one of those moments—a fan of tiny crest feathers stood straight up along the center of his head. Downy feathers that matched his hair cascaded down his spine. They bloomed out to his wings. The trail then traveled down all the way to the small of his back where they fanned into a long, elegant peacock tail. The plumage on his wings, and tail, were the same color as his hair. He had some crimson feathers on his wings, and outer parts of the train feathers turned a crimson red. His wings had a patch of black iridescent feathers. His train's oculars shifted from red, to orange, to gold, and then to fel green eyespots. His train rested on the floor and his wings tight against his back.
On Zan's worktable slept a white Thalassian King Peacock with its head close to its body. It had green eyespots and golden markings on its tail feathers. Its legs tucked under it like a loafing cat—a majestic white feathered blob. Its tail feathers cascaded off the side of the bench. Aside from the bird was a metal pen holder, an inbox, and drafting paper. A collection of screwdrivers and tinkering parts scattered across the desk. Clamped to the side was an ashtray with a lit rolled thistle cigarette in it. A mechanical phoenix with its innards exposed lay in the center of the table.
"Pyre-an-or!" Iviaen yelled trying to wake Zan from his own personal lala land.
It worked.
Startled, Zan jumped, his wings spread and flapped with agitation. His tail feathers shimmied into a dramatic involuntary display. They smacked Iviaen as they rose—tail feathers to the face. The white peacock craned his head for a moment before it resumed sleep. The ginger turned to Iviaen, "Huh?"
Iviaen's face was somewhere between exasperated and grim, "Pyreanor. You have a guest. Put your cock feathers away and go see her. It seems serious."
With a snicker, Zan put out his cigarette, rose from his seat, and turned off his headlamp. He concentrated for a few moments returned to a pure Sin'dorei form. From a drawer the ginger grabbed a long sleeve shirt, vest, and left the room. He slipped the shirts on as he moved out of the workshop and over to the kitchen where he sat across from the woman. "Good evening Miss." He grabbed and cut a roll then buttered it up and started eating.
Iviaen walked by as something in the cooking area dinged, "It's about a quarter past three Pyreanor." He went to the ovens, unloaded the bread into large cloth covered baskets, and prepared the next batch.
"I'm sorry to visit at such an hour. Order high command is sending messengers to officer ranked members of the Order. This includes the reservist home guard," The woman handed Zan a black metal scroll box and waited.
Zan put the half-eaten roll aside and opened the scroll box. As his eyes scanned over the paper, the usual slight grin on his face disappeared. His ears wilted from their upright position to a droop, back and out to the sides. He opened his mouth to speak but the words couldn't come out. He closed it and tried again, a total of three times before he finally managed to say, in a wavering voice, "Light. Oh, Light... Please tell me this is some sort of sick joke Knight Lord Brightmane is playing on me?"
Iviaen paused his work and looked up at the two sitting at the table. He raised a brow, whatever it is; it must have been bad for Zan to react that way.
"It's not a joke, Champion Pyreanor," replied the messenger.
Zan let out a nervous chuckle, "No. This can't be happening. It's a joke. It has to be."
The messenger shook her head.
The ginger took a slow, deep breath, exhaled, and then spoke again, "... I see. This means that the Shield must be ready to protect our borders at any cost." Zan paused then added, "This is not marked confidential?"
The woman shook her head, "The news will travel fast. It will be out to the public before I finish my deliveries." The woman rose, "I must continue my deliveries."
Iviaen walked over to her, "I'll walk you out."
In a weak voice, Zan called out to Iviaen, "Hey, Iviaen?"
The chubby white haired chef-mage paused in the doorway, "Yes?"
"Go wake the council plus Taleth, Lili, Jestin, Belenus, and my mother," Zan got up from the table, his legs shook.
Iviaen left the room, "Alright."
The ginger hobbled to the metal door and opened it. He called out after Iviaen, "I'll brew some coffee, fetch the thistle, and get out the alcohol!"
It's midday on the roof of The Pyreanor building in Silvermoon's Bazaar, Quel'thalas. A lone figure, a woman, stands on the roof, her body clad in black leather, darkened mail, and crimson and black cloth. A hood obscures much of her face, her red eyes subtly burning in the shadows of the hood, and her round freckled face smiling subtly out at the world for a brief moment before it wilted to a deep frown, her old laugh lines plainly visible on her wrinkling face. Oh to be home, and to be accepted, welcomed, and defected from the Lich Queen. Oh the woe of knowing of the massacre she avoided participating in.
She sat down on the roof, crossed her legs, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She didn't need to breathe, but she was a breather at heart and it felt right to emulate living as much as possible.
One of the double doors leading to the roof popped open. Alexandra Pyreanor's right ear swiveled to hear only silence.
A great weight pressed down on her and her back burned, her instincts flared. She was promised this place was safe. Now it was the only place safe for her. If the one staring at her was hostile and intended to kill her, she'd accept that fate willingly.
The staring intensified as eight sets of green eyes peered out the door. Hushed whispering and low volume arguing emanated from the stairwell.
Alexandra's ear flicked again, trying to identify the source of the sound. A smile came across her face realizing that familiar sound and she relaxed; it was the sound of young elves investigating and arguing, getting into mischief. She remembered how her own children would do that very thing, now the children her children and their friends care for were doing the same. Life goes on for everyone else even after you die.
She slow leaned back and turned her upper body and head towards the door to catch a glimpse of who was spying on her. Discovered, the young elves slammed the door shut.
Below, walking along the fourth floor hallway came more rangers, the adults, looking for their trainees.
Inside the stairwell sat eight sets of glowing green eyes in total darkness. Someone unplugged the light in the stairwell to help keep them hidden.
One voice asked, "What are we going to do?"
"We can't let her stay. She's a bad guy. She might burn our home just like Sylvans did that tree," Replied another.
"She's Mister Pyreanor's mom. She's fine."
"That's just what she wants you to think."
One of them cracked the door then closed it again, "She's still looking."
They chatted for some time. These trainees, at tender ages fore elves, in the late teens and early twenties, were quite frightened. Many of them lost their families at an early age and the Scourge attack forced them to grow up prematurely, leaving most them stunted in some ways, and lacking in normal adolescent and teenage experiences as well as secondary schooling. They're both trainees, and 20 something year olds trying to catch up on their childhoods in the face of eternal war. Sometimes, they can be a bit immature and silly, and that's okay.
A light illuminated the hall and a figure with a hand illuminated by the light spoke in a reprimanding voice, "What are you doing?"
The pent up fear and anxiety from the sudden booming voice amongst hushed whispers sent the eight rangerling scattering out the door onto the roof in a flurry of red, gold, and green uniforms and bows. They took shelter behind the stairwell's outer wall, behind plants, and crouched behind furniture.
The elder rangers stood in formation in the doorway, two side by side, with another two beside and a step behind the first two, forming an upside down U shape. The one in front, Kemnebi, with black hair and dark skin put his hands on his own crimson, gold, and green uniformed hip and, in spite of his usual silence, as someone who almost never spoke unless it was important, managed one single word with a marked tone of annoyance in his cracking voice, "REALLY?!?"
The white haired ranger with the glowing hand looked upon the young rangers, with looks of fear and guilt on their faces. He thought to scold them but his priest training gave him pause. They heard what happened, they heard about the massacre, and there was a Dark Ranger on the roof. They were scared, horrified, and curious. The white haired man's voice spoke to them. "It's alright. No need to hide."
"Come here," spoke the elder female ranger, her silvery wings with falcon-like plumage patterning spread out and mantled forward, and held out some candy for the emotionally stunted trainees, appealing to the side of them that was still young and not yet fully grown. "You're safe here."
The rangerlings hesitated, then one by one moved to the elders' safety, putting the four elders between themselves and the scary Dark Ranger lady.
The fourth elder ranger, a Sin'dorei with bright green eyes, golden hair, golden wings, and a pastel blue colored skin with blackened hands and blue curled ram horns spoke last. "I know bad things have happened, and I know Lady Pyreanor is a Dark Ranger and that makes her a scary monster right now, but look at me. You all gave me a chance despite being a horned winged blue freak. I think you should give her a chance too. Talk to her," The Felblood sighed, "Looks can be deceiving. She may actually be really nice."
The white haired male rangerling with rectangular glasses looked at the felblood elf, his ears fanned back and his voice like ice, "But it is people like her who murdered a whole city." He clutched his bow for comfort.
The man's golden wings quivered, "She has been here. She is not guilty of that crime. Think of it this way. She raised Miss Leiah, Miss Youls, Mister Zan, and Mister Ollie. She's probably like them."
The blonde ranger with green goggles and a limp ear perks, "The sisters are scary but the brothers are nice. So she's got to be half nice because they are."
"No!" The female rangerling with red hair bound up in pigtails snapped to the blonde, "The ladies are nice too. They just don't put up with anyone's bullshit. Bullshit is just non-stop around here."
The remaining seven rangers thought about it for a moment. They nodded or shrugged.
"Go, talk to her," the felblood pointed a called finger to the Dark Ranger with his blackened, fel-cracked, callioused leathery hand.
The eight hesitated then the freckled, male ginger ranger grabbed the white haired ranger by the hand and dragged him over to the hooded Dark Ranger.
Poor Alexandra had just sat there, watching the whole common and was trying terribly hard not to laugh after the hilarious sight of eight trainees bursting from the stairwell.
The closer the two got the more the white haired young man siezed and clutched his bow until he began trembling physically and his green eyes glazed over.
"Hi," the young ginger man spoke, "I'm Wynthar Dawnblaze adopted me. Zan adopted me as a son so um. Does that make you my grandma?"
The other young rangers crept closer to listen to the exchange while the older four glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. The ranger priest eyed the exceptionally frightened younger ranger with concern.
Alexandra replied, "Yes. It does. Is your little friend alright?"
"His name is Maren Lightchaser. He's a Deadshot, and my rival, best friend, and some day I'm going to marry him," Wynthar exclaimed proudly.
Alexandra's voice rang in concern, "He's shaking. Is he alright? Maybe you should ask him?"
Wynthar turned to Maren, who remained petrified in fear, trembling, hot tears rolling down his face. Wynthar laughed nervously, "Oh. Um. Could you take off your hood? Sometimes, not very often, he gets reminded of the scourge invasion by people in scary dark hoods."
Alexandra lowered her hood and whipped her hand behind her head, lifting her long crimson braid out from beneath the hood, "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" The older elven woman with red eyes managed a warm familiar smile, the same one that her children have. She spoke to Maren and rested a hand on the frightened man's shoulder, "There there, Maren. I'm not going to hurt you, see?"
Wynthar wrapped his arms around Maren and hugged him.
Maren locked eyes with Alexandea and sharply inhaled as Wynthar smothered him. His body relaxed slightly.
"That's good. Breathe in. Then breathe out, real slow, one, two, three four five. Now breathe in, one two three four five. Then out," the Dark Ranger was still a mom.
It took several minutes for Maren to calm enough to communicate. Afterwards Wynthar asked another question, "Can I have a grandma hug? I think Maren needs one too."
Alexandra reached out and hugged both if them, rocking them back and forth and slowly turning the three of them and urging the two to sit down, one at either side of her. "And what of the rest of your? Why don't you all gather around and tell Grandma about yourselves."
It was on the day after Darnassus fell that a defecting Dark Ranger found her new role in life as Grandma Dark Ranger.
(( Hi there! This character is brand new to Wyrmrest Accord, and the blog itself is following very few people within the community itself. Please like / reblog the post so I know who to follow, both Alliance and Horde, on the WrA RP community! ))
Here it is ladies and gents, the plot you’ve been waiting for, and build up for a big event in B.F.A. I will be hosting in Crimson Wings (obviously everyone is welcome).
…just a taste lovelies, we got a while to wait.
Tell us about your character! What are their favorite things, their least favorite things? How old are they? Have they been in any battle.
Let's say we were meeting for the first time at Kit's Tavern Night, How would you introduce yourself?
Zan: Massive Idiot who really isn’t.
The Zan character has been played for many many years, so some of his developments may seem over the top, but it's largely due to all the things he's done since BC.
Zan is the fourth of six children (blame the dice) of a now deceased high priest and a ranger captain and was the late bloomer of his family, having flunked out of seminary and everything else he tried. He spent most of his life before the fall of Quel'thalas helping his retired mother around the family jewelry shop; which was the front half of a third of a building which the family lived in. It's located at 24 Phoenix Way, the Bazaar, Silvermoon. Zan was a shop boy, accountant, and artisan crafter. As a non-combatant, when Zan noticed the first undead wandering the Bazaar he locked up the shop, covered the windows with blankets and blocked them with shelves, then locked himself in a large hidden walk-in safe closet.
By pure luck, the building he was in wasn't destroyed, his family's part of the building had some damage but it was salvagable, other parts of the building reqired repair. Zan's sisters managed to escape the Scourge alive and found their brother. They brought a priest named Tyan Sunbrand who they'd rescued with them and entrusted their brother with babysitting him. With their flight from Silvermoon they collected other survivors, Dalaen Duskhallow and Iviaen Brightblaze, and the three along with Tyan's brother and nephew wound up staying attached to the Pyreanor clan as their homes and families were lost, and they had nothing to return to.
To Zan's surprise, his parents had bank account not just in Quel'thalas but in other locations, too. He sent Iviaen as an agent to collect those funds and began loaning out money to those seeking to rebuild their businesses while the vaults in Quel'thalas were still smoldering.
Zan fell for Tyan shortly before the rest of his family and friends went off with Kael'thas, leaving him alone. In the time shortly before the departure, Zan befriended Kemnebi Sunrunner, a psychologically malfunctioning and half-feral ranger whom he managed to earm the trust of by providing food and eventually Tyan's healing. When Zan fell into a deep depression with his friends and family gone, and Kemnebi realized that something was wrong when three days passed without a food visitation. He tracked Zan down and remained at Zan's residence indefinitely. As time passed, Zan gave up on his family returning. Kemnebi taught him to tinker to help him pass the time and Zan began to create not only jewelry but little practical gadgets as well.
Eventually his family returned, without Tyan, but with rumors of his death by a creature called a Naaru. He learned of the Blood Knight Order from his uncle, and that the creature that killed Tyan was being used to grant people access to the Light. Zan took his elder sister's sword and sought to join the order and heal in Tyan's place or at least avenge Tyan. One rejection, one full body sunburn from a Naaru later, and his uncle pulling a bunch of strings including taking on training Zan himself, he successfully joined the order. Since he was a -5 on the scale of 0 to hero, Zan had to work arguably harder than most of the other initiates just to be on an even footing.
Tyan turned out to be alive and eventually Tyan reciprocated Zan's affection. The Pyreanor became a boarding house, expanded into the rest of its building, and built more floors, making it what it is today. He's also managed to get security clearances and has various associations with a number of different groups, including a group of Inquisitors through Tyan and a Reliquary vault through Dalaen and Iviaen.
Zan enjoys cooking, cuddling, inventing, and cracking jokes. He finds those who take themselves too seriously or are cruel just to be cruel distasteful, he finds those that lust after or flaunt power and authority unbecoming.
He plays dumb and has a self-depreciating sense of humor. For many people it's hard to take him seriously, he seems like an idiot, but he's hiding his potential beneath his facade, and beneath that he's hiding a lifetime of guilt, self-loathing, and failure that very few ever see.
Zan is old enough to know better but young enough to not give a damn. He's largely chaotic good and holds moral law above written law whenever he can safely do so.
Those who delve deep into Zan's file at the Blood Knight hall will find a service record that shows he served in many battles throughout the Outland campaign at the rank of Knight as a healer, and then senior healer. The Blood Knights worked with the Shattered Sun offensive during the Sunwell campaign and pre-campaign. One notable incident during that era for Zan was a time the unit he served in was purging Felblood Elves from the Throne of Kil'jaden, which ended disastrously when the unit found itself face to face with Kazzak. This wiped out a majority of the infantry and command, leaving the healers and back line alone. He called the back line back and the group of survivors together, behind arcane and light barriers, managed to get down off the mountain to safety with minimal further casualties, which landed the awkward light-wielding tinkerer-accountant a battlefield promotion in command of a small unit throughout the Sunwell campaign. He proved surprisingly competent when pushed came to shove, and his group did well. The result of this was the battlefield promotion to Champion before the final battle for the well and a larger force under his command.
After the second Scourge attack on Quel'thalas, Zan took a leave of absence and traveled with the Argent Dawn, now the Argent Crusade, to Northrend. He assisted them, and then the Ashen Verdict, in the war against the Lich King because fuck that guy, though Zan didn't really get much farther than helping secure the citadel, and wasn't among the heroes who vanquished Arthas.
When he returned to Quel'thalas he shifted to reservist status and spent his service time working as a desk jock so he can spend more time watching over home, family, and business.
Zan drifts where he's needed, or where he's interested in sharing his healing and inventive abilities. As a reservist, he's sometimes called to work with vanguard forces as an agent of the Blood Knight Order largely providing not healing but his technical expertise in establishing infrastructure. Once a new front's infrastructure is secure, he returns home.
Zan doesn't talk about his combat experience, most people who were not there or don’t have access to his file probably don't know all that much about it. People know he sets up communication arrays, that he will create light hands to slap people upside the head when they're acting stupid, and can locate people if they leave their com device keyed up long enough.
His playing dumb routine is how he shirks responsibility, he's actually dangerously clever and his routine tricks people into doing what they should never do--underestimate him. Along the same thought line, he's doesn't flaunt his rank, or display his full potential--the extent of his skills is a jealously guarded secret left for those rare moments when shit gets real. People are left wondering why this idiot is a reserve in the Order's roster at all.
When meeting people for the first time, Zan's likely to smile a big stupid smile and introduce himself as, "Hi I'm Zandrae Pyrenaor, but you can call me "You Idiot."" Yes, he finger quotes that shit.
This is not a complete list of all of The Society related posts, just ones for this particular series of unfortunate events.Â
For those unfamiliar with what the heck The Society is (which is most people), it’s a nebulous organization of Sin’dorei (and Quel’dorei) magisters with a positive reputation who have been secretly playing god, kidnapping the poor, the weak, the vulnerable, doing experiments on them, and other not cool things.
Some folks managed to aggro them and shit happened.Â
The three parts in the “Execution” series of posts all occur in tandem, or closely together.Â
Lyral stood tall for his age, a young Quel'dorei boy with an olive complexion, glowing blue eyes, and shoulder length silken black hair with a sheen almost iridescent. He frequently wore his brows in a furrow, his shoulders tense, and carried his little fists balled at his sides. He tried to be happy like his peers but it was difficult with trouble at home.
His mother had a temper problem. She got angry with his father and at Lyral; she yelled at him, "You were a mistake!" He cried. Lyral was an accidental pregnancy and his mother planned to give him away, but his father would not have it. Lyral's father wanted him, not his mother, and his father was kind where his mother was cold and showed the boy a distinct lack of love.
One day, Lyral's father had enough of Lyral's mother and left. Lyral's mother told him that his dad was away on business for a few days. Days turned into months and Lyral sobbed and became a hermit in his room. Lyral's father did return to collect Lyral, but the boy's mother turned him away. They fought a legal battle and his mother won. Lyral never knew.
To Lyral, his mother lied, said he'd return and he never did. The boy's life was full of lies and devoid of nurture and kindness that a healthy child experiences, he was very much alone inside even if he was not physically alone. Still, he had shelter, and food, and the things that children have outside of parental warmth. He was broken.
Soon, Lyral's mother found a new man and this man became Lyral's stepfather. Life went from bad to worse as Lyral's stepfather was an alcoholic, he enjoyed drugs, both thistle and harder substances. His mother indulged as well, and sometimes they would fight even more often than she had fought with his real dad. Their finances dwindled and they suffered hardships. Lyral's family stopped paying for his schooling, there was not always enough food to eat, or enough fuel for the fire. Lyral spent many a night hungry and cold.
Years passed, a tall and lithe teenaged Lyral, with little education and no hope of gainful employment ran away from home and did the only thing he could—he joined the clergy. The teenager was envious of his peers, who continued with their education when he could not, he was angry with his parents; he had met enough other people in his life to know that what happened to him was not normal or healthy. The young man cast off his surname and replaced it with the surname Sunfall.
The teenager transmuted his rage, his sadness, and his jealousy into ambition. He thrived among the clergy; he became a voracious reader with a broad range of interests, which he researched on his own outside of his education. The books were his friends, they would never yell at him, leave him, or lie to him. He took comfort in their leather-bound pages. He really only had one possession—his mind.
As he entered full adulthood, Lyral was an attractive young man; his raven-like black hair reached the small of his back. He'd gained reputation of a good honest hard working man, an intelligent man free of vices and a gifted empath. He was an eligible bachelor, someone who would go places in life, thus people attempted to court the priest. While he knew they were trying, he felt no attraction to any of them. He let them down gently, buried himself in his studies, and became a trainee among the Inquisition—mind priests that deal with criminals and bring justice.
One day, years later he used his Inquisition clearances to access citizen records and looked up what became of his father, the only one who had shown him love during his childhood, the one who abandoned him and left a gaping wound in his heart. Maybe his dad missed him too. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Lyral discovered the records center in the spire and from that, that his father lived in the city.
Lyral went to observe his dad from afar. He learned his father remarried a lovely blonde woman and had three happy adult children and two younger children that all lived in a large house with a courtyard in the city. Lyral watched his dad show them a warmth that Lyral only saw a fraction of in his youth, he watched them have a relationship with his father that he himself only ever had a fraction of. Lyral felt a burning jealous disdain for the children because he could see they had something that he did not, something he only had in his dreams, their parents, this woman and his father, actually loved them whole-heartedly. His empathic abilities made it so he could feel how happy they were and amplified it a hundred fold and it made himself awful. His own emotions threatened to tear him apart so Lyral focused at numbing the pain; he gave up on ever talking to his father and on having a relationship with him again. He returned to his studies.
When the Scourge came, Lyral did the right thing and went to his father’s house to try to save them. Even if his father replaced him, even if his father did not want him, the man was still his father, and those other children were his half-siblings. Lyral found one living survivor, a fifth child, a blonde talkative teenage girl who he took to safety. Lyral detested this girl and wanted to leave her with other survivors of the zombie apocalypse, but the girl saw how much Lyral resembled her father. She knew, so she refused to let him leave without her; she called him brother, and every time she did, it stung the Inquisitor's heart. He gave in and let her travel with him.
He traveled on foot to his mother's estate and, much to his dismay, the wrought iron fencing around the dilapidated building still stood strong against the ravaging undead. Lyral found that his mother was still alive, she and his stepfather stood just beyond the gate. They'd had dispatched the few Scourge that made it to the gate of the remote estate, which lie well off the beaten path. The argument raged at the open gates as Lyral and the girl approached. A loud bang rang from the gates.
Lyral burst broke into a run and found his stepfather over his mom’s body with a rifle. His stepfather aimed the weapon at Lyral but the priest threw up a shield. Protected, he entered his stepfather's mind, with utmost brutality, ripped his stepfather's mind apart. In a matter of seconds, Lyral reduced the man to a pathetic gibbering ball of elf on the ground.
Lyral's half-sister ran up just in time to see Lyral take the gun from his stepfather and shoot it repeatedly into his stepfather's head at point-blank range, in cold blood. She looked upon Lyral with absolute horror as he left the scene. She hesitated but followed him and remained at his side even after what she had seen because he was the only thing she had left, but she was terrified of him and he knew it.
Lyral knew that loose lips sink ships, and that his half-sister could tell someone about him murdering his stepfather. Lyral also knew that he could never truly love or care for his little half-sister of his. He decided it would be best if she did not remember any of it, so while she slept, Lyral entered her mind and destroyed her memories of that night and of him. Remorseful, he picked her up and delivered her to other survivors capable of caring for her.
As Quel'thalas recovered and life returned to some vague semblance of normal, Lyral became his half-sister's mysterious anonymous benefactor. Lyral assured she had food, shelter, and education while he kept his distance, he could not love her, but, she was now alone like he was, and he could give her better than what he had.
One day his half-sister disappeared without a trace. Peacekeepers found her body several years later in the apartment of a dead elderly magister, frozen by a stasis spell after having undergone a transformation into a creature not quite elven anymore—with blue skin, horns, and golden plumed wings. She had been brutalized, bruised, beaten, and broken, then frozen in stasis in lieu of receiving much needed medical attention. When released from the spell, her body died. Those that discovered her did not try a resurrection spell. Who would want to revive a monster? In reality, no amount of resuscitation could have brought her back, her soul left her body a long ago, and her suffering had ended.
In the end, Lyral gave her everything but the one thing she needed, the protection of another person in her life. He blamed himself. Completely numb, he buried his memories of the scene, of her, and his own emotions deep within himself, feeling only the emotions of others, which he used to read people as an Inquisitor.
As the years went by, he gained many promotions and clearances, a levelheaded pragmatist with no emotions, no attractions, no love, and no vices he became a high-ranking Inquisitor. He is a man with a deep sense of justice, a need to do the right thing always, with a desire to protect the innocents or avenge them if nothing else.
Alia Dawnraker surveyed the smoldering heap which was all that remained of her mother’s estate and her home with an icy glare.
The quel'dorei magus had been allowed some leave, a respite before deployment to Argus with the Silver Covenant. Â She had been looking forward to days lazing in the early Autumn sun and nights cavorting with some of her peers in Stormwind.
Now, though, the red-headed woman looked to her escort. “Check the outbuildings, see what remains standing.  Pitch my tent.  I’ll be damned if I allow bandits or the legion to run me off.”
After watching her people scurry to do her bidding, she walked up to the smoldering stone and looked it over with her mage sight. Â There was a groan as the rubble shifted and collapsed with a swirl of embers.
That could only mean that whomever had attacked had set charges in the foundations and basement. Â She tapped a blue stone at her throat.
“Ravennia? Lord Elramir?” Â
There was no response.
Another series of taps, and a low, gravely, dwarven voice answered. “Aye, lass?”
“Master Ebonhammer, have you heard anything from our Arathi post?”
“Nae, lass, but I’m due to send a gryphon over within the day.”
“Please do so within the hour, if possible. We may have an issue.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Alright, lass. We’ll be up within the hour.”
Two cells six feet wide, nine feet deep, that ran from floor to ceiling, and sat side by side in an indented part of a stone wall. Thick plates of metal protected the floor, ceiling, and floor from the occupants therein. The two cells shared a common barred wall, allowing the captives to reach into the others' cages, but invisible spell barriers that prevented hands from extending out their cell doors. Each cell had a bed with a sink-toilet combination at the foot of the bed by the back wall.
Long, heavy, thick chains bolted to the walls and to thick metal collars kept the prisoners from exiting their cells without their captors' approval. Unbound wrist and ankle cuffs reminded the prisoners how little control they had in their lives. Their wrists and ankles could be locked any which way on a whim.
In the left cell lie a Kaldorei man with pale purple skin and long, thick, deep violet hair. He had thick brown horns growing from his head, a blindfold that covered his eyes, and fel green tattoos. He slept a fitful sleep.
In the right cell lay a Sin'dorei man on his stomach with freckle-kissed crimson skin, bright ginger hair, large curling horns, and ginger wings. The black leathery keratin of his hands and lower arms was cracked and fel magic emanated from the crevices—a Felblood Elf. This man was younger, perhaps 20 falls old, too young to be part of Kael's original Felblood Elves. A metal device latched around his arm just below his elbow, and a plastic tube with a plugged connector hung from a hole in the device. It was IV port used to deliver medicine and nutrition, and the device kept the prisoner from tampering with it too badly.
It made sense to store the half-demon elves in the same space, except for the fact that the Kaldorei, after all his torture, had lost his self-control and diplomacy, and focused almost entirely on containing his inner demon while in this hell. His instincts to rip other demonic beings apart screamed in his head at the presence of the Felblood, while the Felblood didn't ask to be born nor turned into a monster, and spent his hours lamenting his existence and dreaming of freedom, of the world he read about in books.
Frequently the chained Illidari rose from his bed and hurled threats and insults at the Felblood, his own purple skin displayed a darkening but not blackened keratin on his hands, his fingernails sharp like knives, as he reached into the other cell and tried to rip the Felblood apart.
The Felblood elf's wings rustled at the screaming as he sat atop his bed. Many times he considered moving into the Illidari's grasp, but the books gave him a hope to one day have freedom, to keep living.
One time he did give up hope and subtle scars along his neck served as a reminder of that mistake. The Illidari verbally lashed out and the Feblood agreed, rose, knelt before the raging Illidari, and allowed the Kaldorei to grip his neck and move to end him.
He agreed that he was demon filth, that this was something their captors did to him, and that he never wanted to be like this. He yelled at the Kaldorei to hurry up and kill him. The half-unhinged Kaldorei screamed, "No!" The captors sentenced the Felblood to a punishment worse than death--they took his books away. Seven days without any way for his mind to escape this hell was torture.
They came to an understanding. The Felblood Elf learned that the Illidari suffered instincts that his own half-demonic prescience amplified, and that his constant hostility was unintentional. The Kaldorei learned that the Felblood Elf didn't willingly choose to be a half demon monster and didn't deserve the death his instincts urged him to deliver.
Sometimes the Felblood read his stories aloud to the Illidari so his mind could escape too, but usually their main form of entertainment is hurling insults at each other, yelling at the top of their lungs the most as colorful and ridiculous insults they could imagine. Sometimes, in spite of their suffering, the very torture they endured trapped in close quarters, they managed to steal a laugh or some peace.
The roar of another biplane, this time it approaches the beach from the south. It’s moving low and slow as if it’s coming in for a landing. Suddenly the engine cuts out and the plane drops towards the ground. Light flashes beneath the vehicle and slows its fall and it touches down on the sand gracefully near some trees so it’s not an easy target for the ships.
Out hops two figures. One is a ginger haired Sin'dorei man standing about 5'8 wearing a red, brown, black, white, and gold cloth robe with white and gold shoulder armor. He’s got a very large kite shield stuck to his back and big goofy gold-colored goggles with red lenses. He wears a slight grin on his freckled face in spite of the situation.
A younger, crimson-haired Sin'dorei hopped out of the plane behind him, wearing  a combination of red, gold, and white plate armor with a white cloak.  She threw open the cargo hatch and began removing the provisions: food, clean water, medical supplies in the form of field surgery kits.
The  blade sheathed at her side seemed to be basic SIlver Hand issue, and she wore an Argent Crusade armband on her left arm.
“Where are we setting up?” she asked, her voice pitched to be heard above the roar of the propellers.  Her gaze darted around the beach.
The tedious wait before the departure for the assault had set in, and night had fallen over the Dawnraker estate. Â Flowers that waited until the setting of the sun began to open and bloom, their perfume wafting throughout the gardens.
In the tower, faint discordant notes were audible on the wind as someone tuned a fiddle, and another a lute. Â A priestess and a paladin busied themselves with their work, bringing the instruments into their proper ranges before settling on an arrangement of old reels and tunes from the forest enclaves of southern Quel'thalas. Â
Soon after the music began to wend its way about the ears of those in range, it was enhanced and amplified by song, born of two voices which were as one. The song’s undercurrent held a spell of healing, soothing, and fortification of the spirits of those preparing to depart by ship and by dragonhawk when word arrived. Â
The small room in the inn contained a bed. On the bed lay the paladin, tangled and tortured by the visions which sleep brought that night. Â A chair was wedged under the doorknob to keep out intruders, and the window was shuttered firmly against the outside.
She dreamed.
The dreams began with the journey south and they ended with destruction and flame-fire born of shadow, and of light- the two swirling about her form in the dream, writhing around her like the dust in a badlands whirlwind, before everything was blown to dust.
There was silence, and a bluish-grey fog, before the cycle began anew with the next dream.Â
The sin’dorei awakened late the next day with an audible groan.  Fire born of Light and of Shadow danced at the edge of her vision as she refreshed herself and ventured out for a meal.
The roar of a engines from a dwarven biplane echo off the water as a stolen plane painted red and then decorated with a flame motif approached and it's coming in low. Attached to the vehicle via a tow line is a large crate on a pallet. There is a big pretty white bow tied around the tow line, a sign of peace.
As it reaches overhead it makes a series of clanking noises and the vehicle drops its cargo. A parachute assures it lands gently on the ground.
In the crate is enough food for a few meals for the observed survivors stored in black boxes that seem to keep the food warm. There's also fresh sourdough bread, first aid kits, a surgical kit, antiseptic, containers of medications and salve, a few boxes of chocolates, and some boxes of medicinal chocolates, a large box of thistle and sheets for rolling, and bottles of whiskey. Things are padded with blankets.
The plane gains altitude after the drop then makes a hard right then returns in the direction from which it came and eventually vanishes over the horizon.
Zan sat hunched over his workbench in the workshop of the Pyreanor Gift and Boarding House working by the light of an enchanted lamp. The 5'8" tall freckled ginger paladin and inventor wore silky red pajamas, large red lensed glasses, and had not one but two thistle joints in his mouth--this was a two joint problem. His long train rested on the floor and his wings rested against his back, folded up nicely.
He looked over schematics for a big fucking spell gun, well, a spell cannon because it might come in handy someday. He pondered it as he put one of his prototype phoenix drones, Sunsoul II, back together after maintenance and an upgrade.
He turned the device on and it whirred to life. He grabbed its controller box, flipped it on, and for whatever reason the box began to scan frequencies. The ginger raised a brow at the frequency scan and looked to see if he accidentally flipped a switch.
The scan found the tail end of something. One of the little spell beads on the control box began to flicker on and off, but the ginger paid it no mind he investigated the box. He flipped the search lever and the box remained on that frequency. He set the box aside and examined the drone until he noticed a series of flashes from the controller box. Familiar flashes.
...---... ...---...
Zan's ears perked, his crest feathers rose slightly, and his train bristled up off the ground and rested parallel to the floor for a moment before lowering. His attention was piqued.
He grabbed the box, put it in front of himself, put the earpiece attached to the box on, and listened to the code. He grabbed his scratchpad and a stick of parchment and started writing out the letters he could make out. He turned on another switch and another glowing bead around the enchanted crystal display panel lit up indicating which repeater was broadcasting this message.
The message mentioned "The Kingly Dispute" in a way that seemed like a name, a name he'd seen before perhaps. Sounded like the name of a ship or vehicle, perhaps a shipwreck.
The repeater indicator noted it was repeater WTTBR. Western Thalassian Transcontinental Bridge Repeater, a large repeater on an island west of Quel'thalas which had two antennas, one which broadcasted and received signals across a wide area of Quel'thalas, and the other which used a high powered narrow beam directional antenna that was aimed precisely at the East Bilgewater Transcontinental Bridge Repeater at Bilgewater Port in Azshara.
This signal originated from Kalimdor. Zan put his tools away, grabbed his shrink ray from a drawer and slipped into the kitchen where the chubby white mage Iviaen Brightblaze was preparing fresh bread for the coming day.
The ginger spoke to the mage, "I'm going to need food stuff for a supply dump. Like the last time. Could you get that for me?"
The mage tilted his head, "Who are you helping this time?"
"SOS from something called The Kingly Dispute," the Ginger replied.
Iviaen frowned and thought to himself as he replied, "Alright but I have a bad feeling about this."
Zandrae shrugged, "If it is what I think it is, I've seen the bounties in the spire when I go in for my weekly briefings."
The mage opened the large walk-in icebox door, "And yet you're willing to help. Why?"
"It's not my job to decide who lives or dies. I'm not an executioner, and not responding is, to some degree, tantamount to execution without trial. Besides, dying a painful miserable death from injuries while stranded somewhere with no supplies is cruel and unusual punishment," the ginger replied. A devious smirk spread across his lips, "Besides, we'd be doing them a favor, perhaps for one in return later."
Iviaen canted his head to one side, "A favor?"
"Well, let's say we want to go hit the Dawnraker estate in Elwynn after we hit the one in Arathi. A Warden and Blood Knight and his people attacking a location in Alliance territory is an international incident that could result in an escalation in the conflict between the Alliance and Horde. But if someone who is already a public enemy does it, well, then it was criminals," explained the grinning fool.
Iviaen rubbed the back of his head, "Well that makes sense, I suppose, aiding wanted individuals for the sake of the greater good. The ends justify the means. Making sure that Ravennia and Elramir leave no one as a successor is a good idea. You're not going alone, are you?"
"I'm going to scope things out before I get anyone involved. Locate them and get them some supplies. I will also talk to Grand Inquisitor Sunfall, he knows stuff about things and I'm told he has personal stakes in our conflict. He might be able to brief me on what we're dealing with so I can help them in spite of their status," Zan turned to the door, "I'll fetch the stuff for the drop crate."
The ginger departed as Iviaen began cooking up a storm with the help of magic. The ginger delivered a couple of large square insulated black food boxes branded with the Sunpyre Innovations logo and some empty jugs then descended to the lower levels of the building.
Down in the basement garage, beyond the common garage area, behind a roll up door, Zan approached a cloth covered pair of devices. He pulled the covers off one and spoke, "Hello my lovelies." One of two dwarven biplanes he had stolen sat ready, its pilot's compartment was rigged with a device that allowed him remote control navigation.
He prepped that one for flight. Fueling, testing the engines, going over a mechanical check, and prepared the supply towing harness. He attached the harness to a pallet with crate bolted to it and then left it.
He got dressed in his armor, gave Tyan a kiss, grabbed his portal pass, a directional antenna, Sunsoul II and III, and their controller boxes, then set off for the spire. It was time for some signal hunting.
(What follows is loosely based on actual signal hunting which is a real thing. Some amateur radio operators do it for sport.)
Eventually he arrived in Orgrimmar with a tired look on his face. He got atop a tower and set up his equipment then took a listen and observed the repeater indicator. West. He then hopped the zeppelin to Thunder Bluff and toyed with the equipment as the flying boat traveled over the land. He glanced at a compass and scribbled notes on his scratchpad as they might come in later for calculations. Once in Thunder Bluff he noted the repeater indicator. North.
He sat down on the ground near some Tauren braves and pulled out a folded up map of Kalimdor from his pack. He found the location of the repeaters and from the information he recorded deduces a general area to search. He noted general areas where he had been hearing the signal off repeater. He tucked his supplies away then secured transportation to the Horde Outpost on Zoram Strand.
He fell asleep on the flight and was startled awake by a female Orc wyvern keeper that was terribly amused by the situation.
Dumbass sat in the outpost plainly in the sight of guards, and set up, map, phoenix drones, controller, radio, hand held directional antenna. He put on his ear peace, activated the directional antenna, swapped to the frequency, spun the dial slightly to go slightly off the frequency so it was unclear, then spun the antenna slowly until he could hear the signal. He turned the antenna until he lost signal.
He compared it's start and end direction with his compass and the map and drew an angle on the map with his graphite. He drew dotted lines from the readings to create more angles using the information he got while flying high over the barrens. The signal originated somewhere in the area where the angles overlapped.
He sent a ping signal to the device and noted the response time then scribbled some mathematics and put a point in the marked off area, an estimate of distance from his location.
Zandrae then scribbled a note, rolled it up, and tied it to one of the little phoenix drones, fired them up and flew them in the direction of the signal, one over the shoreline, the other about a mile out to sea. He could use them to triangulate on the broadcasting SOS.
He would eventually find the source signal and the two mechanical phoenixes could be spotted overhead circling like vultures as Zan notated their position on his map then they sat in a completely still hover.
The phoenix drones are about the size of a pet phoenix with horizontal props in the chassis of their wings, vertical ones on the front of the wings, and vertical props on the wing tips  that run parallel to the body of the device. They are, of course, painted like little firebirds. In the beak of each one is a gazing stone which allows Zan to see from the devices' perspective.
The device with the scroll took a nose dive towards the ground and stopped about four feet from the sand then began to survey the situation, looking for survivors, how injured people are, and if the survivors have resources nearby.
If it found a survivor up and about, the drone would fly over to that person, hover, and the props on the side of the wings turn on and alternate in their spin direction, making the drone playfully strafe horizontally back and forth before the survivor in a friendly playful sort of greeting as it waited for someone to claim its note.
The note reads.
"Friendly. Supply drop to follow via stolen dwarven plane. Do not fire. Possible healers if you agree not to harm us. I can hear you through the device. -Z"
Tyan Sunbrand, an old and grumpy priest, sat with a lap-table on his legs in a large tent, quill in one hand and inkwell in the other, one of his hands illuminated his paper as he composed a note. He wrote, “Tonight, the remnants of the Sunbrand Family gained a new member, the man formerly named Ceroluthrel Phoenixheart. My adoptive son, Danil Sunbrand came to me and asked me to travel to the other side of Azeroth and perform a wedding for my elder brother and his birth father, Rialius Sunbrand.”
“There was a time when my elder brother felt he lost everything. His wife died before the fall leaving him a widower, then he believed his family all died to the scourge. To save innocent people from the Legion he sacrificed his soul--his life, his future, everything he ever was, everything he ever could be, all because he had nothing left to lose. And it seems in this sacrifice and in his suffering, and in his duty, he found something. Kinship, another damned soul that understood, that harmonized, and the potential to heal some of their deepest wounds.”
“His other was a common man, a sailor, who returned to Quel’thalas after the Scourge attack with supplies for a noble house to find the port and city ablaze. They gave  the supplies to those in need and sheltered who they could on their ship. With nothing left to lose, his family annihilated, Ceroluthrel Phoenixheart also found himself among the Illidari, and found my brother.”
“Tonight I performed the ceremony, on a dock, by moonlight, overlooking a calm lake, with special vows; vows to help each other cope in the eternal wars with their inner demons, and a solemn vow to end the other with honor and dignity should one of them ever lose that war. It was a morbid promise, but a meaningful one. Perhaps it was romantic in some twisted way.”Â
“My brother was more alive than he has been in years tonight and I pray that he has finally found what he has been looking for, so he can finally be whole.”
