As the tides of men began to close in on the gate, Bellesta watched down onto the battlefield. Fur bristled beneath her spiked bark armor, nostrils flared with the scent of the cold snow. Tarquin's words rang in her ears, stirring her internal prayers.
Ursoc guide my claws.
Ursol be my eyes.
Malorne be my swift wind.
Elune guard my spirit.
Cenarius give me wisdom.
A growl rose in her throat, the last words joining the cacophony of noise made by the trumpets in the distance. Her forelimbs thrashed in the air, head thrown back, black and red fluttering.
"OMEN REND THEIR SOULS! THE SNOW BURNS BLACK FOR YOUR GLORY!"
Beside her, Feliche simply gave a stoic nod, leaning with a casual pose that betrayed the tense feeling shared by many. There would be no more silence.
The Wrath Gate
Moderator: Guild Officer
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Chrystenise
- Posts: 740
- Joined: Thu Nov 13, 2008 8:14 pm
Re: The Wrath Gate
~Haylie Dannis and the Wrath Gate: 1~
Angrathar...
Even amidst the many rises of the Dragonblight, it stood tall and visible to all, rivaled in height by Wyrmrest only, and in intimidation by nothing. Hours from now, the Alliance and Horde would join forces in a rare event to bring to justice the lost son of Lordaeron - Arthas Menethil.
The young paladin's whetstone glided smoothly along the blade of her sword. "Keep your blade's sharp, soldiers," Sergeant Deveraux had cried out earlier. "You'll not kill the scourge with meager blows; for they are already dead! Dismember and destroy them, that is the only way!" And thus the plain young woman set about to ensuring the timeworn blade, passed down through her family, would be sharp enough to cleave bone and wood.
She held the thrash blade up before her. An obviously aged blade it was, elven in design, and no doubt a veteran of many battles. If only it could speak to tell of it's memories. "This blade is magical, child," her father spoke a year earlier as he placed it into her hands. "Sharp as a razor, and weightless, but able to strike with blinding speed, and the weight of an axe!"
Her gaze blurred on the blade, and the background of her visual scenario came into focus... The Wrath Gate stood tall before them, not even two miles away.
"Private Dannis!" A sharp voice suddenly called out, snapping the young lady to her senses and forcing her to stand and face Sergeant Deveraux.
"Sorry, sir. Nervous..."
"Aye, fall in, child, it's time to become a hero." He managed a dishonest smile. These kids weren't ready for a battle in the Gulch, much less the major confrontation of this era.
She was going to die today. And her family heirloom would be lost forever. A lump formed in the back of her throat as she fell into formation, joining the marching mass of thousands just like her, and gripped her father, grand father, and great grandfather's sword tight...
And it dawned on her in that moment; Fairy Tales only exist in fiction.
Angrathar...
Even amidst the many rises of the Dragonblight, it stood tall and visible to all, rivaled in height by Wyrmrest only, and in intimidation by nothing. Hours from now, the Alliance and Horde would join forces in a rare event to bring to justice the lost son of Lordaeron - Arthas Menethil.
The young paladin's whetstone glided smoothly along the blade of her sword. "Keep your blade's sharp, soldiers," Sergeant Deveraux had cried out earlier. "You'll not kill the scourge with meager blows; for they are already dead! Dismember and destroy them, that is the only way!" And thus the plain young woman set about to ensuring the timeworn blade, passed down through her family, would be sharp enough to cleave bone and wood.
She held the thrash blade up before her. An obviously aged blade it was, elven in design, and no doubt a veteran of many battles. If only it could speak to tell of it's memories. "This blade is magical, child," her father spoke a year earlier as he placed it into her hands. "Sharp as a razor, and weightless, but able to strike with blinding speed, and the weight of an axe!"
Her gaze blurred on the blade, and the background of her visual scenario came into focus... The Wrath Gate stood tall before them, not even two miles away.
"Private Dannis!" A sharp voice suddenly called out, snapping the young lady to her senses and forcing her to stand and face Sergeant Deveraux.
"Sorry, sir. Nervous..."
"Aye, fall in, child, it's time to become a hero." He managed a dishonest smile. These kids weren't ready for a battle in the Gulch, much less the major confrontation of this era.
She was going to die today. And her family heirloom would be lost forever. A lump formed in the back of her throat as she fell into formation, joining the marching mass of thousands just like her, and gripped her father, grand father, and great grandfather's sword tight...
And it dawned on her in that moment; Fairy Tales only exist in fiction.
Re: The Wrath Gate
The use, mate, is that he was human once.
As the others took up their battle line below him, Ulthanon Kaidos dug through the snow as quickly as possible, clearing it to the sides of his hilltop and packing it loosely into embankments. He had no illusions about a wall of snow stopping anything- except, that was, the wind. The air temperature even during the day barely climbed above freezing, and if he were to stand in one spot for an extended battle in the snow, he wanted as little wind whipping past him as possible. Plus, his feet wouldn't freeze from standing in a snowbank. He worked with a quickness, focusing his mind on getting through the snow and ice and down to the dirt and rock of the hill itself.
They know pride, and the void that follows it's breaking.
When his shovel was thrust downwards with a thud instead of a shiff, he knew he'd finally reached dirt. He started clearing the snow around the space he'd dug through, working through the white powder with a steady quickness. Now and again, his eyes would dart to the advancing Alliance line far below him- maybe a quarter of a mile from the front line to the Gate, but at a slow march, it would still be a few minutes. He kept digging.
And if he's forgotten all of this, then we'll fucking well remind him.
He'd managed to clear his hilltop in a twenty by twenty circle, give or take, and the snow embankments were roughly a foot tall and equally thick. Taking the furs from the chair he'd aquired, he laid them down inside the makeshift bunker, covering most of the ground on the Gate-facing side. He stole another glance at the battle line; maybe an eighth of a mile, now. Time to set up.
He came for us in Lordaeron, and we lived to sing of it. He came for us at Hyjal, and we broke his back on the Mount. He came for us in Stormwind, and we paved the streets with corpses and turned his hands away.
He’d bought more specialty ammunition at one time than he had over the past few months combined; three entire cases of KS80’s, that would burst from their casings after leaving the muzzle and unfold into a miniature bolt thrower glaive; a dozen boxes of ES-SV4’s, shaken up beforehand for extra volatility; SS-MM41’s as his personal answer to enemy casters; and of course, his personal favorite- seven boxes of CS-MM51’s, coated with a unique blend of acids and other nefarious compounds that would cause his more standard poisoned bullets’ toxins to burst out of the target’s veins. This was not to mention, of course, the thousands upon thousands of standard bullets he’d brought with him.
The battle line had come to a halt.
Now we’ve come for him!
“Hey, Darrows!” He called down, following his hail with a sharp whistle, “Do me a favor and freeze this side of the snow bank for me? I don’t want to end up sledding in the middle of this party if I’m leaning forward to aim.”
He turned after that and covered his face; a moment later, he felt the impact of a bolt of ice slam into the outer edge of the snow. A familiar crackling noise followed as the wall froze solid down to its core. He raised a thumbs-up as thanks, but said no more.
This is what comes when the Riders go to war!
Ulthanon threw a clip into his gun, slammed it into place, and cocked his first round into the chamber. He exhaled slowly, the cloud of his breath trailing slowly behind him. Below, the Riders had taken up positions.
As the others took up their battle line below him, Ulthanon Kaidos dug through the snow as quickly as possible, clearing it to the sides of his hilltop and packing it loosely into embankments. He had no illusions about a wall of snow stopping anything- except, that was, the wind. The air temperature even during the day barely climbed above freezing, and if he were to stand in one spot for an extended battle in the snow, he wanted as little wind whipping past him as possible. Plus, his feet wouldn't freeze from standing in a snowbank. He worked with a quickness, focusing his mind on getting through the snow and ice and down to the dirt and rock of the hill itself.
They know pride, and the void that follows it's breaking.
When his shovel was thrust downwards with a thud instead of a shiff, he knew he'd finally reached dirt. He started clearing the snow around the space he'd dug through, working through the white powder with a steady quickness. Now and again, his eyes would dart to the advancing Alliance line far below him- maybe a quarter of a mile from the front line to the Gate, but at a slow march, it would still be a few minutes. He kept digging.
And if he's forgotten all of this, then we'll fucking well remind him.
He'd managed to clear his hilltop in a twenty by twenty circle, give or take, and the snow embankments were roughly a foot tall and equally thick. Taking the furs from the chair he'd aquired, he laid them down inside the makeshift bunker, covering most of the ground on the Gate-facing side. He stole another glance at the battle line; maybe an eighth of a mile, now. Time to set up.
He came for us in Lordaeron, and we lived to sing of it. He came for us at Hyjal, and we broke his back on the Mount. He came for us in Stormwind, and we paved the streets with corpses and turned his hands away.
He’d bought more specialty ammunition at one time than he had over the past few months combined; three entire cases of KS80’s, that would burst from their casings after leaving the muzzle and unfold into a miniature bolt thrower glaive; a dozen boxes of ES-SV4’s, shaken up beforehand for extra volatility; SS-MM41’s as his personal answer to enemy casters; and of course, his personal favorite- seven boxes of CS-MM51’s, coated with a unique blend of acids and other nefarious compounds that would cause his more standard poisoned bullets’ toxins to burst out of the target’s veins. This was not to mention, of course, the thousands upon thousands of standard bullets he’d brought with him.
The battle line had come to a halt.
Now we’ve come for him!
“Hey, Darrows!” He called down, following his hail with a sharp whistle, “Do me a favor and freeze this side of the snow bank for me? I don’t want to end up sledding in the middle of this party if I’m leaning forward to aim.”
He turned after that and covered his face; a moment later, he felt the impact of a bolt of ice slam into the outer edge of the snow. A familiar crackling noise followed as the wall froze solid down to its core. He raised a thumbs-up as thanks, but said no more.
This is what comes when the Riders go to war!
Ulthanon threw a clip into his gun, slammed it into place, and cocked his first round into the chamber. He exhaled slowly, the cloud of his breath trailing slowly behind him. Below, the Riders had taken up positions.
[Fells] says: I LOBE DACNIEBG kiTTLES
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Chrystenise
- Posts: 740
- Joined: Thu Nov 13, 2008 8:14 pm
Re: The Wrath Gate
The tall, blue-eyed man stood at the entrance to Genise Crownsilver's tent, a wide grin on his lips and a single hand brushing back his long, black hair. Adjusting several pieces of the light mail armor that protected his thick, well-muscled frame, he cleared his throat and leaned forward, calling out in a deep, rumbling tone into the tent.
"Madam Crownsilver?"
Moments passed with no answer. The man sighed, a look of disappointment coming over his features.
Genise's eyes lifted from their fixation on her nails as the deep voice of a young man rose amidst the Riders' camp. "Courier sent with a message for one of your camp, mister Ap Danwyrith. So sorry to interrupt."
The deep voice was nervous, as one would be at such a time. Not only was this young man upon the eve of the worst battle all would see for years - but he was sent to the most ill-reputed camp of all the forces gathered. Genise's brow perked as she eyed the young man, who was being assured by Tarquin to not worry for his safety here. As Tarquin patted the kid on the back and took the delivered scroll, the sorceress patted Varenna's thigh and slipped to her feet, a predatory glint in her eyes.
"You look nervous," she quietly spoke in soft tones. Feeling a sudden warmth rush through his body, Genise's fingers lightly touched to the courier's arm, the smile of the young lady sending a chill of equal proportions down his spine. "What's your name, darling?"
"In..Innis, ma'am, Saul Innis." He swallowed, and rubbed the back of his head with the untouched hand, a goofy smile spreading across his handsome features.
Genise eyed a raised bicep before returning her gaze to meet that of the slightly shorter man. "You've had a long ride to get here, must be freezing, you poor thing."
Courier Innis blushed, shrugging faintly and being unable to form words before Genise spoke once again.
"Come sit with me and have a drink, Saul. It'll warm your blood for the ride back."
A collective amount of Riders rolled their eyes.
Saul eyed the tent a moment longer, before standing erect and covering his brow with a hand, gaze searching over the camp in hopes of spotting the Archmagess, but there was no luck. As depressing as war was, it paled in comparison to not see that charming smile once again.
"Saul?" A warm breeze suddenly washed over him as he turned back to the tent, the glinting blue gaze of Genise Crownsilver a mere inches away from his own. "Madam Crownsilver..." her spoke in strong relief, just staring...
A chorus of giggles, cackles, and groans rose from the over-decorated tent of the Sorceress of Elwynn. An arcane source of light lit the tent well on the inside, oddly enough, casting no shadows to those on the outside looking in.
A deep grunt sounded from outside the tent. The giddy noises stopped, and moments later, Genise's head popped through the entrance at ground level. Her hair was disheveled - as rare a sight as any - and she was grinning.
"...Tarq, hi there!" She giggled brightly, staring up at her proverbial older brother. Her stared back down at her with a raised brow, a cigarette burning to the coal in his hand. No real surprise that sleep was a stranger to anyone on this night.
"Came by ta see if yeh'd aught worth drinkin', but I see yir occupied." He paused, doing a mental headcount, and stared at her with deadpan incredulity. "Thit's no' Sunshine in thir with yeh, is it?"
She cackled and rolled onto her back, hand shooting from the tent with a bottle of something quite strong in her grasp. Tarquin's eye twitched, praying she didn't slide any further from the tent and embarrass them both. "Whiskey?" she purred.
"Whiskey?" He blinked, not knowing her to usually be into that. "Sure yeh mean wine, ayeh? A nice Pinot Gregarious or what d'yeh name it?"
Genise narrowed her eyes, staring at Tarquin for a moment, before glancing back to the bottle and blinking. "Oh yeah... Maybe it is."
A laugh rose from both of their mouths, more dominantly from hers than Tarquin's. He aimed his smoke at the redhead and spoke with a thin veneer of jocularity. "Well, wha'ever yeh've in thir, I trust yeh'll both be with us at dawn. We kinna be-"
He stopped in his words as a second head popped from the tent. A mane of black locks and the well-kept face of the rookie courier, Saul Innis, who stared up at Tarquin with wide eyes. The rogue's brow furrowed, and Innis slowly disappeared into the tent once again, clearing his throat and clearly intimidated. Somewhere deep inside, he was praying that this wasn't one of those stories where the gorgeous lady simply 'forgot' to mention she was married.
"Wis tha'...?" Tarquin's question trailed off while his breath was still misting the air. Genise just nodded and grinned, exhaling softly.
"What?"
"What?" he mocked softly. "I mean, really, Geny?"
She rolled her eyes, pointing a well-manicured finger in his direction. "Private Innis has never seen battle before, or a woman, Tarquin, and coincidentally, he may die tomorrow." Tarquin folded his arms, staring as she continued. "Coincidentally, I might die tomorrow." She blinked. "Okay, so, I probbaly won't die tomorrow, but... I am a giving person, and I like to make people smile and forget their worries."
"Aye, and he's no' worryin' about much the now, is he?" he interrupted, grinning despite himself. Genise chuckled and slowly shook her head. A brief, amused silence came over the two for a moment, before Genise curled the pointing finger and spoke to break the quiet.
"You know, doll, you look a bit wary yourself. You should go grab Ceil and come back!"
Tarquin blinked his eyes open a bit wider, staring down at her incredulously. Genise winked, and Tarquin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll be movin' oan now," he mumbled, turning to seek his sought-after drink elsewhere.
Genise cackled, and then yelped as she suddenly disappeared, pulled deftly back into the tent.
"I..I wanted to see you again, before the battle." He timidly spoke, his masculine posture seemingly gone to mush in her presence. Genise just smiled softly, touching a hand to his cheek, leaning in, and kissing him on the top of the nose.
"I'm sorry, darling. I can't talk right now - there's work to be done."
He blinked at the lack of flippant nature in the woman's tone. It was as if a different woman spoke to him. "I... Just... but..." He babbled as her hand left his cheek, touched to his chest, and then removed itself completely. She swayed away in fluid motions towards a lone tent at the far side of the camp. Not once did she bother to look back or pause in her movement.
And as she disappeared into the tent, a soft whisper passed by the courier on the wind. "Fight bravely, and you will survive."
"Madam Crownsilver?"
Moments passed with no answer. The man sighed, a look of disappointment coming over his features.
Genise's eyes lifted from their fixation on her nails as the deep voice of a young man rose amidst the Riders' camp. "Courier sent with a message for one of your camp, mister Ap Danwyrith. So sorry to interrupt."
The deep voice was nervous, as one would be at such a time. Not only was this young man upon the eve of the worst battle all would see for years - but he was sent to the most ill-reputed camp of all the forces gathered. Genise's brow perked as she eyed the young man, who was being assured by Tarquin to not worry for his safety here. As Tarquin patted the kid on the back and took the delivered scroll, the sorceress patted Varenna's thigh and slipped to her feet, a predatory glint in her eyes.
"You look nervous," she quietly spoke in soft tones. Feeling a sudden warmth rush through his body, Genise's fingers lightly touched to the courier's arm, the smile of the young lady sending a chill of equal proportions down his spine. "What's your name, darling?"
"In..Innis, ma'am, Saul Innis." He swallowed, and rubbed the back of his head with the untouched hand, a goofy smile spreading across his handsome features.
Genise eyed a raised bicep before returning her gaze to meet that of the slightly shorter man. "You've had a long ride to get here, must be freezing, you poor thing."
Courier Innis blushed, shrugging faintly and being unable to form words before Genise spoke once again.
"Come sit with me and have a drink, Saul. It'll warm your blood for the ride back."
A collective amount of Riders rolled their eyes.
Saul eyed the tent a moment longer, before standing erect and covering his brow with a hand, gaze searching over the camp in hopes of spotting the Archmagess, but there was no luck. As depressing as war was, it paled in comparison to not see that charming smile once again.
"Saul?" A warm breeze suddenly washed over him as he turned back to the tent, the glinting blue gaze of Genise Crownsilver a mere inches away from his own. "Madam Crownsilver..." her spoke in strong relief, just staring...
A chorus of giggles, cackles, and groans rose from the over-decorated tent of the Sorceress of Elwynn. An arcane source of light lit the tent well on the inside, oddly enough, casting no shadows to those on the outside looking in.
A deep grunt sounded from outside the tent. The giddy noises stopped, and moments later, Genise's head popped through the entrance at ground level. Her hair was disheveled - as rare a sight as any - and she was grinning.
"...Tarq, hi there!" She giggled brightly, staring up at her proverbial older brother. Her stared back down at her with a raised brow, a cigarette burning to the coal in his hand. No real surprise that sleep was a stranger to anyone on this night.
"Came by ta see if yeh'd aught worth drinkin', but I see yir occupied." He paused, doing a mental headcount, and stared at her with deadpan incredulity. "Thit's no' Sunshine in thir with yeh, is it?"
She cackled and rolled onto her back, hand shooting from the tent with a bottle of something quite strong in her grasp. Tarquin's eye twitched, praying she didn't slide any further from the tent and embarrass them both. "Whiskey?" she purred.
"Whiskey?" He blinked, not knowing her to usually be into that. "Sure yeh mean wine, ayeh? A nice Pinot Gregarious or what d'yeh name it?"
Genise narrowed her eyes, staring at Tarquin for a moment, before glancing back to the bottle and blinking. "Oh yeah... Maybe it is."
A laugh rose from both of their mouths, more dominantly from hers than Tarquin's. He aimed his smoke at the redhead and spoke with a thin veneer of jocularity. "Well, wha'ever yeh've in thir, I trust yeh'll both be with us at dawn. We kinna be-"
He stopped in his words as a second head popped from the tent. A mane of black locks and the well-kept face of the rookie courier, Saul Innis, who stared up at Tarquin with wide eyes. The rogue's brow furrowed, and Innis slowly disappeared into the tent once again, clearing his throat and clearly intimidated. Somewhere deep inside, he was praying that this wasn't one of those stories where the gorgeous lady simply 'forgot' to mention she was married.
"Wis tha'...?" Tarquin's question trailed off while his breath was still misting the air. Genise just nodded and grinned, exhaling softly.
"What?"
"What?" he mocked softly. "I mean, really, Geny?"
She rolled her eyes, pointing a well-manicured finger in his direction. "Private Innis has never seen battle before, or a woman, Tarquin, and coincidentally, he may die tomorrow." Tarquin folded his arms, staring as she continued. "Coincidentally, I might die tomorrow." She blinked. "Okay, so, I probbaly won't die tomorrow, but... I am a giving person, and I like to make people smile and forget their worries."
"Aye, and he's no' worryin' about much the now, is he?" he interrupted, grinning despite himself. Genise chuckled and slowly shook her head. A brief, amused silence came over the two for a moment, before Genise curled the pointing finger and spoke to break the quiet.
"You know, doll, you look a bit wary yourself. You should go grab Ceil and come back!"
Tarquin blinked his eyes open a bit wider, staring down at her incredulously. Genise winked, and Tarquin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll be movin' oan now," he mumbled, turning to seek his sought-after drink elsewhere.
Genise cackled, and then yelped as she suddenly disappeared, pulled deftly back into the tent.
"I..I wanted to see you again, before the battle." He timidly spoke, his masculine posture seemingly gone to mush in her presence. Genise just smiled softly, touching a hand to his cheek, leaning in, and kissing him on the top of the nose.
"I'm sorry, darling. I can't talk right now - there's work to be done."
He blinked at the lack of flippant nature in the woman's tone. It was as if a different woman spoke to him. "I... Just... but..." He babbled as her hand left his cheek, touched to his chest, and then removed itself completely. She swayed away in fluid motions towards a lone tent at the far side of the camp. Not once did she bother to look back or pause in her movement.
And as she disappeared into the tent, a soft whisper passed by the courier on the wind. "Fight bravely, and you will survive."
Re: The Wrath Gate
He'd brought everything he could have possibly carried on his back and at his waist. Sealed containers of herbs, vials, dripping needles, flasks of powder, scrolls, alchemy kit, occult trinkets, assorted runes, magical gems of every quality and even a lead slate intended as a makeshift work bench.
The bulk of the weight, however, was in the section of his library. Books beyond number slotted neatly, perfectly packed to make use of every cranny the backpack possessed. They made him a very squarish sight trudging beside his comrades, some hunched, snarling figure more material than man.
Even with enchanted pockets Laurus had quickly learned the error of his ways. If he'd been on his own, it wouldn't have been near so laborous. He'd normally move at his own pace. What he didn't feel the necessity of carrying Baccalou would, with a growled objection, be unable to refuse.
Despite his pain, Drachmas couldn't bear to part with a single bauble. When the effort finally became insufferable he resorted to coin, and one man's burden became a three person convoy under his watchful, jealous eye.
Bricu was right. Laurus was not a campaigner, and marching in unison was different than moving on your own. Hell, he'd never even seen a pitched battle before, not really, not in the way of two large, organized armies clashing and tearing at each other on the open field.
So, here it all was at last, stacked and spread about his shelter hodge-podge and helter-skelter. Bubbling vials, open books, brewing plans. When events of great severity were at hand, Laurus had never been able to sleep. It was not a matter of insomnia; it was compulsion. Laurus was preparing.
Three times the candle perched on the simple stool in the center of his tent had withered itself down to a puddle, and three times he'd set one anew. Such a meager light for his quarters, especially when one considered the clouded, dreary weather which shrouded the Dragonblight. When the third one gave up the ghost he finally let it rest, setting his left hand alight with brilliant, angry flame and scrawling on the parchment with the quill in his right.
By the time he finally stopped, panting with sheer mental exhaustion and lack of sleep, it was already early morning. The only reason he could tell was that the blackness had given way to dusk outside his tent, and a military reveille could be faintly heard blaring from somewhere down the mountain.
"Heh, let's see. Hastened invisibility potion...stoneskin. Healing potion, detect undead, potion of detect invisibility, shadow protection potion, arcane powder..."
"Runes. Got the backups, too."
He found his thoughts drifting and his head drooping down to his chest. Fortunately, he noticed in time and jerked it up again violently. Falling asleep now wouldn't do any good. It'd just make it harder to stay awake later.
Shit. He shouldn't have spent the whole damn night awake. He'd manage. It really came down to this. Now, Laurus Drachmas stopped running, turned and fought tooth and claw. He hadn't really expected to be on the side pursuing him-it was pretty ironic when you gave it a second glance.
"Of course, the goal isn't to win. The goal is to survive."
Alright. I'm going to give you a tentative "yes". This isn't a commitment!
...But frankly I haven't got a whole fuckload of options.
"Aheh."
I still think this is suicide. So, you can count on me to bring the portal.
"Likely, Laz, thit'll be the handiest thing ay all."
That's when he remembered he'd forgotten the most important part. It was also going to be the most difficult. No, no, it wasn't the portal.
An icy cold gnawed on Laurus' gut as he lifted his pen this time.
What does a dead man say to his wife and his brother?
What does a dead man say to his unborn children when he has to tell them why he died?
To my only love, my brother and my children I'll never know...
If you are reading this, it is likely or inevitable that I am dead or worse...
Too cliche. His words didn't mean anything. The mage snarled with contempt and pressed his thumb into the paper's center, reducing it to ash. Best try again.
"Not like I'm really going to die, anyway. I'll take the rearguard. First sign of trouble and they'll be thanking me for saving our skins."
All their reasons were really the same to him. Glory? Discretion was the better part of valor, and this offensive was anything but discreet. Revenge? Yes, Arthas had taken everything from him too, once, and he'd built himself again from scratch. He wouldn't mind being the one to watch the bastard burn. But this wasn't his fight in the strictest sense. Did he give a damn about these colors? Laurus blinked down at the black and red which adorned his chest. He wasn't sure. The fact that they were his right now was enough.
The official reason was redemption. That was a lark. Laurus burst out laughing and fetched another parchment.
He tried again:
This is the last will of Laurus Drachmas, third son of Heth Drachmas, noble of Lordaeron. All of my non-magical assets are to be liquidated and the sum total of the coin to be given to my wife, Callide Fells Drachmas. Take my books, my notes and my baubles and place them in secure storage. I want my children to know their father's legacy, the whole truth, and if they should take it upon themselves to follow in his footsteps my collection is to be delivered to them. Otherwise, save it for a time of more enlightened arcane minds.
I leave behind no regrets save the fact I could not live long enough to see my children. I've been a free-thinker and have given myself wholly to everything I've done. I'm proud of it all and anyone who disagrees can shove it.
If my body is recovered in any form, I wish to have a funeral pyre built on my wife's estate in the Hinterlands. Bury my ashes there and give me a headstone I'd like. Preferably with my face on it. Solid marble would be nice, but make sure that it has some onyx in it (that's my birthstone you know). Make sure it reads "Lord Laurus Drachmas-Father, Noble, Husband, Mage, and Unrepentant."
"Yes," he nodded to himself. That would be a fitting end for the great Laurus Drachmas.
The bulk of the weight, however, was in the section of his library. Books beyond number slotted neatly, perfectly packed to make use of every cranny the backpack possessed. They made him a very squarish sight trudging beside his comrades, some hunched, snarling figure more material than man.
Even with enchanted pockets Laurus had quickly learned the error of his ways. If he'd been on his own, it wouldn't have been near so laborous. He'd normally move at his own pace. What he didn't feel the necessity of carrying Baccalou would, with a growled objection, be unable to refuse.
Despite his pain, Drachmas couldn't bear to part with a single bauble. When the effort finally became insufferable he resorted to coin, and one man's burden became a three person convoy under his watchful, jealous eye.
Bricu was right. Laurus was not a campaigner, and marching in unison was different than moving on your own. Hell, he'd never even seen a pitched battle before, not really, not in the way of two large, organized armies clashing and tearing at each other on the open field.
So, here it all was at last, stacked and spread about his shelter hodge-podge and helter-skelter. Bubbling vials, open books, brewing plans. When events of great severity were at hand, Laurus had never been able to sleep. It was not a matter of insomnia; it was compulsion. Laurus was preparing.
Three times the candle perched on the simple stool in the center of his tent had withered itself down to a puddle, and three times he'd set one anew. Such a meager light for his quarters, especially when one considered the clouded, dreary weather which shrouded the Dragonblight. When the third one gave up the ghost he finally let it rest, setting his left hand alight with brilliant, angry flame and scrawling on the parchment with the quill in his right.
By the time he finally stopped, panting with sheer mental exhaustion and lack of sleep, it was already early morning. The only reason he could tell was that the blackness had given way to dusk outside his tent, and a military reveille could be faintly heard blaring from somewhere down the mountain.
"Heh, let's see. Hastened invisibility potion...stoneskin. Healing potion, detect undead, potion of detect invisibility, shadow protection potion, arcane powder..."
"Runes. Got the backups, too."
He found his thoughts drifting and his head drooping down to his chest. Fortunately, he noticed in time and jerked it up again violently. Falling asleep now wouldn't do any good. It'd just make it harder to stay awake later.
Shit. He shouldn't have spent the whole damn night awake. He'd manage. It really came down to this. Now, Laurus Drachmas stopped running, turned and fought tooth and claw. He hadn't really expected to be on the side pursuing him-it was pretty ironic when you gave it a second glance.
"Of course, the goal isn't to win. The goal is to survive."
Alright. I'm going to give you a tentative "yes". This isn't a commitment!
...But frankly I haven't got a whole fuckload of options.
"Aheh."
I still think this is suicide. So, you can count on me to bring the portal.
"Likely, Laz, thit'll be the handiest thing ay all."
That's when he remembered he'd forgotten the most important part. It was also going to be the most difficult. No, no, it wasn't the portal.
An icy cold gnawed on Laurus' gut as he lifted his pen this time.
What does a dead man say to his wife and his brother?
What does a dead man say to his unborn children when he has to tell them why he died?
To my only love, my brother and my children I'll never know...
If you are reading this, it is likely or inevitable that I am dead or worse...
Too cliche. His words didn't mean anything. The mage snarled with contempt and pressed his thumb into the paper's center, reducing it to ash. Best try again.
"Not like I'm really going to die, anyway. I'll take the rearguard. First sign of trouble and they'll be thanking me for saving our skins."
All their reasons were really the same to him. Glory? Discretion was the better part of valor, and this offensive was anything but discreet. Revenge? Yes, Arthas had taken everything from him too, once, and he'd built himself again from scratch. He wouldn't mind being the one to watch the bastard burn. But this wasn't his fight in the strictest sense. Did he give a damn about these colors? Laurus blinked down at the black and red which adorned his chest. He wasn't sure. The fact that they were his right now was enough.
The official reason was redemption. That was a lark. Laurus burst out laughing and fetched another parchment.
He tried again:
This is the last will of Laurus Drachmas, third son of Heth Drachmas, noble of Lordaeron. All of my non-magical assets are to be liquidated and the sum total of the coin to be given to my wife, Callide Fells Drachmas. Take my books, my notes and my baubles and place them in secure storage. I want my children to know their father's legacy, the whole truth, and if they should take it upon themselves to follow in his footsteps my collection is to be delivered to them. Otherwise, save it for a time of more enlightened arcane minds.
I leave behind no regrets save the fact I could not live long enough to see my children. I've been a free-thinker and have given myself wholly to everything I've done. I'm proud of it all and anyone who disagrees can shove it.
If my body is recovered in any form, I wish to have a funeral pyre built on my wife's estate in the Hinterlands. Bury my ashes there and give me a headstone I'd like. Preferably with my face on it. Solid marble would be nice, but make sure that it has some onyx in it (that's my birthstone you know). Make sure it reads "Lord Laurus Drachmas-Father, Noble, Husband, Mage, and Unrepentant."
"Yes," he nodded to himself. That would be a fitting end for the great Laurus Drachmas.
Last edited by Laurus on Thu May 21, 2009 8:28 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Power, it isn't something you put on or take off like a jacket. It's something you just ARE." -Xykon
-
Itanya_blade
- Posts: 638
- Joined: Thu Nov 13, 2008 4:08 pm
Re: The Wrath Gate
“Lemme go, Lemme go, lemme go!” Pill twisted around, flailing at the large man in plate as best she could. She had her precious hat in one skeletal hand, using it as a weapon so she wouldn’t lose it. “I ain’t doin nothing!”
"Yeh raight, yeh damn well ain'," Jol grunted, his face as emotive as a slab of granite.
She thought she knew all the Riders, but she didn’t know this hulking one-eyed meanie. Finally, realizing that the only way to get let go would be to do something that Davien would definitely not approve of, she just went limp, hanging from the hand wrapped in her robes, seeking to look pitiful. Which, she reflected with a barely stifled cackle was actually not as easy as it might seem for a dead girl.
“Oi, Flames.” Hah! Someone she did know! She tried to turn around to look at Bittertongue, but the human mountain was not cooperating.
“Hi!” She waved in the direction of the voice, still clutching her hat in one hand.
“Och, what the fuck are yeh doin 'ere?” Finally, she could see him, cheeks red in the cold.
“Davien’s here, ain’t she? I’m here too." She tried to look at the person still holding her. “Down!” Nothing happened. The mage added a meek little “please” and squawked as her butt hit the ground. “That one’s a menace, he is!” She hissed.
Bittertongue just laughed at her. “Stonemantle’s o'er there.”
“I know where she is! I ain’t goin over there! Yva’s over there. Don’t like her none. Davien’s too nice. Won’t let me burn her none… No riders either. Been a borin morning. Lost my knitting in the snow cause of the metal mountain man!”
“I’ll just stay here n wait.” She pulled large satchel into her lap and started to get comfortable. She peered up at the paladin. “Ghaar’s being all spiritual and leadin, but he’s workin with them pale skin elves… The Prophecy of Light, they call themselves. Don’t like them none. That Keltyr bastard, he owes me booze. His missy, she’s crazy. Ghaar’s good at keepin people safe. If Yva goes all crazy, ain’t no one keeping Davien safe but me.”
"Yeh raight, yeh damn well ain'," Jol grunted, his face as emotive as a slab of granite.
She thought she knew all the Riders, but she didn’t know this hulking one-eyed meanie. Finally, realizing that the only way to get let go would be to do something that Davien would definitely not approve of, she just went limp, hanging from the hand wrapped in her robes, seeking to look pitiful. Which, she reflected with a barely stifled cackle was actually not as easy as it might seem for a dead girl.
“Oi, Flames.” Hah! Someone she did know! She tried to turn around to look at Bittertongue, but the human mountain was not cooperating.
“Hi!” She waved in the direction of the voice, still clutching her hat in one hand.
“Och, what the fuck are yeh doin 'ere?” Finally, she could see him, cheeks red in the cold.
“Davien’s here, ain’t she? I’m here too." She tried to look at the person still holding her. “Down!” Nothing happened. The mage added a meek little “please” and squawked as her butt hit the ground. “That one’s a menace, he is!” She hissed.
Bittertongue just laughed at her. “Stonemantle’s o'er there.”
“I know where she is! I ain’t goin over there! Yva’s over there. Don’t like her none. Davien’s too nice. Won’t let me burn her none… No riders either. Been a borin morning. Lost my knitting in the snow cause of the metal mountain man!”
“I’ll just stay here n wait.” She pulled large satchel into her lap and started to get comfortable. She peered up at the paladin. “Ghaar’s being all spiritual and leadin, but he’s workin with them pale skin elves… The Prophecy of Light, they call themselves. Don’t like them none. That Keltyr bastard, he owes me booze. His missy, she’s crazy. Ghaar’s good at keepin people safe. If Yva goes all crazy, ain’t no one keeping Davien safe but me.”
Re: The Wrath Gate
Thros frean. The words still echoed in Beltar's mind long after they'd quit echoing off the mountains around them. He wasn't used to battle cries, of great armies on the march with banners flying. His century of wars--none big enough to call that, really, but bloody nonetheless--had been fought in merchant wagons repelling bandits, or perhaps in the woods being the bandit. Or on a rooftop waiting for one clean shot to end a life and escape to receive his pay. His work had kept him from all three of the Wars that had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms. Now, as a fourth one began, there was no getting away from it this time.
He'd chuckled while watching Ulthanon carefully prepare and stock his fighting position, with its frozen parapets and huge supply of ammunition. That was too much work for an old dwarf. A memory, distant through time, a voice he barely recognized as his Da...the mountains, son, they'll give you everything you need. True words, but they took, too, took Da a year later in a mine collapse.
A few minutes' slogging through the snow had found Beltar a handy outcropping of rock to use as cover. He had excellent visibility down the hill of the right side of the Riders' line, and beyond onward to the marching host below on the valley floor, while giving him concealment from anybody trying to flank them on the left and a solid wall on his right. Perfect. He dropped his pack and began arranging a few things within easy reach...two boxes of Mammoth Cutters that Aelflaed had been nice enough to make him, a couple of flasks, a roll of frostweave bandage. Idly, he wondered if he'd been better indulging his childhood fascination with machinery instead of turning in his middle age toward the most un-dwarflike pursuits of growing plants and brewing potions. "Could wish fer a few bombs 'bout now," he muttered to himself. "Oh well."
Satisfied with his new temporary home, he reached around and picked up his precious gun, slowly unwrapping it from the lined oiled leather that protected it. It wasn't the simple deadly design of his old Black Death, now safely in the Dalaran bank; nor was it the cobbled-together monstrosity the Alliance Vanguard had thrown at him after he'd been their assassin and errand boy so many damned times. It was a big, heavy, ornate mess of walnut and titanium and the magical elements of fire and shadow, topped with a precise little sighting scope. It was, so the story went, designed by Hemet Nesingwary his own damn self, who used it to save his expedition after it went a-cropper in Sholazar Basin. Beltar'd found it on the auction house and had paid a dragon's hoard for it, and had never regretted it since. It didn't have a name yet. Maybe it would after today.
With nothing else to do but wait, the old dwarf pulled out a flask of bourbon, unstoppered it, and raised it to the north, in the direction of Angrathar. "Here's t'ya, Arthas," Beltar yelled. "See ya in Hell, y'fuckin' bastard."
He'd chuckled while watching Ulthanon carefully prepare and stock his fighting position, with its frozen parapets and huge supply of ammunition. That was too much work for an old dwarf. A memory, distant through time, a voice he barely recognized as his Da...the mountains, son, they'll give you everything you need. True words, but they took, too, took Da a year later in a mine collapse.
A few minutes' slogging through the snow had found Beltar a handy outcropping of rock to use as cover. He had excellent visibility down the hill of the right side of the Riders' line, and beyond onward to the marching host below on the valley floor, while giving him concealment from anybody trying to flank them on the left and a solid wall on his right. Perfect. He dropped his pack and began arranging a few things within easy reach...two boxes of Mammoth Cutters that Aelflaed had been nice enough to make him, a couple of flasks, a roll of frostweave bandage. Idly, he wondered if he'd been better indulging his childhood fascination with machinery instead of turning in his middle age toward the most un-dwarflike pursuits of growing plants and brewing potions. "Could wish fer a few bombs 'bout now," he muttered to himself. "Oh well."
Satisfied with his new temporary home, he reached around and picked up his precious gun, slowly unwrapping it from the lined oiled leather that protected it. It wasn't the simple deadly design of his old Black Death, now safely in the Dalaran bank; nor was it the cobbled-together monstrosity the Alliance Vanguard had thrown at him after he'd been their assassin and errand boy so many damned times. It was a big, heavy, ornate mess of walnut and titanium and the magical elements of fire and shadow, topped with a precise little sighting scope. It was, so the story went, designed by Hemet Nesingwary his own damn self, who used it to save his expedition after it went a-cropper in Sholazar Basin. Beltar'd found it on the auction house and had paid a dragon's hoard for it, and had never regretted it since. It didn't have a name yet. Maybe it would after today.
With nothing else to do but wait, the old dwarf pulled out a flask of bourbon, unstoppered it, and raised it to the north, in the direction of Angrathar. "Here's t'ya, Arthas," Beltar yelled. "See ya in Hell, y'fuckin' bastard."
Re: The Wrath Gate
One half of a mile from camp, the first rune was placed. She wedged the pointed tip of the marker into the ground and then raised the mallet.
Whack, whack, whack!
“Algidaman, to interest you,” she whispered, swinging back into the saddle and moving up about ten yards. She slid from Enigma's side and pulled the next from her collection, peering at the symbol with three dashes, two curved lines, and a blood mark upon it.
With a wry curve of her lips, this, too, was pounded into the ground.
“Elivrani, to tame you.”
Another ten yards, another marker, and then another, and another
Barbitia, Echerna, Froslin. The guide, the anchor, the compass. Sarcharalvi for north, and at last . . . at last the unnamed rune. His rune, the rune she used in all of her ritual work these days. Zarani, she called it, after Narsh'Zaran. To her, it meant Power.
Her eyes flitted from the newly embedded trail up to the hilltop, where the tent billowed, its black flag dancing upon the pole. The crimson panels were garish against the gray sky. She led the horse to the stables, ignoring the nervous pawing of the live mounts around her. They weren't comfortable with her dreadsteed, and frankly, she didn't care.
She pressed a silver coin into the stable boy's palm.
“Live for another day to spend it,” she said, gathering her cloak around her. She turned her face into the wind, blissfully oblivious to the arctic Northrend temperature.
“M-ma'am?" His voice cracked as he addressed her. "You're barefoot, and the snows . . . well, I have a spare pair. You're small, so they may fit.”
Her expression turned dark as she peered at him. She reached down to cup his chin in her palm, expecting him to pull away, but for his part he just stood there, smiling uncertainly. His eyes were the color of good milk chocolates. A smattering of ginger freckles covered his nose and upper cheeks.
With a tut and a sigh, her free hand swept sandy colored hair away from his forehead.
“How old are you?”
“Nine summers, Ma'am.”
“And tell me your name.”
“Lawrence.”
Yva crouched, far less than she'd have liked to be at eye level with the child. “And tell me Lawrence, what callous lordling brings someone of your tender years to face the armies of Arthas Menethil?”
“Lord Eddingly, Ma'am. He said it would be the battle of my life. I could tell my grandchildren about it one day.”
“Did he now.”
When the boy nodded, Yva began to hum, forcing a smile she didn't feel. “Listen to me, Lawrence. This is no place for a bright boy like you. Do you see the red tent at the top of the hill?”
“Yes Ma'am.”
“That's where I want you to go. There are women there with me, and we will protect you. I will protect you.”
“But Lord Eddingly . . . “
“Oh trust me. I'll handle your lordship.” She pressed a kiss to the child's forehead and then ten more gold coins into his palm. “Swear to me you'll find that tent. Swear it on the thing you value most.”
She watched his top lip quiver, but after a minute, he nodded. “I swear on my Gram Gram, then.”
“That's a good thing to swear on. I loved my Gram Gram very much. I'll be waiting for you there in a few minutes, all right?.”
She turned to go, but another squeaked 'Ma'am' stopped her in her tracks.
“Aye?”
“Did you want the boots, then?”
The tilt of her lips finally felt genuine. “The White Witch doesn't need your boots. Just take care of yourself and my horse, and that'll be good enough.”
As she left the stables, she grabbed her riding crop from her saddlebags and started towards the camps.
*****
It didn't take long to find the cluster of Stormwind's finest. She pulled her hood back, stepping over the men polishing swords, shields, guns, and every other type of weapon imaginable. Someone whistled at her as she passed, and she suppressed a growl. Lawrence had been wearing the green and gold colors of his lord's house, and soon enough, she saw a banner matching the livery in a small valley not too far from where the Riders were positioned.
A tall, arrogant looking man with a gleaming smile and blond hair was standing by the fire, one sabaton propped on a crate. His tabard was the color of good emeralds, with a large golden hawk embroidered in the middle. He was deep in conversation with a few other men, clearly moneyed and titled by the ornate workings of their armor. Some had titanium accents on their spaulders, others had fancy gems embedded into their breastplates.
“Are you Lord Eddingly,” Yva said, lifting her skirts to step over a sleeping dog.
The lord stopped talking to his peers long enough to scowl at her, clearly displeased at being interrupted.
“I am. And you are?”
“The woman taking you to task for bringing a bloody child out to meet Arthas Menethil,” she snapped. She walked toward him until they were less than a foot apart. He had at least eighteen inches on her, and likely a hundred pounds, but that didn't stop her from tilting her head all the way back to glare at him. “Are you mad or simply stupid?”
“Excuse me, wench. Do you know who I am?”
“You seem to think I actually give a damn. How quaint.” She snorted. “I've taken your boy, and as soon as I can, I'm sending him back to Dalaran where he'll live to see ten. The next time you decide to host a party on Arthas's time, I'd recommend getting yourself an advisor. They might inform you of the dangers of war, since you're clearly too dim to comprehend them yourself.”
The other lords around began to cough, hiding smiles and snickers behind their gloves.
Eddingly's glower darkened.
"You dare?!"
"Oh yes, I dare."
Someone came tromping through the snow behind her, boots crunching and clanging as they approached, but Yva was far too preoccupied to turn around. She watched Eddingly's eyes flicker past her, but he just as quickly looked back down to jab plated fingers into her chest, nearly sending her sprawling.
“I'd advise you to leave now, woman. Go work the soup tents or whatever else you're suited for. And if you want to buy the boy from me, by all means. We might be able to work an arrangement.” His perusal of her person was crude, as was the curl of his lip. “How well do you do on your back?”
He didn't have time to move away from the crop. There was a hiss as it ripped through the air, and then an unpleasant smack as it shredded through the meat of his cheek, leaving a nasty, blooded welt. He cursed and pulled his sword, rage forcing his pupils huge. Mottled red crept up his throat and face to drown out the pale of his skin.
“You bitch!”
“Swing that sword at me, Swine, and it will be the last bloody thing you ever do, mark my words,” Yva snarled, lifting her free hand. Shadows began to swim over her glove as a long, icy talon curved off of her thumb.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Yva was angry, but she wasn't so angry she didn't recognize the voice of Threnn Bittertongue coming from behind her.
Oh, so that's who it was. Damn it.
“Good afternoon Threnn, how are you today?”
“Yva,” Threnn said, her tone deliberately flat. It was subtle, but the warning was there, and Yva took deep breaths through her nose to clear the song clamoring inside of her brain.
“Lord Eddington brought a nine year old boy here by the name of Lawrence. He's working the bloody stables.”
Threnn placed a hand on Yva's shoulder – whether it was comfort or another warning, Yva didn't know and she didn't care. She stood down. Her hand dropped to her side and she licked her lips, more song bubbling from her throat.
“Is that true, Lord Eddington?”
“What of it?” He dashed at the blood dribbling down his face. It just made things worse; rust colored smears now covered him from temple to jaw.
“Well, I guess I'd say you had it coming and to saddle your own fucking horse.”
Yva's lips blossomed into a grin.
“Are you done here?”
“I am,” Yva said. She lifted her fingers again, pointing one icy talon at the lord, and he was smart enough to recognize the threat. He stumbled away, cursing as one of his servants handed him a wad of mageweave for his cheek.
The women trudged back to their own encampment, shoulder to shoulder, never looking back.
“Did you portal him out? The boy I mean,” Threnn said after a time.
“I will when I get back. He's at the tent.”
“Well enough.”
They passed the ballista, passed Ulthanon and his snow perch, passed Tarquin nursing a cigarette as he leaned upon a stack of ammunition crates, his black hat shadowing his eyes. Smoke floated around his head in a cloud.
“Ladies,” he said, flicking his fingertip at the hat brim in greeting.
“Boss.” Threnn sidled up beside him, pulling her gauntlets off to smooth a palm over the mound of her stomach. She muttered something about the baby kicking before maneuvering herself onto a crate to perch, her legs swinging.
“How're yeh?”
“Pretty good.”
“Splendid. Fan-fucking-tastic, Ap'Danwyrith,” Yva snapped, brushing past him to climb towards the hill.
Tarquin took another swallow of smoke, digging the glowing end of the cigarette into the metal tin acting as his makeshift ashtray. “Threnny, yeh think Yva's leavin'?” His voice was as dry as the Tanaris sands.
“I'd say so.”
Yva spun around, her eyes narrowing to slits. There was a wolfish grin on her employer's face, making him look like he had far too many teeth for one mortal mouth. Forty thousand acerbic things dripped from the tip of her tongue, but her thoughts floated back to Lawrence, to getting him somewhere safe, and she dropped into a mocking curtsy instead.
Tarquin's quiet chuckles followed her back to the tent.
Whack, whack, whack!
“Algidaman, to interest you,” she whispered, swinging back into the saddle and moving up about ten yards. She slid from Enigma's side and pulled the next from her collection, peering at the symbol with three dashes, two curved lines, and a blood mark upon it.
With a wry curve of her lips, this, too, was pounded into the ground.
“Elivrani, to tame you.”
Another ten yards, another marker, and then another, and another
Barbitia, Echerna, Froslin. The guide, the anchor, the compass. Sarcharalvi for north, and at last . . . at last the unnamed rune. His rune, the rune she used in all of her ritual work these days. Zarani, she called it, after Narsh'Zaran. To her, it meant Power.
Her eyes flitted from the newly embedded trail up to the hilltop, where the tent billowed, its black flag dancing upon the pole. The crimson panels were garish against the gray sky. She led the horse to the stables, ignoring the nervous pawing of the live mounts around her. They weren't comfortable with her dreadsteed, and frankly, she didn't care.
She pressed a silver coin into the stable boy's palm.
“Live for another day to spend it,” she said, gathering her cloak around her. She turned her face into the wind, blissfully oblivious to the arctic Northrend temperature.
“M-ma'am?" His voice cracked as he addressed her. "You're barefoot, and the snows . . . well, I have a spare pair. You're small, so they may fit.”
Her expression turned dark as she peered at him. She reached down to cup his chin in her palm, expecting him to pull away, but for his part he just stood there, smiling uncertainly. His eyes were the color of good milk chocolates. A smattering of ginger freckles covered his nose and upper cheeks.
With a tut and a sigh, her free hand swept sandy colored hair away from his forehead.
“How old are you?”
“Nine summers, Ma'am.”
“And tell me your name.”
“Lawrence.”
Yva crouched, far less than she'd have liked to be at eye level with the child. “And tell me Lawrence, what callous lordling brings someone of your tender years to face the armies of Arthas Menethil?”
“Lord Eddingly, Ma'am. He said it would be the battle of my life. I could tell my grandchildren about it one day.”
“Did he now.”
When the boy nodded, Yva began to hum, forcing a smile she didn't feel. “Listen to me, Lawrence. This is no place for a bright boy like you. Do you see the red tent at the top of the hill?”
“Yes Ma'am.”
“That's where I want you to go. There are women there with me, and we will protect you. I will protect you.”
“But Lord Eddingly . . . “
“Oh trust me. I'll handle your lordship.” She pressed a kiss to the child's forehead and then ten more gold coins into his palm. “Swear to me you'll find that tent. Swear it on the thing you value most.”
She watched his top lip quiver, but after a minute, he nodded. “I swear on my Gram Gram, then.”
“That's a good thing to swear on. I loved my Gram Gram very much. I'll be waiting for you there in a few minutes, all right?.”
She turned to go, but another squeaked 'Ma'am' stopped her in her tracks.
“Aye?”
“Did you want the boots, then?”
The tilt of her lips finally felt genuine. “The White Witch doesn't need your boots. Just take care of yourself and my horse, and that'll be good enough.”
As she left the stables, she grabbed her riding crop from her saddlebags and started towards the camps.
*****
It didn't take long to find the cluster of Stormwind's finest. She pulled her hood back, stepping over the men polishing swords, shields, guns, and every other type of weapon imaginable. Someone whistled at her as she passed, and she suppressed a growl. Lawrence had been wearing the green and gold colors of his lord's house, and soon enough, she saw a banner matching the livery in a small valley not too far from where the Riders were positioned.
A tall, arrogant looking man with a gleaming smile and blond hair was standing by the fire, one sabaton propped on a crate. His tabard was the color of good emeralds, with a large golden hawk embroidered in the middle. He was deep in conversation with a few other men, clearly moneyed and titled by the ornate workings of their armor. Some had titanium accents on their spaulders, others had fancy gems embedded into their breastplates.
“Are you Lord Eddingly,” Yva said, lifting her skirts to step over a sleeping dog.
The lord stopped talking to his peers long enough to scowl at her, clearly displeased at being interrupted.
“I am. And you are?”
“The woman taking you to task for bringing a bloody child out to meet Arthas Menethil,” she snapped. She walked toward him until they were less than a foot apart. He had at least eighteen inches on her, and likely a hundred pounds, but that didn't stop her from tilting her head all the way back to glare at him. “Are you mad or simply stupid?”
“Excuse me, wench. Do you know who I am?”
“You seem to think I actually give a damn. How quaint.” She snorted. “I've taken your boy, and as soon as I can, I'm sending him back to Dalaran where he'll live to see ten. The next time you decide to host a party on Arthas's time, I'd recommend getting yourself an advisor. They might inform you of the dangers of war, since you're clearly too dim to comprehend them yourself.”
The other lords around began to cough, hiding smiles and snickers behind their gloves.
Eddingly's glower darkened.
"You dare?!"
"Oh yes, I dare."
Someone came tromping through the snow behind her, boots crunching and clanging as they approached, but Yva was far too preoccupied to turn around. She watched Eddingly's eyes flicker past her, but he just as quickly looked back down to jab plated fingers into her chest, nearly sending her sprawling.
“I'd advise you to leave now, woman. Go work the soup tents or whatever else you're suited for. And if you want to buy the boy from me, by all means. We might be able to work an arrangement.” His perusal of her person was crude, as was the curl of his lip. “How well do you do on your back?”
He didn't have time to move away from the crop. There was a hiss as it ripped through the air, and then an unpleasant smack as it shredded through the meat of his cheek, leaving a nasty, blooded welt. He cursed and pulled his sword, rage forcing his pupils huge. Mottled red crept up his throat and face to drown out the pale of his skin.
“You bitch!”
“Swing that sword at me, Swine, and it will be the last bloody thing you ever do, mark my words,” Yva snarled, lifting her free hand. Shadows began to swim over her glove as a long, icy talon curved off of her thumb.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Yva was angry, but she wasn't so angry she didn't recognize the voice of Threnn Bittertongue coming from behind her.
Oh, so that's who it was. Damn it.
“Good afternoon Threnn, how are you today?”
“Yva,” Threnn said, her tone deliberately flat. It was subtle, but the warning was there, and Yva took deep breaths through her nose to clear the song clamoring inside of her brain.
“Lord Eddington brought a nine year old boy here by the name of Lawrence. He's working the bloody stables.”
Threnn placed a hand on Yva's shoulder – whether it was comfort or another warning, Yva didn't know and she didn't care. She stood down. Her hand dropped to her side and she licked her lips, more song bubbling from her throat.
“Is that true, Lord Eddington?”
“What of it?” He dashed at the blood dribbling down his face. It just made things worse; rust colored smears now covered him from temple to jaw.
“Well, I guess I'd say you had it coming and to saddle your own fucking horse.”
Yva's lips blossomed into a grin.
“Are you done here?”
“I am,” Yva said. She lifted her fingers again, pointing one icy talon at the lord, and he was smart enough to recognize the threat. He stumbled away, cursing as one of his servants handed him a wad of mageweave for his cheek.
The women trudged back to their own encampment, shoulder to shoulder, never looking back.
“Did you portal him out? The boy I mean,” Threnn said after a time.
“I will when I get back. He's at the tent.”
“Well enough.”
They passed the ballista, passed Ulthanon and his snow perch, passed Tarquin nursing a cigarette as he leaned upon a stack of ammunition crates, his black hat shadowing his eyes. Smoke floated around his head in a cloud.
“Ladies,” he said, flicking his fingertip at the hat brim in greeting.
“Boss.” Threnn sidled up beside him, pulling her gauntlets off to smooth a palm over the mound of her stomach. She muttered something about the baby kicking before maneuvering herself onto a crate to perch, her legs swinging.
“How're yeh?”
“Pretty good.”
“Splendid. Fan-fucking-tastic, Ap'Danwyrith,” Yva snapped, brushing past him to climb towards the hill.
Tarquin took another swallow of smoke, digging the glowing end of the cigarette into the metal tin acting as his makeshift ashtray. “Threnny, yeh think Yva's leavin'?” His voice was as dry as the Tanaris sands.
“I'd say so.”
Yva spun around, her eyes narrowing to slits. There was a wolfish grin on her employer's face, making him look like he had far too many teeth for one mortal mouth. Forty thousand acerbic things dripped from the tip of her tongue, but her thoughts floated back to Lawrence, to getting him somewhere safe, and she dropped into a mocking curtsy instead.
Tarquin's quiet chuckles followed her back to the tent.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
-
Jolstraer
- Posts: 388
- Joined: Fri Nov 14, 2008 12:34 am
- Location: Behind the business-end of Three Feet O'Steel
Re: The Wrath Gate
Angra'thar
The blade made a muffled rasp as it dug point-first into the packed snow, sticking up like a marker of some predetermined line. Jol Taborwynn stood behind that marker, rubbing his uncovered hands together as he eyed the army marching below. Around him others tightened grips on swords, shields, axes, maces, daggers and fuck-all else that they had made their business to do grim violence with. Strapped to his left arm was a broad half of a wall emblazoned with the sign of his homeland in gold that shone with its own brilliance in the meek sunlight.
Squinting his good eye, he made a judgment of how far up the harrowing valley the army had marched, then nodded half to himself. Tugging on his gauntlets, he turned and peered up at the outcropping where their lone ballista was perched. Raising one metal-backed fist, he waved twice, giving the signal that the Alliance was almost on the gate. He got a single wave in return, and heaved up his sword out of the snow.
"Look alive nae, yeh gobs! Annah o'yeh stahts lookin' dead nae, thurr'll be Hell tae pay wit' mah!" he shouted coarsely at the line arrayed around him. He knew their worth, and a rational part knew it didn't need to be said, but ol' Taborwynn damn well wouldn't let them out of it that easy. In that brief precipice before combat, Jol remembered one last thing before starting into his own war.
The Eve of Battle
The whetstone whisked slowly and diligently over every inch of blade from hilt to tip, a slow grinding song of its own. Jol sat on the log outside his tent, smelling the various cookfires throughout their camp and letting the last dregs of tea settle in his belly. His eye was on the blade with each stroke he made, but his other senses were mindfully paying attention to the mall clearing around him.
"Yeh gonna sit 'ere all naight, 'er yeh thank yeh'd drank ah lil' tea?" he asked to the darkness behind him, stopping his whetstone and looking up over his shoulder to the shadows behind him.
It was a strange detail of Nykkolaia Zeran - one of many, perhaps - that even with her skin as pale as it was, eyes of grey and hair only a pale shade of yellow, she somehow seemed able to be a shadow. At least, that's what she felt like. She lingered near the edges of this camp, because there were a few names she knew, but she didn't truly know anyone and so she never tried to break the perimeter. Like a shade, she had only kept on the border and gone where her inward wandering had led her.
Since the day in the Underbelly, this trait had been amplified.
Nykk had been walking without direction - not without watchfulness, because it was rare that she let that go - but she hadn't intended to end up where she had. The voice surprised her and she blinked from the darkness, taking a step closer although not yet too close... like a deer surprised in the edge of the wood by a hunter.
"Ah'm sorreh," she apologized quietly. "Ah did nae mean tae intrude."
The big man chuckled faintly, turning back to his whetstone and steel. "Mos' folks dinnae min' tha intrudin' o'kin'red bein's on tha eve o'ah great ba'tle. Las' remindah o'bein' livin' an' all 'et shite." He spit at the end of that, making the fire crackle. "Suhves some, ah reckon."
To this, Nykkolaia smiled very faintly and not with any mirth. There were others reminders of being alive that she was far more familiar with, but wasn't aiming to find this night. "'Et likeleh does," she agreed. After a few moments of silence, she came a little closer and the firelight caught her face, emblazoning the old scars turned new a little more angrily. "Ah cannae say Ah know from mah own exper'ence, but per'aps."
"Hnh." Jolly shrugged. "Awf'llah cool-min'ed on yer las' day on 'is Laight-given worl'. Mus' nae be plannin' oan dyin'." He didn't look up from his work, still sitting calmly and moving in practiced form. "Ah dinnae ken manah folks t'day 'et ain'."
"Ah ain' nevah plan on 'et," she replied. As the usual chill within grew, she felt strangely more at ease. "But 'et's moah'n likeleh come tomorrah than annah othah day certainleh, maight as well be facin' 'et head on... tomorrah. T'night will jes' be t'night." Her shoulders gave a sort of rolling motion that was more than likely a shrug. She drew to the fire now, although it did little to warm her. For a passing instant, she was reminded of that day in Dalaran... one of many, but this one standing out, and as one she'd rather forget but there it was. His face stood out in the memory, and she almost gave voice to it, but didn't then. "An' a girl maight like some tea af'erall, if'n yeh 'ave annah lef'."
"Ah'm nae sae much ah ol' horse's arse tae offer an' nae 'ave annah," he chuckled. From the sparse trees straight ahead of him, a quite loud snort was heard, as well as the creaking of wood and the rustling of dried branches. "Ah pike off yeh feckin' coppah bint!" He had paused in his sharpening, glaring at the darkness straight ahead of him with a deep frown. "Wish tha damn bitch'd fly oan awreadah. 'Ow manah differen' ways yeh gotta say 'et tae ah ovahgrown lizahd 'et 'ere free, 'ey ken piss off'n an' gae feck wit' somebodah else nae?" The question was, to him, rhetorical and he shook his head. "Annahwey...thurr's tea in tha ke'tle thar. 'Elp yeself." He gestured with the whetstone, then picked up the blade and held it out straight before him, eyeing its length in the firelight.
Quietly amused - as Nykk never really did anything loudly - she said a quiet 'thank yeh' and poured herself some of the tea. Not precisely one for social occasions - which even an impromptu conversation with a grouchy soldier that railed against his own dragon did count - there was some comfort to be found in having something in hand, even something so simple as a mug of tea. She looked into it, only able to see a small flicker against the surface of the liquid in the dark, and took a sip. Strange, she hadn't been thinking much on her own mortality come tomorrow, until now.
Nykkolaia felt... compelled to talk. It was damned strange, and not something she was used to, but the reminder of death set it upon her... or was that really it? Hard to say. Yet she wasn't much for small talk, never had been. Her eyes roamed briefly around the camp before settling on Taborwynn again. The earlier thought rose up again. "Yeh know, given' what tomorrah may brang an' all, Ah want tae sae tha' Ah believe Ah've seen yeh befoah... years befoah. In Lordaeron." She paused, frowning to herself. "Ah cannae raightleh sae why Ah feel tha need tae say 'et, but... 'et's a damn strange night, Ah s'pose."
Jol might've chalked it up to a need for closure on a person's mind, but he wouldn't say. Many a time he had sat in camps like this, with the promise of doom on the morrow, and listened to others let their tongues free and rid the mind of thoughts it had been harboring for so long. It was like a flower blooming in all its glory just before the vine withered and died. "Been ah lon' time since ah marched me homelan'. Served manah ah yeah in tha colors o'silvah an' blue. Dinnah thank ah'd be ah r'membahin' type, wot wit' tha glorah an' prestigeo folks half ag'in me bettah. Mus' 'ave me ol' maw replacin' tha face o'some bettah man o'yeh yout'."
"Man o' mah yout'," Nykk repeated the words softly - barely audible - and with a dark wryness. It lingered only for a heartbeat before she continued. "Ah do nae believe so, as Ah've a good min' for thangs." She paused, realizing where she was about to tread, but her mouth had run off with her. Too late now. "'Et was one o' those momen's, yeh know? Yeh see one thang an' 'et brangs yeh back tae anot'er. Ah saw yeh in Dalaran." She shrugged again, that strange rolling shrug. It was sort of a mutely insecure gesture - like a shrug that lacked the confidence to make itself whole. "'Et brought me back tae where Ah'd nae been, in mah min' at leas'... seein' soldiahs marchin' t'rough tha streets o' the Cap'tal befoah..." She stopped herself on that one. "'Et was a similah view, so Ah remembahed."
Jolly paused, the hilt of his sword clicking as the blade was sheathed in full. "Lon' time ago, foah suah. Ain' been in tha Cap'tal since..." he trailed off, and then his grey hair shook vigorously with his head. "Nae mattah, 'et." He peered over at her again, squinting his eye in a considering look. "Yeh mus' nae 'ave been 'et ol'."
Inwardly, Nykk was not entirely pleased with herself for letting herself walk this far into this conversation, but it was what it was. "Mattah o' perspective, one could sae," she replied quietly. "Ah was f-fourteen." The stumble was slight, but inescapable.
Jol eyed her sharply at the stumble, but didn't comment on it directly. "Losin' 'ome sae young... dunnae ken whethah 'et's ah blessin' 'er ah curse." He set aside the scabbarded sword, then leaned back and heaved up the broad wall of metal that looked battered, but still held some of its ornateness. He checked the straps, holding it with a great deal of familiarity, and made sure that the leather was without stress or cracks.
"Ah wasnae there when 'et all happened," she replied. Spit 'et out, girl. 'Et's nae like yer hidin' 'et. Have tae tell someone sometime. Nykk's head turned more fully, her face illuminated in the fire light as she glanced at the shield and felt the deep well of sadness grow. Perhaps that was what did it. "'At was tha year Ah was ta'en," she said quietly, eyes on the shield. "Ah was ta'en off tha streets bah tha man 'at did this." Her hand gestured casually at her face. "Ah was there fer ele'en months, sae Ah did nae know what happened tae 'ome until Ah was freed. Bah then, Ah discovered Ah was in Stohmwin' Citeh."
Everything went still inside then. So few were the people she had told even that much. Why had she told him now? 'Cause yeh thank yer goin' tae die tomorrah, an' maybe actualleh 'ope yeh do.
Jolly regarded her for a moment over his shield, then nodded faintly as he was satisfied with the bulwark's shape and set it aside. "Worse type o'evil lies in tha 'eart o'ah man," he said quietly. "May'ap yeh wos luckah. Yeh an' ah'd say yeh weren', given wot yeh got tae live wit'." He stooped and threw another log on the fire, leaning on his knee and peering into the dancing lumination. "Stratholme wos bad. bad as annah man evah need see. Folks ah man'd ken, fallin' ovah an' pukin' out 'ere organs, chokin' on tha verrah air 'ey breathed...'en gittin' raight back up, wi'out life, wi'out sae much as ah glimmah o'ah soul. An' if'n 'et weren' enou'...thar was folks yeh loved 'et wos sick, but 'et wos tha slae dyin' kin'. Sae yeh were given ah damned choice - put 'em outta 'ere miserah, 'er watch 'em die, an' 'en 'ave tae dismembah wot yeh r'membah'd as good."
He spit then, and tossed wot was left of his tea into the flames. They hissed, but leapt back to life quickly, their strength unhindered by the meager leftovers of tea. "S'wot ee come tae, t'day. Balancin' tha debt, nae. An' 'et'll be soon. Soon." He looked up and away, into the darkness, at what could only be Angra'thar.
The blade made a muffled rasp as it dug point-first into the packed snow, sticking up like a marker of some predetermined line. Jol Taborwynn stood behind that marker, rubbing his uncovered hands together as he eyed the army marching below. Around him others tightened grips on swords, shields, axes, maces, daggers and fuck-all else that they had made their business to do grim violence with. Strapped to his left arm was a broad half of a wall emblazoned with the sign of his homeland in gold that shone with its own brilliance in the meek sunlight.
Squinting his good eye, he made a judgment of how far up the harrowing valley the army had marched, then nodded half to himself. Tugging on his gauntlets, he turned and peered up at the outcropping where their lone ballista was perched. Raising one metal-backed fist, he waved twice, giving the signal that the Alliance was almost on the gate. He got a single wave in return, and heaved up his sword out of the snow.
"Look alive nae, yeh gobs! Annah o'yeh stahts lookin' dead nae, thurr'll be Hell tae pay wit' mah!" he shouted coarsely at the line arrayed around him. He knew their worth, and a rational part knew it didn't need to be said, but ol' Taborwynn damn well wouldn't let them out of it that easy. In that brief precipice before combat, Jol remembered one last thing before starting into his own war.
The Eve of Battle
The whetstone whisked slowly and diligently over every inch of blade from hilt to tip, a slow grinding song of its own. Jol sat on the log outside his tent, smelling the various cookfires throughout their camp and letting the last dregs of tea settle in his belly. His eye was on the blade with each stroke he made, but his other senses were mindfully paying attention to the mall clearing around him.
"Yeh gonna sit 'ere all naight, 'er yeh thank yeh'd drank ah lil' tea?" he asked to the darkness behind him, stopping his whetstone and looking up over his shoulder to the shadows behind him.
It was a strange detail of Nykkolaia Zeran - one of many, perhaps - that even with her skin as pale as it was, eyes of grey and hair only a pale shade of yellow, she somehow seemed able to be a shadow. At least, that's what she felt like. She lingered near the edges of this camp, because there were a few names she knew, but she didn't truly know anyone and so she never tried to break the perimeter. Like a shade, she had only kept on the border and gone where her inward wandering had led her.
Since the day in the Underbelly, this trait had been amplified.
Nykk had been walking without direction - not without watchfulness, because it was rare that she let that go - but she hadn't intended to end up where she had. The voice surprised her and she blinked from the darkness, taking a step closer although not yet too close... like a deer surprised in the edge of the wood by a hunter.
"Ah'm sorreh," she apologized quietly. "Ah did nae mean tae intrude."
The big man chuckled faintly, turning back to his whetstone and steel. "Mos' folks dinnae min' tha intrudin' o'kin'red bein's on tha eve o'ah great ba'tle. Las' remindah o'bein' livin' an' all 'et shite." He spit at the end of that, making the fire crackle. "Suhves some, ah reckon."
To this, Nykkolaia smiled very faintly and not with any mirth. There were others reminders of being alive that she was far more familiar with, but wasn't aiming to find this night. "'Et likeleh does," she agreed. After a few moments of silence, she came a little closer and the firelight caught her face, emblazoning the old scars turned new a little more angrily. "Ah cannae say Ah know from mah own exper'ence, but per'aps."
"Hnh." Jolly shrugged. "Awf'llah cool-min'ed on yer las' day on 'is Laight-given worl'. Mus' nae be plannin' oan dyin'." He didn't look up from his work, still sitting calmly and moving in practiced form. "Ah dinnae ken manah folks t'day 'et ain'."
"Ah ain' nevah plan on 'et," she replied. As the usual chill within grew, she felt strangely more at ease. "But 'et's moah'n likeleh come tomorrah than annah othah day certainleh, maight as well be facin' 'et head on... tomorrah. T'night will jes' be t'night." Her shoulders gave a sort of rolling motion that was more than likely a shrug. She drew to the fire now, although it did little to warm her. For a passing instant, she was reminded of that day in Dalaran... one of many, but this one standing out, and as one she'd rather forget but there it was. His face stood out in the memory, and she almost gave voice to it, but didn't then. "An' a girl maight like some tea af'erall, if'n yeh 'ave annah lef'."
"Ah'm nae sae much ah ol' horse's arse tae offer an' nae 'ave annah," he chuckled. From the sparse trees straight ahead of him, a quite loud snort was heard, as well as the creaking of wood and the rustling of dried branches. "Ah pike off yeh feckin' coppah bint!" He had paused in his sharpening, glaring at the darkness straight ahead of him with a deep frown. "Wish tha damn bitch'd fly oan awreadah. 'Ow manah differen' ways yeh gotta say 'et tae ah ovahgrown lizahd 'et 'ere free, 'ey ken piss off'n an' gae feck wit' somebodah else nae?" The question was, to him, rhetorical and he shook his head. "Annahwey...thurr's tea in tha ke'tle thar. 'Elp yeself." He gestured with the whetstone, then picked up the blade and held it out straight before him, eyeing its length in the firelight.
Quietly amused - as Nykk never really did anything loudly - she said a quiet 'thank yeh' and poured herself some of the tea. Not precisely one for social occasions - which even an impromptu conversation with a grouchy soldier that railed against his own dragon did count - there was some comfort to be found in having something in hand, even something so simple as a mug of tea. She looked into it, only able to see a small flicker against the surface of the liquid in the dark, and took a sip. Strange, she hadn't been thinking much on her own mortality come tomorrow, until now.
Nykkolaia felt... compelled to talk. It was damned strange, and not something she was used to, but the reminder of death set it upon her... or was that really it? Hard to say. Yet she wasn't much for small talk, never had been. Her eyes roamed briefly around the camp before settling on Taborwynn again. The earlier thought rose up again. "Yeh know, given' what tomorrah may brang an' all, Ah want tae sae tha' Ah believe Ah've seen yeh befoah... years befoah. In Lordaeron." She paused, frowning to herself. "Ah cannae raightleh sae why Ah feel tha need tae say 'et, but... 'et's a damn strange night, Ah s'pose."
Jol might've chalked it up to a need for closure on a person's mind, but he wouldn't say. Many a time he had sat in camps like this, with the promise of doom on the morrow, and listened to others let their tongues free and rid the mind of thoughts it had been harboring for so long. It was like a flower blooming in all its glory just before the vine withered and died. "Been ah lon' time since ah marched me homelan'. Served manah ah yeah in tha colors o'silvah an' blue. Dinnah thank ah'd be ah r'membahin' type, wot wit' tha glorah an' prestigeo folks half ag'in me bettah. Mus' 'ave me ol' maw replacin' tha face o'some bettah man o'yeh yout'."
"Man o' mah yout'," Nykk repeated the words softly - barely audible - and with a dark wryness. It lingered only for a heartbeat before she continued. "Ah do nae believe so, as Ah've a good min' for thangs." She paused, realizing where she was about to tread, but her mouth had run off with her. Too late now. "'Et was one o' those momen's, yeh know? Yeh see one thang an' 'et brangs yeh back tae anot'er. Ah saw yeh in Dalaran." She shrugged again, that strange rolling shrug. It was sort of a mutely insecure gesture - like a shrug that lacked the confidence to make itself whole. "'Et brought me back tae where Ah'd nae been, in mah min' at leas'... seein' soldiahs marchin' t'rough tha streets o' the Cap'tal befoah..." She stopped herself on that one. "'Et was a similah view, so Ah remembahed."
Jolly paused, the hilt of his sword clicking as the blade was sheathed in full. "Lon' time ago, foah suah. Ain' been in tha Cap'tal since..." he trailed off, and then his grey hair shook vigorously with his head. "Nae mattah, 'et." He peered over at her again, squinting his eye in a considering look. "Yeh mus' nae 'ave been 'et ol'."
Inwardly, Nykk was not entirely pleased with herself for letting herself walk this far into this conversation, but it was what it was. "Mattah o' perspective, one could sae," she replied quietly. "Ah was f-fourteen." The stumble was slight, but inescapable.
Jol eyed her sharply at the stumble, but didn't comment on it directly. "Losin' 'ome sae young... dunnae ken whethah 'et's ah blessin' 'er ah curse." He set aside the scabbarded sword, then leaned back and heaved up the broad wall of metal that looked battered, but still held some of its ornateness. He checked the straps, holding it with a great deal of familiarity, and made sure that the leather was without stress or cracks.
"Ah wasnae there when 'et all happened," she replied. Spit 'et out, girl. 'Et's nae like yer hidin' 'et. Have tae tell someone sometime. Nykk's head turned more fully, her face illuminated in the fire light as she glanced at the shield and felt the deep well of sadness grow. Perhaps that was what did it. "'At was tha year Ah was ta'en," she said quietly, eyes on the shield. "Ah was ta'en off tha streets bah tha man 'at did this." Her hand gestured casually at her face. "Ah was there fer ele'en months, sae Ah did nae know what happened tae 'ome until Ah was freed. Bah then, Ah discovered Ah was in Stohmwin' Citeh."
Everything went still inside then. So few were the people she had told even that much. Why had she told him now? 'Cause yeh thank yer goin' tae die tomorrah, an' maybe actualleh 'ope yeh do.
Jolly regarded her for a moment over his shield, then nodded faintly as he was satisfied with the bulwark's shape and set it aside. "Worse type o'evil lies in tha 'eart o'ah man," he said quietly. "May'ap yeh wos luckah. Yeh an' ah'd say yeh weren', given wot yeh got tae live wit'." He stooped and threw another log on the fire, leaning on his knee and peering into the dancing lumination. "Stratholme wos bad. bad as annah man evah need see. Folks ah man'd ken, fallin' ovah an' pukin' out 'ere organs, chokin' on tha verrah air 'ey breathed...'en gittin' raight back up, wi'out life, wi'out sae much as ah glimmah o'ah soul. An' if'n 'et weren' enou'...thar was folks yeh loved 'et wos sick, but 'et wos tha slae dyin' kin'. Sae yeh were given ah damned choice - put 'em outta 'ere miserah, 'er watch 'em die, an' 'en 'ave tae dismembah wot yeh r'membah'd as good."
He spit then, and tossed wot was left of his tea into the flames. They hissed, but leapt back to life quickly, their strength unhindered by the meager leftovers of tea. "S'wot ee come tae, t'day. Balancin' tha debt, nae. An' 'et'll be soon. Soon." He looked up and away, into the darkness, at what could only be Angra'thar.
"I left my home where the dead never rose
But the streets of gold i've yet to find
And at the end of the day all you can do is pray
Without hope well you might as well be blind, yeah be blind
Tomorrow comes a day too soon"
But the streets of gold i've yet to find
And at the end of the day all you can do is pray
Without hope well you might as well be blind, yeah be blind
Tomorrow comes a day too soon"
Re: The Wrath Gate
Saul Innis was tall, and young, and earnest - gristle for the grinder, coke for the forges. He took his duties as a courier very seriously, but with none of Fyodor Galliwick's straight-backed arrogance, and the obvious fear in his eyes was leavened by dedication. And ay course, likely, by thit wee drink he had wi' Geny, an' whate'er it is she wis whisperin' ta him. Tarquin smirked at the soldier as they strode away from the fire. Innis didn't notice, of course - he was looking over his shoulder at Genise, who was watching him with eyes dewy with longing and, of course, deadly sharp with mischief.
Some fuckin' army.
"Aright, big lad," he said cheerfully as they cleared the central wing and stepped into the relative calm of the outer camp, nobody even potentially in earshot but Yva Darrows, who was some yards away humming to herself and apparently mending a sock. "Wha' manner ay business brings yeh here ta the belly ay the beast?"
Innis wiped the daffy grin off his features, all keen young soldier again. "Bad business, sir," he reported soberly, and took a glance at Yva before continuing in a low voice, apparently satisfied that the shoeless madwoman was too busy risking hypothermia to eavesdrop. "Cultists in the ranks. They struck the medical unit around supper - poisons in the cookpot, and then black spells and knives. Nearly two dozen dead and another ten-odd out of commission. "
"Fuck me," hissed the northman, genuinely upset. More than thirty trained healers, on the eve of battle, was a blow to even an army as mighty as Fordragon's. "Yeh've a raw deal, mate, an' dinna mistake." He cocked his head. "But Laird Bolvar kin hardly be wantin' ta spread this word, 'specially no' ta the likes ay the Riders. Why're yeh..." He paused, closed his eyes, and pressed the tips of two fingers to his temple. "Ah fuuuuck."
Young Saul kept his voice carefully neutral. It sounded like he was reading from an official order, the ink of which was likely not yet dry. "I've been instructed to request, sir, that you send one of your medical personnel to the rear echelon of the main camp. I'm told that either non-combat or combat healers are acceptable." He licked his lips. "We're not picky right now, sir."
Tarquin narrowed in on the admission of weakness. "Ayeh, no' picky an' no' in much place fir ta be makin' demands, eh?" he snarled, and drew himself up to his full height, summoning that trained presence that might make the courier forget he had thirty pounds, ten years, and the weight of Alliance high command on this slapdash mercenary captain. "Angrathar leerin' o'er us like the blackest mornin' the world's ta see, an' yeh propose ta take my people fra' me?" He stepped forward, the two men seperated by the space of a jabbing, accusing finger. "Wir no' Fordragon's fodder, my lad. Wir the fuckin' Riders."
Innis stepped back, avoiding Tarquin's eyes. "I've received special instructions in your regard, sir," he reported hollowly, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here. "A message from Commander Galliwick."
The breath literally hissed from Tarquin's mouth, his teeth a vicious crescent in the grey. "Speak yir piece, then." But Innis did not speak. Instead, he reached into the easily recognisable courier's pouch at his hip, and drew forth the contents with fumbling fingers. Expecting a scroll tube or a folded parchment, Tarquin couldn't identify the object that slipped from the young man's hands and thumped softly on the snow. He waited until Innis bent down to pick it up, and when he took it in his hand, the rain of cold rage that burst on his mind was seeded with a new respect for their allies.
He let the "message" drop and pitched his voice low and easy, let the words speak for themselves. "Surely, Commander Galliwick widna be makin' sich threats oan this eve. Surely his boss kens better'n thit. Especially wi' sich casualties aready stainin' the lists, he'd no' be apt t'add anither. A terrible waste." He glanced at the object on the ground, but his meaning was unmistakeable.
The courier swallowed and looked Tarquin ap Danwyrith full in the face. "I've been told, sir, that the night is young and you're welcome to find out."
What followed could not properly be called a silence, as it was occupied by the click-clack of Yva Darrows's needle, the distant laughter and jeers of the Riders' fire, and the further song and speech about fifty other such camps. But it had a weight nevertheless, and Tarquin waited until he was certain that Saul Innis had contemplated the possible abrupt end of his life before responding. "Yeh'll have yir healer," he said shortly. "Within the hour. Now piss off, an' be sure ta give auld Fyodor my virra best regards."
Innis nodded and somehow managed a salute. He reached down to pick up the Commander's message, but Tarquin laid his hand on the soldier's wrist. Innis jolted as if the older man were venomous. "Leave it, aye?" Improbably, the northman chuckled, and Saul quickstepped back and hastily started for his horse. "Yeh got a set ay balls oan yeh, Innis!" came the half-mocking voice after him. "Yeh live out the day, come an' see me 'bout a job! Or talk ta Crownsilver!" Tarquin laughed again as the courier faded into the grey, his sardonic chuckle quickly taking on an angrier timbre and then fading altogether. He rubbed his temples with both hands and then turned toward the camp.
Behind him, a length of rope lay in the snow, carefully coiled and tied into a serviceable noose.
+++++
"Oi, Aely, yeh got a minute?" Tarquin's voice held no hint of emotion, but she thought she might see steam coming out of his ears any moment. She looked up from her armor. "Aye, 'Boss, wha's th' trouble?"
"Bad shite. Cultists took out the better part ay the Medical Unit down on the lines. I've been...requested ta send a replacement." The humorless grin on his face neither invited nor left any questions as to the nature of the request. "Yeh've experience as a proper medic, ayeh? Battlefield'n all?"
"Aye. Sev'ral years, t' be sure. 's wha' I did back when we were fightin' th' Bloody Prince th' first time. I need t' pack up?"
"Likely fir the best." He was chewing almonds again, she saw - his odd substitute for cigarettes. Come to think of it, he'd had a cigarette in hand nearly every minute she'd seen him since arriving in the 'Blight. "Gods only kennit wha' kind ay equipment they go'. Government shite." He snorted dismissively and spat almond husk into the snow.
She picked up the piece of plate armor she'd been re-lining. "A'righ' - I'll report down there - prob'ly take an hour or so, bu' I'll be there well 'fore nightfall. Owt t' give me time t' help 'fore th' push t'morrow. Y' sure I'm t' head out, an' nae be here?" She looked at him curiously.
Tarquin looked at her for an inscrutable moment. "The wonderful thing 'bout war, Aely," he said with blunt-force sarcasm, "is thit wir no' sure ay sweet fuck all. But orders bein' orders - " it seemed to physically pain the man to say that " - yeh'd best be oan yir merry."
The paladin stood up, unfolding her limbs and taking a quick look at the small pile of belongings, armor, and supplies she'd brought up to the camp. "Fair enow, 'Boss. Dinnae let 'em f'rget I'm down there, ayeh? Leas' I c'n bring my own damn horse." She nodded at him, and walked towards the stables.
"Aely," he called after her. When she turned, the wry smile and the lines of anger were gone. "Find us after," he said simply, "Or we'll find yeh. Trust it."
+++++
Late evening before the main push, the air in the forward camps was thick with fog, fear, and the muffled sounds of make-ready. Half-frozen snowflakes flitted out of the dusky whiteness and sizzled on firewood, turning the tops of the tents to soggy slush, freezing and settling on her hair, setting off the copper waves with ethereal white flecks.
Aely sat outside one of the hospital tents, wrapped in a thick, oiled fur cloak, her hands deftly tearing strips of linen into bandages and rolling them – some thicker, some thinner, each set with as much Light as she could find in herself to give. Her mind wandered to the Riders camp, somewhere up in the mountains, and the hours ticked by. Men walked past, and horses - and somewhere a forge was running, late into the night.
She rolled the last of the bandages, stacking it neatly with the others, and stretched her legs out towards the struggling fire.
"Excuse me, miss, have you se..."
The voice trailed off, and she turned, looking up to meet the gaunt, deep set eyes of an Ebon Knight.
"Hae I seen which, nae? This's Alliance groun's mos'ly, if y'r lookin' f'r Ebons, I cannae say rightly where t' be lookin'." She peered at him curiously, edges of memory flickering with some fragment of recognition.
He ran one hand across his eyes, face hollow and pained. "No I'm... I used to... Aely?"
Seconds passed.
One eyebrow arched up. "Ayeh, tha's me. Sommat I can do f'r ye?"
His eyes settled on the fire next to her, obviously uncomfortable.
"I'd... I'd hoped you'd remember me, for who I was. Or that I was better at climbing trees than you. Bertrand Johansson, at least, I used to be. "
Some fuckin' army.
"Aright, big lad," he said cheerfully as they cleared the central wing and stepped into the relative calm of the outer camp, nobody even potentially in earshot but Yva Darrows, who was some yards away humming to herself and apparently mending a sock. "Wha' manner ay business brings yeh here ta the belly ay the beast?"
Innis wiped the daffy grin off his features, all keen young soldier again. "Bad business, sir," he reported soberly, and took a glance at Yva before continuing in a low voice, apparently satisfied that the shoeless madwoman was too busy risking hypothermia to eavesdrop. "Cultists in the ranks. They struck the medical unit around supper - poisons in the cookpot, and then black spells and knives. Nearly two dozen dead and another ten-odd out of commission. "
"Fuck me," hissed the northman, genuinely upset. More than thirty trained healers, on the eve of battle, was a blow to even an army as mighty as Fordragon's. "Yeh've a raw deal, mate, an' dinna mistake." He cocked his head. "But Laird Bolvar kin hardly be wantin' ta spread this word, 'specially no' ta the likes ay the Riders. Why're yeh..." He paused, closed his eyes, and pressed the tips of two fingers to his temple. "Ah fuuuuck."
Young Saul kept his voice carefully neutral. It sounded like he was reading from an official order, the ink of which was likely not yet dry. "I've been instructed to request, sir, that you send one of your medical personnel to the rear echelon of the main camp. I'm told that either non-combat or combat healers are acceptable." He licked his lips. "We're not picky right now, sir."
Tarquin narrowed in on the admission of weakness. "Ayeh, no' picky an' no' in much place fir ta be makin' demands, eh?" he snarled, and drew himself up to his full height, summoning that trained presence that might make the courier forget he had thirty pounds, ten years, and the weight of Alliance high command on this slapdash mercenary captain. "Angrathar leerin' o'er us like the blackest mornin' the world's ta see, an' yeh propose ta take my people fra' me?" He stepped forward, the two men seperated by the space of a jabbing, accusing finger. "Wir no' Fordragon's fodder, my lad. Wir the fuckin' Riders."
Innis stepped back, avoiding Tarquin's eyes. "I've received special instructions in your regard, sir," he reported hollowly, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here. "A message from Commander Galliwick."
The breath literally hissed from Tarquin's mouth, his teeth a vicious crescent in the grey. "Speak yir piece, then." But Innis did not speak. Instead, he reached into the easily recognisable courier's pouch at his hip, and drew forth the contents with fumbling fingers. Expecting a scroll tube or a folded parchment, Tarquin couldn't identify the object that slipped from the young man's hands and thumped softly on the snow. He waited until Innis bent down to pick it up, and when he took it in his hand, the rain of cold rage that burst on his mind was seeded with a new respect for their allies.
He let the "message" drop and pitched his voice low and easy, let the words speak for themselves. "Surely, Commander Galliwick widna be makin' sich threats oan this eve. Surely his boss kens better'n thit. Especially wi' sich casualties aready stainin' the lists, he'd no' be apt t'add anither. A terrible waste." He glanced at the object on the ground, but his meaning was unmistakeable.
The courier swallowed and looked Tarquin ap Danwyrith full in the face. "I've been told, sir, that the night is young and you're welcome to find out."
What followed could not properly be called a silence, as it was occupied by the click-clack of Yva Darrows's needle, the distant laughter and jeers of the Riders' fire, and the further song and speech about fifty other such camps. But it had a weight nevertheless, and Tarquin waited until he was certain that Saul Innis had contemplated the possible abrupt end of his life before responding. "Yeh'll have yir healer," he said shortly. "Within the hour. Now piss off, an' be sure ta give auld Fyodor my virra best regards."
Innis nodded and somehow managed a salute. He reached down to pick up the Commander's message, but Tarquin laid his hand on the soldier's wrist. Innis jolted as if the older man were venomous. "Leave it, aye?" Improbably, the northman chuckled, and Saul quickstepped back and hastily started for his horse. "Yeh got a set ay balls oan yeh, Innis!" came the half-mocking voice after him. "Yeh live out the day, come an' see me 'bout a job! Or talk ta Crownsilver!" Tarquin laughed again as the courier faded into the grey, his sardonic chuckle quickly taking on an angrier timbre and then fading altogether. He rubbed his temples with both hands and then turned toward the camp.
Behind him, a length of rope lay in the snow, carefully coiled and tied into a serviceable noose.
+++++
"Oi, Aely, yeh got a minute?" Tarquin's voice held no hint of emotion, but she thought she might see steam coming out of his ears any moment. She looked up from her armor. "Aye, 'Boss, wha's th' trouble?"
"Bad shite. Cultists took out the better part ay the Medical Unit down on the lines. I've been...requested ta send a replacement." The humorless grin on his face neither invited nor left any questions as to the nature of the request. "Yeh've experience as a proper medic, ayeh? Battlefield'n all?"
"Aye. Sev'ral years, t' be sure. 's wha' I did back when we were fightin' th' Bloody Prince th' first time. I need t' pack up?"
"Likely fir the best." He was chewing almonds again, she saw - his odd substitute for cigarettes. Come to think of it, he'd had a cigarette in hand nearly every minute she'd seen him since arriving in the 'Blight. "Gods only kennit wha' kind ay equipment they go'. Government shite." He snorted dismissively and spat almond husk into the snow.
She picked up the piece of plate armor she'd been re-lining. "A'righ' - I'll report down there - prob'ly take an hour or so, bu' I'll be there well 'fore nightfall. Owt t' give me time t' help 'fore th' push t'morrow. Y' sure I'm t' head out, an' nae be here?" She looked at him curiously.
Tarquin looked at her for an inscrutable moment. "The wonderful thing 'bout war, Aely," he said with blunt-force sarcasm, "is thit wir no' sure ay sweet fuck all. But orders bein' orders - " it seemed to physically pain the man to say that " - yeh'd best be oan yir merry."
The paladin stood up, unfolding her limbs and taking a quick look at the small pile of belongings, armor, and supplies she'd brought up to the camp. "Fair enow, 'Boss. Dinnae let 'em f'rget I'm down there, ayeh? Leas' I c'n bring my own damn horse." She nodded at him, and walked towards the stables.
"Aely," he called after her. When she turned, the wry smile and the lines of anger were gone. "Find us after," he said simply, "Or we'll find yeh. Trust it."
+++++
Late evening before the main push, the air in the forward camps was thick with fog, fear, and the muffled sounds of make-ready. Half-frozen snowflakes flitted out of the dusky whiteness and sizzled on firewood, turning the tops of the tents to soggy slush, freezing and settling on her hair, setting off the copper waves with ethereal white flecks.
Aely sat outside one of the hospital tents, wrapped in a thick, oiled fur cloak, her hands deftly tearing strips of linen into bandages and rolling them – some thicker, some thinner, each set with as much Light as she could find in herself to give. Her mind wandered to the Riders camp, somewhere up in the mountains, and the hours ticked by. Men walked past, and horses - and somewhere a forge was running, late into the night.
She rolled the last of the bandages, stacking it neatly with the others, and stretched her legs out towards the struggling fire.
"Excuse me, miss, have you se..."
The voice trailed off, and she turned, looking up to meet the gaunt, deep set eyes of an Ebon Knight.
"Hae I seen which, nae? This's Alliance groun's mos'ly, if y'r lookin' f'r Ebons, I cannae say rightly where t' be lookin'." She peered at him curiously, edges of memory flickering with some fragment of recognition.
He ran one hand across his eyes, face hollow and pained. "No I'm... I used to... Aely?"
Seconds passed.
One eyebrow arched up. "Ayeh, tha's me. Sommat I can do f'r ye?"
His eyes settled on the fire next to her, obviously uncomfortable.
"I'd... I'd hoped you'd remember me, for who I was. Or that I was better at climbing trees than you. Bertrand Johansson, at least, I used to be. "
[5.OOC] Beltar: Hammer of What The Fuck Were You Thinking
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