Even in Northrend, the moons looked down. It was a source of some comfort to the Seventh Legion, to the lords and captains who had led them there, and to the stragglers and mercenaries that had answered the raising of their banners. Here at the end of the world, in a white waste checkered with the corpses of beasts whose names had been forgotten before ever men took up iron, the White Lady and the Blue Child looked down from a hard, bright sky and reminded them of the permanence of their world.
It was, perhaps, all they had.
The ten soldiers puffing their along a winding track between hills likely took some comfort from that, and as well from the routine irritation of their task. Delivering three ballistae, in the black of evening, to the encampment of a company their own leader had referred to as "criminal scum" was something they could piss and moan about, as soldiers did, and so keep a loose grasp on the lives they'd sworn into. The Commander did not rebuke them, lost in his own bitter thoughts. He'd always thought too much for a good soldier, the men knew. Even for an officer.
Around and around they went, weaving a path through the scattered camps of the hundred small companies who had answered Lord Bolvar's call to join the great battle of their time, past banner after banner until they reached the high hill that would be marked, to those with the eyes to see it in the dark of night, by two flags - black and red, white and gold, with the same slogan scrawled across each. The blessed moons did not provide enough light for that, but Fyodor Galliwick found them all the same.
They were challenged as they approached, by a smoke-screened Kaldorei whose amused smile smacked of the sort of humor that animated cats pawing at the squeaking of terrified rodents. He waved them on with a few words, louging back into a nesting coccoon of blankets that did not quite conceal the metal-spitting dwarven construction at his side. The path had been cleared by a hundred feet, hooves, claws, and perhaps stranger things - the makeshift stable, hurriedly thrown up around the shelter of an overhanging shelf, could have belonged to a circus. And so, too, thought Galliwick, the performers.
There was music - the sharp howl of a fiddle, the insistent thrumming of lute and guitar, the wail of high north pipes. The men of Stormwind trod on, their familiar complaints dying to be replaced by a real and surly anger. They met the looks of the mercenaries with cold black walls, and privately wondered at how such a freak-show could function. A horribly maimed elfwoman thrumming with sullen rage, a flint-faced old knight with a welter of scar on his neck, a red-haired man with snow flecking the shoulders of his rich robes taking time from his furious argument with someone inside a tent to sneer at their passage. These were fighters?
In the lee of the wind was their great fire, and around it was the source of the music; maybe twenty of the Wildfire Riders, warmed by soup and wine and merriment, smiling as if the world had blessed them to be here this day, while a blond-haired woman's lovely voice carried over the sparse collection of instruments -
With blood as old as Stromgarde's stones,
Would you let this lord of bones
Claim our white walls for his home?
Ride out and teach him manners!
And they sang back, in voices as thick as Darrowmere fog and bright as Elwynn sun; as deep as the bones of Grim Batol and as clear as the air atop the summit of Mount Hyjal, and soon the soldiers came to realize what sort of fighters had come to Fordragon's call under the twin banners.
Curse and swear, Rivendare
The North will do whate'er we dare
Now Thuzadim, have a care
Crawl into your rat-holes
With blade and spell and all our might
On we'll go for by the Light
Fordring's called us to the fight
Follow me up to Stratholme!
It was an old song, given new words and new life by some clever bard in the advent of the Argent Dawn's new Crusade, and some of them had heard it before. But these voices, in this time, laid bare the facts of their erstwhile allies. Everything the Wildfire Riders had, they had seized, with the instinctual avarice of predators - and like predators, they would rend the world about them bare to defend what was theirs. And they would laugh while they did it, and revel in every moment that they had with the fruits of their labors.
It crossed the minds, then, of a few of the Seventh Legion's loyal lads, that in the right light - the light of two moons in a friendless sky, and a campfire at the ends of the earth - some of them looked like soldiers. Maybe even like heroes.
The Wrath Gate
Moderator: Guild Officer
Re: The Wrath Gate
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
Re: The Wrath Gate
They finished with a raucous cheer, the last chorus trailing over the ice-covered mountains, chasing the last frantic notes of the fiddle along the passes. Ap Danwyrith took a moment, grinning a shark's many-toothed grin, before he handed the well-worn instrument over to an elf-woman nearby. "Be virra fuckin' careful wi' that. Play somethin' fittin' fir big fuckin' spears an' the arrival thereof."
The woman rose up, cradling the violin's curves like they were her lover's. Hoops and trinkets dipped from dozens of holes in her ragged ears as she lifted it to her chin. "Yeh. I'll take good care of it, boss."
Snow crunched beneath ap Danwyrith's boots as he approached Galliwick and his men. At a lazy wave, the scarred, white-haired soldier fell into step with his scoundrel of a boss, until the two men stood, skulking in plain sight.
The burst of music from behind them was a faerie reel, something you'd expect at a Noblegarden party to get the children scattering for eggs -- saccharine and lively,and not at all suited to the delivery of ballistae. Ap Danwyrith's head whipped around, and the elf... giggled. Galliwick felt his skin break out in gooseflesh. She gave her boss a not-at-all contrite look and slowed the reel down, down, until it became nearly a battle-hymn. And then it was a battle-hymn, a Kal'dorei one. Galliwick had heard it on the slopes of Mount Hyjal. His blood chilled beneath his already crawling flesh.
"Come oan, then, let's get these bastards inta place so yeh kin fuck oaf back ta wherever the hell yir stayin' an' wash the stink ay us off yirself. Jolly, show 'em where we want 'em."
"Ah could suggest ah few places," groused the soldier, his one eye glittering with contempt for the King's Men before him. "Come on, then. Ah'm no' gettin' anah youngah." He snatched a torch from where it had been plunged into the ground and seemed to contemplate driving the fiery end through Galliwick before he whirled and strode away, his cloak billowing out behind him.
"Follow him," said Galliwick. His men obeyed, heaving the massive weapons along, following the bobbing fire ahead of them. Once they were moving, he gestured to his counterpart. The rogue sauntered along behind, a smirk playing about his lips as though he knew a joke he was refusing to share. Galliwick pulled his cloak tighter against the wind and refused to acknowledge the man. It only served to infuriate him with every step.
They crested the hill and found the men moving the ballistae to their proper places under Taborwynn's profanity-laden instruction. From the camp below came the start of a new tune -- "Redridge Lasses," a drinking song if there ever was one. Galliwick snorted. "Your men are going to go into that battle with their heads pounding tomorrow, if you don't stop them drinking, you realize."
Ap Danwyrith looked up at the stars, found a constellation, and grinned at it. "Well, think oan it this way." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and turned his merry eyes back to the man at his side. "They'll spend their last night in liquor's warm embrace, an' a few ay thim in ither, warmer embraces. They'll wake wi' heavy heads, aye. But yeh'll spend the eve grindin' yir teeth, an' bitin' yir nails - an' if yeh get lucky, yeh'll wake wi' the achin' wrists an' summat sticky oan yir palm. Which ay us'll die the happier deaths?"
Galliwick stood, stunned. It took every ounce of restraint and a count of ten to keep from attempting to push the smarmy criminal off the mountain.
Then Taborwynn let out a guffaw, and a few of his own men snickered, and Fyodyr Galliwick had had enough. "If you're done here, fall in! There's work to be done still, and a cold march back."
"If it's a caulld march, they'll be wantin' some soup fir ta sip oan the way back down," said ap Danwyrith. "Jolly, go get Annie ta share out some ta keep thon bellies warm, aye? An' a double helpin' fir air friend Galliwick here."
"O'course." Jolstraer gave him a half-salute and trotted down the mountain behind the men.
"I'll laugh when we dig your corpse out of the piles, ap Danwyrith."
"Och, I'm touched thit yeh'd consider comin' back ta find us an' give us our proper burials, Commander. The Riders'll toast yir name 'fore we head off inta those embraces I was haverin' oan about."
Galliwick spat at the murderer's feet and headed down the hill to gather up his men.
---
Hours later, with Galliwick and his men long gone, the last bits of soup sopped up with the last bits of crusty bread, and the last few notes of an old ballad hanging on the night air, the Wildfire Riders began breaking apart. They drifted away in ones and twos, taking final swigs from their flasks, bidding those left at the fire sweet dreams.
A few remained, talking strategy in low voices as the fire burned down to embers, but even they eventually returned to the warmth of their tents, as the moons sought their beds, nestled in distant peaks, and deepest night descended.
The last murmurs fell away, and then there was nothing but the wind and the stars, watching over the dreams of the men and women of the Black and Red, awaiting the dawn.
The woman rose up, cradling the violin's curves like they were her lover's. Hoops and trinkets dipped from dozens of holes in her ragged ears as she lifted it to her chin. "Yeh. I'll take good care of it, boss."
Snow crunched beneath ap Danwyrith's boots as he approached Galliwick and his men. At a lazy wave, the scarred, white-haired soldier fell into step with his scoundrel of a boss, until the two men stood, skulking in plain sight.
The burst of music from behind them was a faerie reel, something you'd expect at a Noblegarden party to get the children scattering for eggs -- saccharine and lively,and not at all suited to the delivery of ballistae. Ap Danwyrith's head whipped around, and the elf... giggled. Galliwick felt his skin break out in gooseflesh. She gave her boss a not-at-all contrite look and slowed the reel down, down, until it became nearly a battle-hymn. And then it was a battle-hymn, a Kal'dorei one. Galliwick had heard it on the slopes of Mount Hyjal. His blood chilled beneath his already crawling flesh.
"Come oan, then, let's get these bastards inta place so yeh kin fuck oaf back ta wherever the hell yir stayin' an' wash the stink ay us off yirself. Jolly, show 'em where we want 'em."
"Ah could suggest ah few places," groused the soldier, his one eye glittering with contempt for the King's Men before him. "Come on, then. Ah'm no' gettin' anah youngah." He snatched a torch from where it had been plunged into the ground and seemed to contemplate driving the fiery end through Galliwick before he whirled and strode away, his cloak billowing out behind him.
"Follow him," said Galliwick. His men obeyed, heaving the massive weapons along, following the bobbing fire ahead of them. Once they were moving, he gestured to his counterpart. The rogue sauntered along behind, a smirk playing about his lips as though he knew a joke he was refusing to share. Galliwick pulled his cloak tighter against the wind and refused to acknowledge the man. It only served to infuriate him with every step.
They crested the hill and found the men moving the ballistae to their proper places under Taborwynn's profanity-laden instruction. From the camp below came the start of a new tune -- "Redridge Lasses," a drinking song if there ever was one. Galliwick snorted. "Your men are going to go into that battle with their heads pounding tomorrow, if you don't stop them drinking, you realize."
Ap Danwyrith looked up at the stars, found a constellation, and grinned at it. "Well, think oan it this way." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and turned his merry eyes back to the man at his side. "They'll spend their last night in liquor's warm embrace, an' a few ay thim in ither, warmer embraces. They'll wake wi' heavy heads, aye. But yeh'll spend the eve grindin' yir teeth, an' bitin' yir nails - an' if yeh get lucky, yeh'll wake wi' the achin' wrists an' summat sticky oan yir palm. Which ay us'll die the happier deaths?"
Galliwick stood, stunned. It took every ounce of restraint and a count of ten to keep from attempting to push the smarmy criminal off the mountain.
Then Taborwynn let out a guffaw, and a few of his own men snickered, and Fyodyr Galliwick had had enough. "If you're done here, fall in! There's work to be done still, and a cold march back."
"If it's a caulld march, they'll be wantin' some soup fir ta sip oan the way back down," said ap Danwyrith. "Jolly, go get Annie ta share out some ta keep thon bellies warm, aye? An' a double helpin' fir air friend Galliwick here."
"O'course." Jolstraer gave him a half-salute and trotted down the mountain behind the men.
"I'll laugh when we dig your corpse out of the piles, ap Danwyrith."
"Och, I'm touched thit yeh'd consider comin' back ta find us an' give us our proper burials, Commander. The Riders'll toast yir name 'fore we head off inta those embraces I was haverin' oan about."
Galliwick spat at the murderer's feet and headed down the hill to gather up his men.
---
Hours later, with Galliwick and his men long gone, the last bits of soup sopped up with the last bits of crusty bread, and the last few notes of an old ballad hanging on the night air, the Wildfire Riders began breaking apart. They drifted away in ones and twos, taking final swigs from their flasks, bidding those left at the fire sweet dreams.
A few remained, talking strategy in low voices as the fire burned down to embers, but even they eventually returned to the warmth of their tents, as the moons sought their beds, nestled in distant peaks, and deepest night descended.
The last murmurs fell away, and then there was nothing but the wind and the stars, watching over the dreams of the men and women of the Black and Red, awaiting the dawn.
-
Chrystenise
- Posts: 740
- Joined: Thu Nov 13, 2008 8:14 pm
Re: The Wrath Gate
A week earlier...
"Yva Darrows and Davien Stonemantle?" The soft, mousey voice of Genise Crownsilver questioned as she eyed the small parchment in her hands. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed as she dropped a few coins in the hand of the young messenger, who barely even noticed. His eyes were much to distracted by the clingy, and quite showy light blue robe that could only barely be considered legal clothing. She paused for a moment, and smirked; it wasn't as if she was never aware of such things.
And with a fluid turn, giving the boy one last moment of bliss as she strolled away - the door suddenly closed in his face; shut tight by an unseen hand and a whisper on the wind, "Thank you..." No one would ever know that she stumbled and nearly broke her neck moments after the door had closed...
Something important was on the scroll; something important enough to keep her distracted as she strolled through the estate towards her library. It perplexed the near-naked Aryk as he stood by her door, wearing very little more than a grin - only to have her pass by without any sort of acknowledgment of the pool boy.
A soft breeze pushed into the library as the doors swung open without touch, and just as deftly closed behind her. The parchment rolled in her fingers and floated away as she tossed it, lifting said hand and speaking softly. "Fire... Frost... Arcane..." Fingers wiggled with each word, and a thick book dislodged itself from each shelf, gliding seamlessly across the air to follow to her desk.
"Circle magicks, wizardly trinity, mass warfare..."
She flopped into the padded chair at the desk, hand waving out before the sorceress as the books came to a stop in the air above her, pages fluttering open and stopping at a point of odd, arcanic diagrams and writing. "Cinderash, Winterthorn, Wyrmblood..." She spoke absently, eyes downcast on the desk as her hand waved and pulled, sending small, sealed jars about the library hurling to her desk. Were one to witness these feats, they'd perhaps wonder where such legs did, in fact, get their exercise.
Her opposite hand reached forward, and fingers clenched, making a pulling motion as a moderate-sized bowl hovered from a far desk and dropped on the desk before her. The three hovering jars popped lightly as their lids came unsealed; and one-by-one, she reached to take hold, and turn their fine-grain contents upside down into the bowl.
"Cinderthorn, Winterblood, Wyrmash..." She mumbled in a chanting voice; words confused and waved her hand in a stirring motion over the bowl and sending the dusts into a whirl within their confines, mixing and mashing together to form a single, gold-flecked dust.
"Winterthokreth, vivadu rukki-sath; Kreth reth - sora, nilazi tuluk..." The words flowed seamlessly from common to arcanic as she pushed her hands outward, and the three books shot away and found their former home on the shelves. A wild smile had formed upon the young woman's lips now, and her hands returned to their stirring motion. Slowly as they lifted, the dust followed. It began to glow a bright, fiery hue, compacting itself slowly as the stirring motions had went from wide and rapid to thin and slow.
"Tol-kirin, vishna!" She squeaked out, and clenched her fist. The ball of dust wavered, and suddenly exploded as her fingers splayed open. It sent the room into a shower of gold and fire; and the majority of the dust somehow had found it's way to her body. It hit like a faint snow, and melted upon touch to her flesh. At first, the change was invisible, but gradually, her skin and hair glowed with the hue of the dust...
----
Slowly the door of the library opened, and sent Aryk into a quick backpedal - as if he wasn't caught already. Genise stepped through, the glow still about her as she smiled at the handyman, her pretty blue gaze roaming his form. A single bead of sweat trailed down her cheek and to her chin, and dropped down upon her collarbone. She was burning up.
"Mmm... Well, hello there." She grinned, and advanced. He didn't question; after all, why would he?
By morning, she had returned to normal in appearance at least, but her body still radiated an unusual warmth. Aryk stood quietly at the exit to Genise's bedroom, wearing little more than shorts, and a ridiculously goofy grin.
"I'll return within the week," Genise spoke as she stepped close to the door, covered in a thin, showy robe of white, and her hair pulled back into a high tail. "Make sure Atera has her medication, and Rusanni will be picking her up to visit the Amberstill Ranch tour."
Aryk blinked, eyeing the gown - a gown that would not be favorable at all to the harsh climates of Northrend. "You'll be going dressed as is, madame?" He quietly asked, offering her a heavy coat, which she casually slung over her arm, before she lifted a palm to his cheek. She was still heated.
"I'll be perfectly fine... I have a hot idea," she quietly answered, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, before she calmly strolled past, heeled shoes clacking on the marble floor.
"Yva Darrows and Davien Stonemantle?" The soft, mousey voice of Genise Crownsilver questioned as she eyed the small parchment in her hands. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed as she dropped a few coins in the hand of the young messenger, who barely even noticed. His eyes were much to distracted by the clingy, and quite showy light blue robe that could only barely be considered legal clothing. She paused for a moment, and smirked; it wasn't as if she was never aware of such things.
And with a fluid turn, giving the boy one last moment of bliss as she strolled away - the door suddenly closed in his face; shut tight by an unseen hand and a whisper on the wind, "Thank you..." No one would ever know that she stumbled and nearly broke her neck moments after the door had closed...
Something important was on the scroll; something important enough to keep her distracted as she strolled through the estate towards her library. It perplexed the near-naked Aryk as he stood by her door, wearing very little more than a grin - only to have her pass by without any sort of acknowledgment of the pool boy.
A soft breeze pushed into the library as the doors swung open without touch, and just as deftly closed behind her. The parchment rolled in her fingers and floated away as she tossed it, lifting said hand and speaking softly. "Fire... Frost... Arcane..." Fingers wiggled with each word, and a thick book dislodged itself from each shelf, gliding seamlessly across the air to follow to her desk.
"Circle magicks, wizardly trinity, mass warfare..."
She flopped into the padded chair at the desk, hand waving out before the sorceress as the books came to a stop in the air above her, pages fluttering open and stopping at a point of odd, arcanic diagrams and writing. "Cinderash, Winterthorn, Wyrmblood..." She spoke absently, eyes downcast on the desk as her hand waved and pulled, sending small, sealed jars about the library hurling to her desk. Were one to witness these feats, they'd perhaps wonder where such legs did, in fact, get their exercise.
Her opposite hand reached forward, and fingers clenched, making a pulling motion as a moderate-sized bowl hovered from a far desk and dropped on the desk before her. The three hovering jars popped lightly as their lids came unsealed; and one-by-one, she reached to take hold, and turn their fine-grain contents upside down into the bowl.
"Cinderthorn, Winterblood, Wyrmash..." She mumbled in a chanting voice; words confused and waved her hand in a stirring motion over the bowl and sending the dusts into a whirl within their confines, mixing and mashing together to form a single, gold-flecked dust.
"Winterthokreth, vivadu rukki-sath; Kreth reth - sora, nilazi tuluk..." The words flowed seamlessly from common to arcanic as she pushed her hands outward, and the three books shot away and found their former home on the shelves. A wild smile had formed upon the young woman's lips now, and her hands returned to their stirring motion. Slowly as they lifted, the dust followed. It began to glow a bright, fiery hue, compacting itself slowly as the stirring motions had went from wide and rapid to thin and slow.
"Tol-kirin, vishna!" She squeaked out, and clenched her fist. The ball of dust wavered, and suddenly exploded as her fingers splayed open. It sent the room into a shower of gold and fire; and the majority of the dust somehow had found it's way to her body. It hit like a faint snow, and melted upon touch to her flesh. At first, the change was invisible, but gradually, her skin and hair glowed with the hue of the dust...
----
Slowly the door of the library opened, and sent Aryk into a quick backpedal - as if he wasn't caught already. Genise stepped through, the glow still about her as she smiled at the handyman, her pretty blue gaze roaming his form. A single bead of sweat trailed down her cheek and to her chin, and dropped down upon her collarbone. She was burning up.
"Mmm... Well, hello there." She grinned, and advanced. He didn't question; after all, why would he?
By morning, she had returned to normal in appearance at least, but her body still radiated an unusual warmth. Aryk stood quietly at the exit to Genise's bedroom, wearing little more than shorts, and a ridiculously goofy grin.
"I'll return within the week," Genise spoke as she stepped close to the door, covered in a thin, showy robe of white, and her hair pulled back into a high tail. "Make sure Atera has her medication, and Rusanni will be picking her up to visit the Amberstill Ranch tour."
Aryk blinked, eyeing the gown - a gown that would not be favorable at all to the harsh climates of Northrend. "You'll be going dressed as is, madame?" He quietly asked, offering her a heavy coat, which she casually slung over her arm, before she lifted a palm to his cheek. She was still heated.
"I'll be perfectly fine... I have a hot idea," she quietly answered, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, before she calmly strolled past, heeled shoes clacking on the marble floor.
Re: The Wrath Gate
Wind whipped at the snowy mountains, causing wisps of snow to drift about. Aleros wore full furs and leathers, bearing the many marks of a Cenarion. He had flown against this wind which seemed to roll off Icecrown, flowed over the Dragonblight and drifted through Grizzly Hills before making its way out towards the eastward coast. Now he stood at the very footsteps of Icecrown. Months ago he would never have pictured himself in a standing army against the Lich King. It wasn't any of his concern then, or so he'd been led to believe.
"It's our world too, if we do not stand with the crusade and they fall, where will Arthas go next?"
A soldier with some crudely made leathers strapped on beneath layers of chained and plated armor came to greet the druid at the base of the hill.
"Greetin's druid, didna expect ta see your kind 'ere. What business 'ave you? Here ta see the Arch Druid overseein'--"
"I need to speak with someone who is in charge here."
The druid's face was partially covered by the fur hood, displaying half of a grin. The soldier regarded him for a moment.
"Bolvar be busy, but I can answer most things you be needin'."
Aleros held out a folded piece of paper, on it was red flames backed by a black setting.
The soldier raised a brow, his stance shifting. "You're lookin' for them then?"
"Yes, if you could point me in their direction."
One eye squinted as the soldier pointed off towards the pass. "Up that way."
He spoke again as the druid turned to leave. "Why keep their company, if I may ask?"
Aleros smirked and didn't look back. "They are fun." His voice was carried off by the wind.
<Will be continued>
"It's our world too, if we do not stand with the crusade and they fall, where will Arthas go next?"
A soldier with some crudely made leathers strapped on beneath layers of chained and plated armor came to greet the druid at the base of the hill.
"Greetin's druid, didna expect ta see your kind 'ere. What business 'ave you? Here ta see the Arch Druid overseein'--"
"I need to speak with someone who is in charge here."
The druid's face was partially covered by the fur hood, displaying half of a grin. The soldier regarded him for a moment.
"Bolvar be busy, but I can answer most things you be needin'."
Aleros held out a folded piece of paper, on it was red flames backed by a black setting.
The soldier raised a brow, his stance shifting. "You're lookin' for them then?"
"Yes, if you could point me in their direction."
One eye squinted as the soldier pointed off towards the pass. "Up that way."
He spoke again as the druid turned to leave. "Why keep their company, if I may ask?"
Aleros smirked and didn't look back. "They are fun." His voice was carried off by the wind.
<Will be continued>
Re: The Wrath Gate
Annalea crawled out of the tent as the first hints of dawn tinged the sky. It wasn't so much light as it was a lightening -- the mountains became a darker spot on an already dark background; some of the stars winked out, while others had time yet to shine.
She wasn't the first one awake. Just beyond the entrance to their camp, a match flared as whoever was on watch lit a cigarette. Someone was smoking closer by, too -- northern leaf, its scent curling around her on the pre-dawn wind. She turned to her right and saw her brother-in-law, building the fire back up and tossing some herbs into a pot. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she made her way over to him.
"Yer up early." He glanced up at her, then back down to a list at his side. It had been folded and refolded, probably twice a day at least since she'd given it to him -- all the things Threnn would need to keep herself and the baby healthy.
"So are you. Is Threnny still sleeping?" She eased herself down beside him and held her hands out to the fire, trying to coax the ache out of her fingers. Weeks of harvesting followed by days and days of grinding away with her mortar and pestle, she was amazed her hands hadn't bent themselves permanently into claws. And wouldn't that be a fine bit of payback for Aumery Fane? Wouldn't he just laugh at that? She shoved that thought away. There were things far more fearsome coming in the next few hours.
"Aye, but fitfully. She'll be up an' about once she hears more o'us walkin' around." He gave the pot a stir. "Fin still out cold?"
"Yeah. It was a long day. Longer one ahead. I didn't want to wake him."
They sat for a while, while he tended to the pot, occasionally tossing in another handful of herbs. "Yeh still look like shite," he said at last. "Better than last time, but yer still on the fuckin' potions, aren't yeh?" He pitched the butt of his cigarette into the snow. Before it hissed out, he had his tobacco pouch out and was rolling another with a long-practiced motion.
Anna eyed it. "Um. Could I...?"
"Och, they're shite fer singers." But he passed it over anyway, flicking a match as she raised it to her lips. He seemed only mildly surprised when she didn't explode into a coughing fit. "Since when do yeh smoke?"
"Off and on since I was seventeen. It's a bit early for a shot of whiskey to go with it."
He chuckled and rolled one for himself. "Yeh didn't answer me question."
She attempted a smoke ring that ended up more of a smoke oblong. It wobbled its way into the sky while she mulled over her response. "It's a different formula, now. And I don't take it when he's home on leave."
"I'm rattin' yeh out ta both o'them when this is done. Fin an' yer sister. It's gotta stop, Annie."
"When all this is done, it might not matter."
His teeth ground together, audible evidence of keeping his temper in check. "Annie. No one's dyin' today." There was hollowness beneath the anger; he wasn't convinced of it himself.
"Well. I'm not."
Something in the way she said it gave him pause. "Yeh've seen it, then?"
"In a sense."
"That shite with Chromie an' the Bronze?"
"Yeah. I live long enough to start going grey, at the very least. But when I asked about Fin..." She shrugged and took another drag.
"No answer? Strewth. Annie, yer future self's a bitch."
"Act surprised."
He snorted. "Fair enough."
"You two are safe. Stonemantle saw Naiara. That means Threnny lives. And she's not going to let you fall."
"Fin can take care o'himself. He'll be watchin' yeh, same as Threnny'll be watchin' me. An' if he gets in trouble, she'll be watchin' him, too. Yeh'll be unlivable if she doesn't." He nudged her when she didn't smile. "Fer a priestess, yer faith is shite."
"That assumes I ever had any."
"In yer sister? Yeh'd fuckin' better."
"Mmph." But he was right. The gods might have their eyes on the heart of the battle today, but it didn't matter. Riders watched out for Riders, the gods be damned. She took one last drag and pushed herself to her feet. "I'm going to go catch a little more rest. Thanks for the smoke, brother-mine."
"Aye," he said. "Go on back ta Fin." His caught her hand as she turned. "An' Annie."
"Yeah?"
"Don't yeh fuckin' dare be goin' back there ta say goodbye."
She looked at him for a long moment in the firelight. "I won't if you won't."
"Deal," he said, and turned his grip into a handshake. "Now piss off. I'm bringin' breakfast ta yer sister."
A few of the others were stirring as she retreated back to the tent she and Fin shared. People murmurred to one another inside their own canvas walls, packing up bedrolls, changing clothes. The slow rasp of a whetstone on a blade came from Jolstraer's tent, a husky laugh from inside Ilanna and Chryste's. The mountains stood out, distinct now from the sky behind them, but when she let the flap close behind her, darkness reigned once more.
Fin swam awake as she shed her cloak and crawled in beside him. "Light, Anna, you're freezing."
"I went for a walk. It's early yet. Go back to sleep."
His arms snaked around her, hands rubbing at her back to speed up the warmth. "Are you all right?"
"Fin?" She wriggled in closer as he nuzzled at her sleepily.
"Aye?"
"Shut up and hold me."
"Aye."
She wasn't the first one awake. Just beyond the entrance to their camp, a match flared as whoever was on watch lit a cigarette. Someone was smoking closer by, too -- northern leaf, its scent curling around her on the pre-dawn wind. She turned to her right and saw her brother-in-law, building the fire back up and tossing some herbs into a pot. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she made her way over to him.
"Yer up early." He glanced up at her, then back down to a list at his side. It had been folded and refolded, probably twice a day at least since she'd given it to him -- all the things Threnn would need to keep herself and the baby healthy.
"So are you. Is Threnny still sleeping?" She eased herself down beside him and held her hands out to the fire, trying to coax the ache out of her fingers. Weeks of harvesting followed by days and days of grinding away with her mortar and pestle, she was amazed her hands hadn't bent themselves permanently into claws. And wouldn't that be a fine bit of payback for Aumery Fane? Wouldn't he just laugh at that? She shoved that thought away. There were things far more fearsome coming in the next few hours.
"Aye, but fitfully. She'll be up an' about once she hears more o'us walkin' around." He gave the pot a stir. "Fin still out cold?"
"Yeah. It was a long day. Longer one ahead. I didn't want to wake him."
They sat for a while, while he tended to the pot, occasionally tossing in another handful of herbs. "Yeh still look like shite," he said at last. "Better than last time, but yer still on the fuckin' potions, aren't yeh?" He pitched the butt of his cigarette into the snow. Before it hissed out, he had his tobacco pouch out and was rolling another with a long-practiced motion.
Anna eyed it. "Um. Could I...?"
"Och, they're shite fer singers." But he passed it over anyway, flicking a match as she raised it to her lips. He seemed only mildly surprised when she didn't explode into a coughing fit. "Since when do yeh smoke?"
"Off and on since I was seventeen. It's a bit early for a shot of whiskey to go with it."
He chuckled and rolled one for himself. "Yeh didn't answer me question."
She attempted a smoke ring that ended up more of a smoke oblong. It wobbled its way into the sky while she mulled over her response. "It's a different formula, now. And I don't take it when he's home on leave."
"I'm rattin' yeh out ta both o'them when this is done. Fin an' yer sister. It's gotta stop, Annie."
"When all this is done, it might not matter."
His teeth ground together, audible evidence of keeping his temper in check. "Annie. No one's dyin' today." There was hollowness beneath the anger; he wasn't convinced of it himself.
"Well. I'm not."
Something in the way she said it gave him pause. "Yeh've seen it, then?"
"In a sense."
"That shite with Chromie an' the Bronze?"
"Yeah. I live long enough to start going grey, at the very least. But when I asked about Fin..." She shrugged and took another drag.
"No answer? Strewth. Annie, yer future self's a bitch."
"Act surprised."
He snorted. "Fair enough."
"You two are safe. Stonemantle saw Naiara. That means Threnny lives. And she's not going to let you fall."
"Fin can take care o'himself. He'll be watchin' yeh, same as Threnny'll be watchin' me. An' if he gets in trouble, she'll be watchin' him, too. Yeh'll be unlivable if she doesn't." He nudged her when she didn't smile. "Fer a priestess, yer faith is shite."
"That assumes I ever had any."
"In yer sister? Yeh'd fuckin' better."
"Mmph." But he was right. The gods might have their eyes on the heart of the battle today, but it didn't matter. Riders watched out for Riders, the gods be damned. She took one last drag and pushed herself to her feet. "I'm going to go catch a little more rest. Thanks for the smoke, brother-mine."
"Aye," he said. "Go on back ta Fin." His caught her hand as she turned. "An' Annie."
"Yeah?"
"Don't yeh fuckin' dare be goin' back there ta say goodbye."
She looked at him for a long moment in the firelight. "I won't if you won't."
"Deal," he said, and turned his grip into a handshake. "Now piss off. I'm bringin' breakfast ta yer sister."
A few of the others were stirring as she retreated back to the tent she and Fin shared. People murmurred to one another inside their own canvas walls, packing up bedrolls, changing clothes. The slow rasp of a whetstone on a blade came from Jolstraer's tent, a husky laugh from inside Ilanna and Chryste's. The mountains stood out, distinct now from the sky behind them, but when she let the flap close behind her, darkness reigned once more.
Fin swam awake as she shed her cloak and crawled in beside him. "Light, Anna, you're freezing."
"I went for a walk. It's early yet. Go back to sleep."
His arms snaked around her, hands rubbing at her back to speed up the warmth. "Are you all right?"
"Fin?" She wriggled in closer as he nuzzled at her sleepily.
"Aye?"
"Shut up and hold me."
"Aye."
Re: The Wrath Gate
"Auntie Davien, where are you going?" The little girl perched on the edge of the bed, watching her aunt twist her long black hair into a bun. Implements of the dead woman's trade were laid out in neat rows on the bedspread -- books, crystals, a finely wrought dagger, vials of moonwell water, a pouch filled with runestones, another filled with sand, rings, trinkets and scrolls -- all waiting to be tucked into a saddlebag for the journey. Kyree Stonemantle sat amongst them all, tracing a silver rune embossed onto the cover of a musty-smelling book.
Davien placed the last of the pins and glanced at her niece in the mirror. "Away, sweetling, just for a few days."
"To the north?" The girl's voice faded out a bit, her eyes going slightly unfocused as she ran her finger along the symbol's path once more.
The mage turned slowly, frown-lines creasing her forehead as she bent to see what had Kyree so captivated. Magic had always fascinated her niece: Kyree spent hours peering over her shoulder at books she'd brought home from Silvermoon. She'd asked for the meanings of words and symbols so often, Davien had started reading to her from them -- so much so that she'd joked once to Pill that the girl could hold her own in a conversation spoken in Thalassian... provided, of course, that the person with whom she was speaking could suss out the archaic verb forms.
But this was different than her regular curiosity. The air thrummed with the familiar feel of the arcane. It was everywhere, always, even when Davien wasn't channelling it herself, but it was never this... assertive... when it was unwielded. She reached out to touch Kyree's shoulder.
The thrum grew louder, now a nearly palpable vibration in the otherwise silent room. On the other side of the house, Thrall let out an uneasy bark.
It is bein' wielded. Clumsily, aye, but it's respondin' t'her. She kept her voice pitched low, not wanting to startle Kyree out of her trance. "Aye, t'the north."
When the girl spoke again, her voice was hollow, expressionless. "It's dangerous up there. There's a bad man, and--" The rune flared, turning from silver to bright blue before it subsided. Her eyes went wide and she jerked her hand away from the book. The arcane fled, reverting back to its normal background hum.
Davien gathered her niece into her arms, holding her the way one might cradle a frightened bird. "Shh, love, I know. I'm goin' t'help make the bad man go away. I'll be home before y'know it."
After a moment, Kyree's frightened breathing slowed. Davien held up her hand and uttered an incantation; her silver hairbrush floated from the desk to her palm, and she began brushing out the girl's fine black hair and weaving it into a braid. When it was done, they stood before the mirror, examining their reflections.
Davien leaned down to kiss the crown of Kyree's head. She's shot up at least two inches since last I noticed. She's goin' t'be as tall as me when she's full-grown. The thought came with a pang of its own: If the world survives the Lich King, that is. She kept her voice from trembling as she straightened. "Now, be good for Lady Nane, an' take care o' y'r brother, aye?"
The girl held her eyes in the mirror for a moment, then twisted around to peer up at her for true. "But... who will take care of you?"
Davien smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "Old friends, Kyree-love."
Two sets of eyes, one golden, one green, fell upon the folded parchment that sat on a silver tray atop the nightstand. It leaned against a glass of water Davien had taken to bed the night before.
Tendrils of frost crept up towards the rim of the glass. A film of ice covered the water's surface.
"Old friends."
Davien placed the last of the pins and glanced at her niece in the mirror. "Away, sweetling, just for a few days."
"To the north?" The girl's voice faded out a bit, her eyes going slightly unfocused as she ran her finger along the symbol's path once more.
The mage turned slowly, frown-lines creasing her forehead as she bent to see what had Kyree so captivated. Magic had always fascinated her niece: Kyree spent hours peering over her shoulder at books she'd brought home from Silvermoon. She'd asked for the meanings of words and symbols so often, Davien had started reading to her from them -- so much so that she'd joked once to Pill that the girl could hold her own in a conversation spoken in Thalassian... provided, of course, that the person with whom she was speaking could suss out the archaic verb forms.
But this was different than her regular curiosity. The air thrummed with the familiar feel of the arcane. It was everywhere, always, even when Davien wasn't channelling it herself, but it was never this... assertive... when it was unwielded. She reached out to touch Kyree's shoulder.
The thrum grew louder, now a nearly palpable vibration in the otherwise silent room. On the other side of the house, Thrall let out an uneasy bark.
It is bein' wielded. Clumsily, aye, but it's respondin' t'her. She kept her voice pitched low, not wanting to startle Kyree out of her trance. "Aye, t'the north."
When the girl spoke again, her voice was hollow, expressionless. "It's dangerous up there. There's a bad man, and--" The rune flared, turning from silver to bright blue before it subsided. Her eyes went wide and she jerked her hand away from the book. The arcane fled, reverting back to its normal background hum.
Davien gathered her niece into her arms, holding her the way one might cradle a frightened bird. "Shh, love, I know. I'm goin' t'help make the bad man go away. I'll be home before y'know it."
After a moment, Kyree's frightened breathing slowed. Davien held up her hand and uttered an incantation; her silver hairbrush floated from the desk to her palm, and she began brushing out the girl's fine black hair and weaving it into a braid. When it was done, they stood before the mirror, examining their reflections.
Davien leaned down to kiss the crown of Kyree's head. She's shot up at least two inches since last I noticed. She's goin' t'be as tall as me when she's full-grown. The thought came with a pang of its own: If the world survives the Lich King, that is. She kept her voice from trembling as she straightened. "Now, be good for Lady Nane, an' take care o' y'r brother, aye?"
The girl held her eyes in the mirror for a moment, then twisted around to peer up at her for true. "But... who will take care of you?"
Davien smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "Old friends, Kyree-love."
Two sets of eyes, one golden, one green, fell upon the folded parchment that sat on a silver tray atop the nightstand. It leaned against a glass of water Davien had taken to bed the night before.
Tendrils of frost crept up towards the rim of the glass. A film of ice covered the water's surface.
"Old friends."
Re: The Wrath Gate
"Deal," he said, and turned his grip into a handshake. "Now piss off. I'm bringin' breakfast ta yer sister."
She went, and he leaned back to the cookfire. There was something almost poetic in the image of Bricu Bittertongue, in the small hours before dawn, stirring a pot. Poetic, if one went in for puns, which Tarquin ap Danwyrith regrettably did.
Snow had been falling fitfully all night, and a few desperate flakes found purchase on the Boss's thin shoulders as he approached his friend's small fire. Bricu didn't seem particularly surprised to see him, though the latter could only have been visible from a few yards off. Tarquin eased himself into the space just vacated by Annalea, peering at the pot. "Bangers an' mash, mate? At this hour?"
"Fer Threnny." Bricu looked up, a glint of grinning teeth at the corner of his mouth. "With her medicines in. Yeh fancy takin' yer life in yer hands, Tarq, be me guest."
Tarquin's eyes flicked over to the glowing coal of Bricu's half-smoked cigarette. "Tell yeh, I'm near fuckin' tempted. I'll settle fir a smoke, if yeh kin spare." There was a pause, as both men observed the proper reverent silence that was due Bittertongue's quick rolling and lighting of another smoke. "Barry," grunted Tarquin as he took the dogend. "She awake, then?"
"Sort o'. Not much fer sleepin' at all last night, neither o' us." Bricu sniffed the pot and dipped his ladle in, reaching for something that was either a priceless alchemical compound to balance the humors, or thyme. "Few o' the lot were, really."
"My luck, then. Bell an' Fel set up tent no' far fra' mine." Tarquin made an exaggerated noise in the back of his throat, something like the echo of a violent argument between mountains. "Like a bloody church organ, Bittertongue, an' all the pipes packed solid wi' snot." The red-haired man laughed - not quite a full-bore chortle, but the real humor was obvious. "The noise chased Ceil out. She's oan watch the now, an' I pissed oan the entire concept ay sleep hours ago."
"That kind o' night."
"Ayeh."
They smoked in companionable silence, both well acquainted with the limited capabilities and usefulness of small talk. Eventually, the fair head tilted towards the red one, in a movement so obviously calculated to appear casual that it had a strange honesty, and Tarquin spoke in tones to match. "Yeh looked o'er the ground, then?"
"Bit." Another sprinkling of herbs. Bricu Bittertongue was a very conscientious cook, even for the circumstances.
"Jolly'n I had a guid walkabout. We've eno' fir a proper line down the west slope, 'bout twenty end ta end, an' a wee handful in reserve behind. Ought cover the lot." Tarquin gestured up the hill behind them. "An' I'll take the artillery up oan the hill. A skeleton crew, couple ay guns, an' the witches."
"Stonemantle here yet?"
"Late in the eve. Yva let me kennit. They'll both be up wi' Geny, an' I'll have thit Balthasar oan guard fir 'em." He took a long drag on his cigarette, watching Bricu with a canny eye. The older man said nothing as he sniffed the simmering pot again, nodding approvingly, and removed it from the fire. Tarquin finally continued. "Yirself, too."
Bricu waited before looking up. It was almost possible to see him counting to five in his head, but his voice was calm and steady. A bit too much so. "Tell me why."
"Need a free hand wi' the ballistae so Beltar an' Kaidos kin stick ta thir guns," Tarquin answered, too quickly. "An' the black-blade, Sir Jakob if yeh please, maun be a solid sword as he claims, but thir's only yin ay the lad. Yeh ken s'well as I do a few ay the fuckers'll get 'round." He paused, and when no response came, continued. "An' I ken my way 'round a fracas aright, but I'm na soldier. We need a pair ay eyes up thir thit'll -"
"Fuckin' spare me," growled Bricu, looking up from his cooking narrow-eyed and white about the nostrils. "When yeh start in praisin' me good qualities, Tarq, I know yer full o' shite. So fuckin' tell me why I'm out the fight, in yer regard, or else shut it."
Tarquin let a long, unruffled stream of smoke escape his mouth, holding Bricu's stare. "Threnny," he said finally. "Yeh gang ta the front, she'll follow yeh. We kinna ha' thit, auld boy, an' yir well aware."
"Aye, I'm well aware." Bricu's sneer was a well-practiced expression, a curl of the lip with scorn unmatched by mortal flesh. "Think we've not talked on it aready? She's not takin' that risk. We're neither o' us bloody stupid."
"An' thit I ken aright. But I also ken yeh are wha' yeh are, both. Twined t'gether like rope. Grown like shoots." Even in his sullen anger, Bricu raised an eyebrow. One didn't often hear Tarquin ap Danwyrith with words like this in his mouth. "She came with yeh, across the Bitter Sea, wi' the bairn in her belly. What's anither quarter-mile ta thit, Bric'?"
Bittertongue held his gaze for another black moment, his knuckles pale where they clenched the ladle. Then he let the breath hiss from his mouth, a weary admission in his eyes that was answer enough for both of them. He didn't drop his eyes, but his voice was soft and hoarse. "Yeh ken how I got the land in the Hills so cheap?" Tarquin shook his head. "Stoutmantle brought it down low after I told him where we were goin'. Called it the Dead Man Walkin' Discount." His quiet laughter had a faint echo of the raven's gallows croak.
Tarquin wasn't laughing, and the row of teeth bared pale in the dawning light had nothing to do with smiling. "Thit whoreson. Ta say sich oan the eve ay this? I'll have his fuckin' teeth. First thing outay this fight, I'm fir the Westfall Brigade wi'some pliers an' a -"
"Fuck off it, Tarq." A calloused hand thumped down on the lanky rogue's shoulder, Bricu grinning that familiar grin. "Man's got a right to be a cynic, aye? Asides, he gave me the discount so he kin
"Piss oan 'im anyhow. Haverin' at yeh like thon, with a bairn oan yir wey. It deserves a fuckin' batterin', an' na mistake." Tarquin settled back into a glowering hunch, flicking ash off the guttering remnants of his smoke. "Man wants ta talk shite, oughta take mair care where it's landin'."
At that, Bricu's smile lit up further with a familiar bartering gleam. "Tell yeh what, then. Do me a wee favor and yeh can practice all the dentistry yeh care ta, an' I'll not raise a bloody finger." Tarquin looked over at him, his mock-eager grin tinged with a touch of deadly intent. Whatever else he was, Tarquin ap Danwyrith was not a man to suffer slights to his family. But Bricu's next words wiped the smile from his face. "If they kill me, get Threnny out o' here."
The blond-curtained head was already shaking in negation after four words. "Get ta fuck, Bittertongue."
"I mean it, Tarq, aright?" Bricu's own smile was gone, replaced by the five or ten years that good humor always shed from his weathered face. "Don't fuckin' talk to me 'bout how we're all gettin' out o' this alive. Don't yeh fuck this off." His eyes bored into his friend, possessed of a calm gravity that rarely made itself known on his features. "Any fuckin' one o' us could die, an' if it's me, I wanna be sure Threnny's not right behind me. Drag her off, knock her out, do whatever yeh gotta do. Just get her out and get her safe."
Tarquin's lips compressed into a thin white line, and he stared at Bricu for a blank-faced moment before nodding. "Aright."
"Swear it. On yer life, yeh'll get her out."
"Aw, fir fuck's sake-!"
"Swear it." Bricu's voice was like granite, none of the anger one might have expected. Tarquin licked his lips, met Bricu's stare, and then sank back, sighing.
"Fuck off yir oaths, aright?" He passed a hand over his brow, looking suddenly very tired. "I'll do it, Bricu. Fir her s'much as yeh, an' fir masel' even mair'n thit." He paused, and then said in a quieter voice, "I could'na lose yeh both."
It was Bricu's turn to watch, and weigh, and then nod. He reached over and clasped Tarquin's wrist. "Cheers," he said, and that was really all there was to it. They sat in silence for a moment, until Bricu pushed himself up from his makeshift seat with a grunt. "Kept Threnny waitin' long enough on her breakfast, then. All yeh arseholes comin' ta whinge at me when I'm jus' tryin' ta cook."
"Aye, an' nivir wis a man so put-upon." Tarquin rolled his eyes, snorting back laughter. "Fuckin' oan with yeh, then, or else I'll hafta save yir arse from a hungry wife afore this even starts." Bricu made his smirking exit, gently steaming pot in hand, and Tarquin remained, not even looking up when footsteps came out of the gray distance of the watch-point.
"'Twas interesting, that," observed Ceil as she approached the dwindling fire, settling onto her haunches next to her husband, the movement of her lips barely visible under a fur-trimmed hood. "And I wonder what Threnn would think on it."
Tarquin finally looked over then, and reached over to brush the hood back from Ceil's face, and observe the tightness around her eyes and lips. It had been a few months since that awful day in the Tundra, but Bricu's words had left their scars. As they were likely meant to do. He pushed that from his mind. "She prolly kens it some. Made her ain plans, I'd expect, as I'm no' privy ta." He wound a tangle of green hair around his finger and smiled. "But I'm an optimist, a'course. Ask aynin."
"An optimist." Ceil's eye slid over suspiciously, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Has there been a sudden change to the meaning of that word, or are you just completely full of shite?"
"Shite, or s'prises," said Tarquin, smiling lazily. "Take yir pick, love."
Ceil studied her husband for a moment. There was something to be said for the idea that even now, after years together, they could be a mystery to each other. Maybe that was their secret. "I'm not so sure there's much difference," she said finally, smiling back. Around them, the early risers were coming out of their tents, and even the lacksadasical were starting to stir. The ap Danwyriths sat in a comfortable silence, watching the fire flicker and dim against the growing sunlight.
She went, and he leaned back to the cookfire. There was something almost poetic in the image of Bricu Bittertongue, in the small hours before dawn, stirring a pot. Poetic, if one went in for puns, which Tarquin ap Danwyrith regrettably did.
Snow had been falling fitfully all night, and a few desperate flakes found purchase on the Boss's thin shoulders as he approached his friend's small fire. Bricu didn't seem particularly surprised to see him, though the latter could only have been visible from a few yards off. Tarquin eased himself into the space just vacated by Annalea, peering at the pot. "Bangers an' mash, mate? At this hour?"
"Fer Threnny." Bricu looked up, a glint of grinning teeth at the corner of his mouth. "With her medicines in. Yeh fancy takin' yer life in yer hands, Tarq, be me guest."
Tarquin's eyes flicked over to the glowing coal of Bricu's half-smoked cigarette. "Tell yeh, I'm near fuckin' tempted. I'll settle fir a smoke, if yeh kin spare." There was a pause, as both men observed the proper reverent silence that was due Bittertongue's quick rolling and lighting of another smoke. "Barry," grunted Tarquin as he took the dogend. "She awake, then?"
"Sort o'. Not much fer sleepin' at all last night, neither o' us." Bricu sniffed the pot and dipped his ladle in, reaching for something that was either a priceless alchemical compound to balance the humors, or thyme. "Few o' the lot were, really."
"My luck, then. Bell an' Fel set up tent no' far fra' mine." Tarquin made an exaggerated noise in the back of his throat, something like the echo of a violent argument between mountains. "Like a bloody church organ, Bittertongue, an' all the pipes packed solid wi' snot." The red-haired man laughed - not quite a full-bore chortle, but the real humor was obvious. "The noise chased Ceil out. She's oan watch the now, an' I pissed oan the entire concept ay sleep hours ago."
"That kind o' night."
"Ayeh."
They smoked in companionable silence, both well acquainted with the limited capabilities and usefulness of small talk. Eventually, the fair head tilted towards the red one, in a movement so obviously calculated to appear casual that it had a strange honesty, and Tarquin spoke in tones to match. "Yeh looked o'er the ground, then?"
"Bit." Another sprinkling of herbs. Bricu Bittertongue was a very conscientious cook, even for the circumstances.
"Jolly'n I had a guid walkabout. We've eno' fir a proper line down the west slope, 'bout twenty end ta end, an' a wee handful in reserve behind. Ought cover the lot." Tarquin gestured up the hill behind them. "An' I'll take the artillery up oan the hill. A skeleton crew, couple ay guns, an' the witches."
"Stonemantle here yet?"
"Late in the eve. Yva let me kennit. They'll both be up wi' Geny, an' I'll have thit Balthasar oan guard fir 'em." He took a long drag on his cigarette, watching Bricu with a canny eye. The older man said nothing as he sniffed the simmering pot again, nodding approvingly, and removed it from the fire. Tarquin finally continued. "Yirself, too."
Bricu waited before looking up. It was almost possible to see him counting to five in his head, but his voice was calm and steady. A bit too much so. "Tell me why."
"Need a free hand wi' the ballistae so Beltar an' Kaidos kin stick ta thir guns," Tarquin answered, too quickly. "An' the black-blade, Sir Jakob if yeh please, maun be a solid sword as he claims, but thir's only yin ay the lad. Yeh ken s'well as I do a few ay the fuckers'll get 'round." He paused, and when no response came, continued. "An' I ken my way 'round a fracas aright, but I'm na soldier. We need a pair ay eyes up thir thit'll -"
"Fuckin' spare me," growled Bricu, looking up from his cooking narrow-eyed and white about the nostrils. "When yeh start in praisin' me good qualities, Tarq, I know yer full o' shite. So fuckin' tell me why I'm out the fight, in yer regard, or else shut it."
Tarquin let a long, unruffled stream of smoke escape his mouth, holding Bricu's stare. "Threnny," he said finally. "Yeh gang ta the front, she'll follow yeh. We kinna ha' thit, auld boy, an' yir well aware."
"Aye, I'm well aware." Bricu's sneer was a well-practiced expression, a curl of the lip with scorn unmatched by mortal flesh. "Think we've not talked on it aready? She's not takin' that risk. We're neither o' us bloody stupid."
"An' thit I ken aright. But I also ken yeh are wha' yeh are, both. Twined t'gether like rope. Grown like shoots." Even in his sullen anger, Bricu raised an eyebrow. One didn't often hear Tarquin ap Danwyrith with words like this in his mouth. "She came with yeh, across the Bitter Sea, wi' the bairn in her belly. What's anither quarter-mile ta thit, Bric'?"
Bittertongue held his gaze for another black moment, his knuckles pale where they clenched the ladle. Then he let the breath hiss from his mouth, a weary admission in his eyes that was answer enough for both of them. He didn't drop his eyes, but his voice was soft and hoarse. "Yeh ken how I got the land in the Hills so cheap?" Tarquin shook his head. "Stoutmantle brought it down low after I told him where we were goin'. Called it the Dead Man Walkin' Discount." His quiet laughter had a faint echo of the raven's gallows croak.
Tarquin wasn't laughing, and the row of teeth bared pale in the dawning light had nothing to do with smiling. "Thit whoreson. Ta say sich oan the eve ay this? I'll have his fuckin' teeth. First thing outay this fight, I'm fir the Westfall Brigade wi'some pliers an' a -"
"Fuck off it, Tarq." A calloused hand thumped down on the lanky rogue's shoulder, Bricu grinning that familiar grin. "Man's got a right to be a cynic, aye? Asides, he gave me the discount so he kin
"Piss oan 'im anyhow. Haverin' at yeh like thon, with a bairn oan yir wey. It deserves a fuckin' batterin', an' na mistake." Tarquin settled back into a glowering hunch, flicking ash off the guttering remnants of his smoke. "Man wants ta talk shite, oughta take mair care where it's landin'."
At that, Bricu's smile lit up further with a familiar bartering gleam. "Tell yeh what, then. Do me a wee favor and yeh can practice all the dentistry yeh care ta, an' I'll not raise a bloody finger." Tarquin looked over at him, his mock-eager grin tinged with a touch of deadly intent. Whatever else he was, Tarquin ap Danwyrith was not a man to suffer slights to his family. But Bricu's next words wiped the smile from his face. "If they kill me, get Threnny out o' here."
The blond-curtained head was already shaking in negation after four words. "Get ta fuck, Bittertongue."
"I mean it, Tarq, aright?" Bricu's own smile was gone, replaced by the five or ten years that good humor always shed from his weathered face. "Don't fuckin' talk to me 'bout how we're all gettin' out o' this alive. Don't yeh fuck this off." His eyes bored into his friend, possessed of a calm gravity that rarely made itself known on his features. "Any fuckin' one o' us could die, an' if it's me, I wanna be sure Threnny's not right behind me. Drag her off, knock her out, do whatever yeh gotta do. Just get her out and get her safe."
Tarquin's lips compressed into a thin white line, and he stared at Bricu for a blank-faced moment before nodding. "Aright."
"Swear it. On yer life, yeh'll get her out."
"Aw, fir fuck's sake-!"
"Swear it." Bricu's voice was like granite, none of the anger one might have expected. Tarquin licked his lips, met Bricu's stare, and then sank back, sighing.
"Fuck off yir oaths, aright?" He passed a hand over his brow, looking suddenly very tired. "I'll do it, Bricu. Fir her s'much as yeh, an' fir masel' even mair'n thit." He paused, and then said in a quieter voice, "I could'na lose yeh both."
It was Bricu's turn to watch, and weigh, and then nod. He reached over and clasped Tarquin's wrist. "Cheers," he said, and that was really all there was to it. They sat in silence for a moment, until Bricu pushed himself up from his makeshift seat with a grunt. "Kept Threnny waitin' long enough on her breakfast, then. All yeh arseholes comin' ta whinge at me when I'm jus' tryin' ta cook."
"Aye, an' nivir wis a man so put-upon." Tarquin rolled his eyes, snorting back laughter. "Fuckin' oan with yeh, then, or else I'll hafta save yir arse from a hungry wife afore this even starts." Bricu made his smirking exit, gently steaming pot in hand, and Tarquin remained, not even looking up when footsteps came out of the gray distance of the watch-point.
"'Twas interesting, that," observed Ceil as she approached the dwindling fire, settling onto her haunches next to her husband, the movement of her lips barely visible under a fur-trimmed hood. "And I wonder what Threnn would think on it."
Tarquin finally looked over then, and reached over to brush the hood back from Ceil's face, and observe the tightness around her eyes and lips. It had been a few months since that awful day in the Tundra, but Bricu's words had left their scars. As they were likely meant to do. He pushed that from his mind. "She prolly kens it some. Made her ain plans, I'd expect, as I'm no' privy ta." He wound a tangle of green hair around his finger and smiled. "But I'm an optimist, a'course. Ask aynin."
"An optimist." Ceil's eye slid over suspiciously, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Has there been a sudden change to the meaning of that word, or are you just completely full of shite?"
"Shite, or s'prises," said Tarquin, smiling lazily. "Take yir pick, love."
Ceil studied her husband for a moment. There was something to be said for the idea that even now, after years together, they could be a mystery to each other. Maybe that was their secret. "I'm not so sure there's much difference," she said finally, smiling back. Around them, the early risers were coming out of their tents, and even the lacksadasical were starting to stir. The ap Danwyriths sat in a comfortable silence, watching the fire flicker and dim against the growing sunlight.
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
Re: The Wrath Gate
The sun was rising when they assembled before him. He climbed a rock that might have been placed there by a forethoughtful god for moments such as this. The dawn cold ripped at him through layers of clothing, tunic and doublet and coat and cloak, and not for the first time he was struck by a great weightlessness. What was he doing here at the bitter reaches of the world, in the thick of dread War, the world's least profitable, most costly business? His people were looking to him - young and old, fierce and retiring. His Riders. His professionals. His family.
He began with a lie, of course. "I've na pretty words fir this." The wind turned his voice to a hollow reed, a whisper through highland pipes. "Nor any clevir plan, or wicked trick fir ta spring at the last. Sich things will'na be ay help at us here." He smiled into the wind, easy and self-deprecating, a bare twitch of well-trained muscles. "Men ay business dinna win wars."
There were a few scattered laughs - Tirith, Stormlord bless him, was always reliable. "Yeh ken I dinna 'pprove ay war in gen'ral. S'bad fir the livelihood, an' I mislike bein' told fir ta kill a punter oan account ay nation or uniform or race. No' when thir's so many ither guid reasons." They didn't laugh at that, and he was grateful. "But if iver there wis a war worth the blood an' mis'ry ay fightin' it, 'tis this yin."
He let his gaze travel through the crowd, adding all the faces that should have rightly been there with them. "'Tis no easy thing ta risk all we've built o'er the last couple years, oan foreign shores, in open fields. No' whit any ay yeh wir promised when yeh took the Black an' Red, nor what I hoped fir. But it comes ta this - the Bloody Prince will take it, sure as sunset, if we dinna stop 'im. An' thit's all thir is oan it."
His words tumbled and sank like catapult stones in empty fields, spattering in the silence. Last night's mirth and mockery had faded with the dawn, and the grim facade of Angra'thar leered in the distance, not nearly far enough. They knew what he was telling them, but they needed, some of them, to hear it again. To understand why they might die tomorrow in this frozen hell, far from home. He cleared his throat. "Air task's a simple win - hauld this pass again' flankers, fra' ground an' above. Yeh've all fought the Scourge afore; yeh ken the nature ay the foe. I need no' worry on mercy or sich foolishness. What I'll tell yeh is this.
"We stand on the Enemy's ain ground, an' 'tis his will thit drives thon legions, thra the lips ay his gen'rals. Ghouls an' geists, death knights an' Vargul, abominations an' crypt fiends an' aught else ay horror fra' the Fleshworks beyond the gate - we ken thir no' but fingers oan his hands. Teeth in his mouth. We'll butcher thim in the hundreds, as we did oan the Longest Night, an' they'll keep oan comin'." He looked to the banner on his right, the stirring black and red, as if to hearten himself for his next words.
"But Arthas is diff'rent."
The name fell like thunder from a cloudless sky, and he raised his voices over the indrawn breaths and hissed curses, most of them in Common. "Aye, I said it! We gotta remember, afore he wis the Enemy, afore the Lich King, he wis Arthas fuckin' Menethil! The Prince ay Lordaeron, the hope ay the North, an' he's ten times the bastard fir it all!"
Bricu's voice rang from the crowd, thick with angers old and new. "True words, aye," he snarled, "But Arthas is dead an' buried. That fuckin' monster's nothin' o' the man might o' been king. What use ta speak on it?"
He grinned wildly, flush with the glory of transgression, the seething joy of daring. "The use, mate, is thit he wis human once. 'Tis oan his will this war turns, an' the will ay men breaks. They ken doubt, an' mistrust. They ken pride, an' the void follows in its breakin'. They ken fear." He sharpened his smile, made it a thing of hungry knives. "An' if he's fergotten all ay this, then we'll fuckin' well remind 'im."
The words hung for an instant, long enough for him to feel that fear that was his heritage, worry that he'd misjudged them. Then Ulthanon, towering lean and fierce in the back, raised his head and howled. The shaggy wolf at his side howled with him, chilling the morning further. Then Jolstraer was bellowing wordlessly, and Bellesta let out an ursine roar, and soon the air shivered with shouts and cries and cheers - and Tarquin ap Danwyrith knew that hope had followed them north.
"He came fir us in Lordaeron," he shouted through the tumult, "An' we lived ta sing ay it! He came fir us at Hyjal, an' we broke his back oan the mount! He came fir us in Stormwind, an' we paved the streets in corpses an' turned his hands awey! Now we've come fir him!" He raised trembling hands and clutched at the sky, as to pull down the last winking stars. "We've come ta teach the Bloody Prince fear! We've come ta gie him the message ay the Longest Night, an' when his misbegotten children come thra the mountains, we'll write it in thir bodies!"
His outstretched arms described the circle of the world; there was nothing but the shouting, grinning, furious faces of this family they'd made, and the two words they all knew.
"Never again!" - and "Never again!" they roared back at him.
"Never again!" - and tall Aelflaed pumped her fist in the air, braid swinging as she shouted.
"Never again!" - and Varenna closed her tear-brimming eyes and sang it back.
"Never again!" - and Illithias's harsh voice cut through the air, the dawning light limming her scars in merciless silver and painting the other side of her face in stainless beauty.
And Ceil stepped up beside him, smooth as the road their minds both walked on, the words of a tongue older than nations rolling from her lips to be echoed by the heirs of broken kingdoms.
"Balah ishnu!" - and Delion screamed back at her, robes clutched tight around his thin frame.
"Balah ishnu!" - and Fingold stood straighter and gave the battle-cry back, his sword shining in the air.
Tarquin saw Beltar in the press, wrapping his mouth around the elven phrase, and pointed at the wiry dwarf. "Gie us yin fra' Dun Modr, auld boy!"
Beltar grinned and spat out the harsh consonants of the dwarven tongue - "Thros frean!" And "Thros frean!" they cried back, every tongue an axe blade at the walls of Angra'thar. They made it echo off the walls of the Wrath GAte until it seemed the dread columns might splinter from the artillery of their voices.
The Oathbreaker screamed through the shouts, scraping the flesh from his throat, spittle flecking his beard. "Let the fuckers come! Let thim come an' we'll send 'em howlin' home ta tell thir master thit this is wha' comes ay it! THIS IS WHA' COMES WHEN THE RIDERS GO TA WAR!"
He leaped down amidst the roaring, churning fury of his people, slapping shoulders, clasping wrists, laughing and shouting and exhorting them with orders that he would never remember, but were all variations on Ceil's silver-edged call that came slicing in his wake.
"Let's get to work, Riders."
He began with a lie, of course. "I've na pretty words fir this." The wind turned his voice to a hollow reed, a whisper through highland pipes. "Nor any clevir plan, or wicked trick fir ta spring at the last. Sich things will'na be ay help at us here." He smiled into the wind, easy and self-deprecating, a bare twitch of well-trained muscles. "Men ay business dinna win wars."
There were a few scattered laughs - Tirith, Stormlord bless him, was always reliable. "Yeh ken I dinna 'pprove ay war in gen'ral. S'bad fir the livelihood, an' I mislike bein' told fir ta kill a punter oan account ay nation or uniform or race. No' when thir's so many ither guid reasons." They didn't laugh at that, and he was grateful. "But if iver there wis a war worth the blood an' mis'ry ay fightin' it, 'tis this yin."
He let his gaze travel through the crowd, adding all the faces that should have rightly been there with them. "'Tis no easy thing ta risk all we've built o'er the last couple years, oan foreign shores, in open fields. No' whit any ay yeh wir promised when yeh took the Black an' Red, nor what I hoped fir. But it comes ta this - the Bloody Prince will take it, sure as sunset, if we dinna stop 'im. An' thit's all thir is oan it."
His words tumbled and sank like catapult stones in empty fields, spattering in the silence. Last night's mirth and mockery had faded with the dawn, and the grim facade of Angra'thar leered in the distance, not nearly far enough. They knew what he was telling them, but they needed, some of them, to hear it again. To understand why they might die tomorrow in this frozen hell, far from home. He cleared his throat. "Air task's a simple win - hauld this pass again' flankers, fra' ground an' above. Yeh've all fought the Scourge afore; yeh ken the nature ay the foe. I need no' worry on mercy or sich foolishness. What I'll tell yeh is this.
"We stand on the Enemy's ain ground, an' 'tis his will thit drives thon legions, thra the lips ay his gen'rals. Ghouls an' geists, death knights an' Vargul, abominations an' crypt fiends an' aught else ay horror fra' the Fleshworks beyond the gate - we ken thir no' but fingers oan his hands. Teeth in his mouth. We'll butcher thim in the hundreds, as we did oan the Longest Night, an' they'll keep oan comin'." He looked to the banner on his right, the stirring black and red, as if to hearten himself for his next words.
"But Arthas is diff'rent."
The name fell like thunder from a cloudless sky, and he raised his voices over the indrawn breaths and hissed curses, most of them in Common. "Aye, I said it! We gotta remember, afore he wis the Enemy, afore the Lich King, he wis Arthas fuckin' Menethil! The Prince ay Lordaeron, the hope ay the North, an' he's ten times the bastard fir it all!"
Bricu's voice rang from the crowd, thick with angers old and new. "True words, aye," he snarled, "But Arthas is dead an' buried. That fuckin' monster's nothin' o' the man might o' been king. What use ta speak on it?"
He grinned wildly, flush with the glory of transgression, the seething joy of daring. "The use, mate, is thit he wis human once. 'Tis oan his will this war turns, an' the will ay men breaks. They ken doubt, an' mistrust. They ken pride, an' the void follows in its breakin'. They ken fear." He sharpened his smile, made it a thing of hungry knives. "An' if he's fergotten all ay this, then we'll fuckin' well remind 'im."
The words hung for an instant, long enough for him to feel that fear that was his heritage, worry that he'd misjudged them. Then Ulthanon, towering lean and fierce in the back, raised his head and howled. The shaggy wolf at his side howled with him, chilling the morning further. Then Jolstraer was bellowing wordlessly, and Bellesta let out an ursine roar, and soon the air shivered with shouts and cries and cheers - and Tarquin ap Danwyrith knew that hope had followed them north.
"He came fir us in Lordaeron," he shouted through the tumult, "An' we lived ta sing ay it! He came fir us at Hyjal, an' we broke his back oan the mount! He came fir us in Stormwind, an' we paved the streets in corpses an' turned his hands awey! Now we've come fir him!" He raised trembling hands and clutched at the sky, as to pull down the last winking stars. "We've come ta teach the Bloody Prince fear! We've come ta gie him the message ay the Longest Night, an' when his misbegotten children come thra the mountains, we'll write it in thir bodies!"
His outstretched arms described the circle of the world; there was nothing but the shouting, grinning, furious faces of this family they'd made, and the two words they all knew.
"Never again!" - and "Never again!" they roared back at him.
"Never again!" - and tall Aelflaed pumped her fist in the air, braid swinging as she shouted.
"Never again!" - and Varenna closed her tear-brimming eyes and sang it back.
"Never again!" - and Illithias's harsh voice cut through the air, the dawning light limming her scars in merciless silver and painting the other side of her face in stainless beauty.
And Ceil stepped up beside him, smooth as the road their minds both walked on, the words of a tongue older than nations rolling from her lips to be echoed by the heirs of broken kingdoms.
"Balah ishnu!" - and Delion screamed back at her, robes clutched tight around his thin frame.
"Balah ishnu!" - and Fingold stood straighter and gave the battle-cry back, his sword shining in the air.
Tarquin saw Beltar in the press, wrapping his mouth around the elven phrase, and pointed at the wiry dwarf. "Gie us yin fra' Dun Modr, auld boy!"
Beltar grinned and spat out the harsh consonants of the dwarven tongue - "Thros frean!" And "Thros frean!" they cried back, every tongue an axe blade at the walls of Angra'thar. They made it echo off the walls of the Wrath GAte until it seemed the dread columns might splinter from the artillery of their voices.
The Oathbreaker screamed through the shouts, scraping the flesh from his throat, spittle flecking his beard. "Let the fuckers come! Let thim come an' we'll send 'em howlin' home ta tell thir master thit this is wha' comes ay it! THIS IS WHA' COMES WHEN THE RIDERS GO TA WAR!"
He leaped down amidst the roaring, churning fury of his people, slapping shoulders, clasping wrists, laughing and shouting and exhorting them with orders that he would never remember, but were all variations on Ceil's silver-edged call that came slicing in his wake.
"Let's get to work, Riders."
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
Re: The Wrath Gate
The morning was riding high, pushing towards midday. The sunlight streamed into the valley out of a clear blue sky, making the day crisp and sharp. It never quite seemed to touch the immense gate perched at the head of the slope. The dull smokey saronite drank deeply of the light and grew larger, roaring at the assembled armies with its mass. The breath of the armoured thousands steamed around the camps as they broke and began the form ranks.
The scouts arrived ahead of the small band of warriors, though just barely. The command tent was prepared for their arrival, but word had only just begun to spread through the men and women of the Alliance forces when the six and the one topped the last rise. They rode slowly and proudly, some on steeds bound of bone and magic, others on animals of the northern tundras. The six flanked the one on all sides, and though they cut an imposing sight, one that would chill the blood even beyond the bitter winds of this frozen Hell, all eyes were focused on the one. He should have been ridiculous to these armed and hardened veterans. A man clad in plate that he looked barely strong enough to lift, much less fight in. He was mounted on the back of a great white bear, bred for combat by the fierce Brunnhildar of the Storm Peaks. Yet, where Uthas passed, the sounds of war fell away to silence, as they always had. It had been this way at Southshore during the bloody struggles as well, in the time before. The clanks and curses of the army ceased, leaving only the cracking of the great black banner carried by the foremost rider - a white eye, open and eternally staring.
The dark warriors rode into the space cleared in front of the command tent and stopped. A slick morass of half-melted mud, dirt, and ice surrounded the pavillion - the pressure of ten thousand booted feet churning the frozen ground with the heat of an army's impending violence. Though the wind caught and tugged at the banner of the Eye, pulling it taught, the great flag of Stormwind hung limp over the ranks of soldiers. The great bear sniffed at the air and let forth a deep, rumbling growl. Uthas set his hand on its head and rubbed it gently. The bear stretched its neck back and sighed.
The rider carrying the standard of the Unblinking Eye rode a few steps forward, and the armed ring around the tent drew steel, filling the air with the sound of readied weapons. The rider stopped, his undead steed standing lifelessly on the cold rock. The six stood motionless in the cold, statues of darkness against the bright sun shining on the snow and steel around them. They seemed to somehow BELONG to the great gate towering over them, and yet they stood defiantly apart from it. In fact, despite the threat around them, none of them broke their gaze from awesome Angrathar. Only the one looked at the warriors, men and women of the Light all, sweeping his gaze across them, seeing their hatred held in check only by their training and fear.
From within the tent came a single command, and after a pause, the guards surrounding the tent sheathed their blades and stepped back to their posts. The soldiers watching did the same. In that moment the Light won a small victory as the love a man's followers bore him quelled the hatred in their hearts and gave them peace for a short while longer. It is on such small victories that the fate of the world turns. Bolivar Fordragon ducked out of the tent into the morning light. The commanding officer of the Allied forces stood in the cold and watched the riders impassively, no emotion playing on his weathered face. The bannerman of the Eye shifted his skeletal steed to the side and allowed the great white bear to pace up to the general. The two leaders looked one another over, steam rising from the mouth of Fordragon - none from the helm of the deathknight. The air was heavy with silence - the living frozen with the sense of the intensity that these men wore about their shoulders as a cloak, and the dead, as always, with eternal patience. At last Uthas spoke. "Welcome to the war General. The Eye shall take the van." With that the small man in plate turned his bear and rode past the general toward the gate, his small group following behind. The soldiers surrounding the tent turned their eyes to Fordragon, waiting for the signal to fall upon the group. The general stared after the riders, his eyes on the banner twisting in the wind, then turned on his heel and stepped back into his tent.
The scouts arrived ahead of the small band of warriors, though just barely. The command tent was prepared for their arrival, but word had only just begun to spread through the men and women of the Alliance forces when the six and the one topped the last rise. They rode slowly and proudly, some on steeds bound of bone and magic, others on animals of the northern tundras. The six flanked the one on all sides, and though they cut an imposing sight, one that would chill the blood even beyond the bitter winds of this frozen Hell, all eyes were focused on the one. He should have been ridiculous to these armed and hardened veterans. A man clad in plate that he looked barely strong enough to lift, much less fight in. He was mounted on the back of a great white bear, bred for combat by the fierce Brunnhildar of the Storm Peaks. Yet, where Uthas passed, the sounds of war fell away to silence, as they always had. It had been this way at Southshore during the bloody struggles as well, in the time before. The clanks and curses of the army ceased, leaving only the cracking of the great black banner carried by the foremost rider - a white eye, open and eternally staring.
The dark warriors rode into the space cleared in front of the command tent and stopped. A slick morass of half-melted mud, dirt, and ice surrounded the pavillion - the pressure of ten thousand booted feet churning the frozen ground with the heat of an army's impending violence. Though the wind caught and tugged at the banner of the Eye, pulling it taught, the great flag of Stormwind hung limp over the ranks of soldiers. The great bear sniffed at the air and let forth a deep, rumbling growl. Uthas set his hand on its head and rubbed it gently. The bear stretched its neck back and sighed.
The rider carrying the standard of the Unblinking Eye rode a few steps forward, and the armed ring around the tent drew steel, filling the air with the sound of readied weapons. The rider stopped, his undead steed standing lifelessly on the cold rock. The six stood motionless in the cold, statues of darkness against the bright sun shining on the snow and steel around them. They seemed to somehow BELONG to the great gate towering over them, and yet they stood defiantly apart from it. In fact, despite the threat around them, none of them broke their gaze from awesome Angrathar. Only the one looked at the warriors, men and women of the Light all, sweeping his gaze across them, seeing their hatred held in check only by their training and fear.
From within the tent came a single command, and after a pause, the guards surrounding the tent sheathed their blades and stepped back to their posts. The soldiers watching did the same. In that moment the Light won a small victory as the love a man's followers bore him quelled the hatred in their hearts and gave them peace for a short while longer. It is on such small victories that the fate of the world turns. Bolivar Fordragon ducked out of the tent into the morning light. The commanding officer of the Allied forces stood in the cold and watched the riders impassively, no emotion playing on his weathered face. The bannerman of the Eye shifted his skeletal steed to the side and allowed the great white bear to pace up to the general. The two leaders looked one another over, steam rising from the mouth of Fordragon - none from the helm of the deathknight. The air was heavy with silence - the living frozen with the sense of the intensity that these men wore about their shoulders as a cloak, and the dead, as always, with eternal patience. At last Uthas spoke. "Welcome to the war General. The Eye shall take the van." With that the small man in plate turned his bear and rode past the general toward the gate, his small group following behind. The soldiers surrounding the tent turned their eyes to Fordragon, waiting for the signal to fall upon the group. The general stared after the riders, his eyes on the banner twisting in the wind, then turned on his heel and stepped back into his tent.
A rhombus is the kind of rectangle a bitch would draw.
Re: The Wrath Gate
The sun was high in the sky when the horns split the air, crying courage and valor with a shivering of bronze. Spears and shields were raised, messengers spattered dirt as they galloped between regiments, banners snapped in the knife-cold breeze. The Highlord gave his last terse orders to his commanders, and they dispersed to the corners of the great gallant mass that advanced steadily on the towering black mouth that shuttered the edge of the sane world.
The Alliance was marching on Angrathar.
They were not alone; though no proper word had been given, it was common knowledge that the Horde rode out too, under the old Warsong banners, helmed by a daring and able young Warlord. And ranged in the hills about the Wrath Gate were the Irregulars - sellswords, criminals, would-be heroes, drawn by Varian Wrynn's pardon, the glory of the great battle of their time, or simply the bitter knowledge that all the world was engaged in this war.
The icy mountains that loomed over Dragonlight were pocked with tunnels and passes, smaller tracks that opened onto the steppes and could disgorge the endless ranks of the Scourge's great army like so many spurts of bile. It was here, for some miles on either side of Fordragon's front, that the Irregulars made their lonely stands. A dozen, twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred, each group determined to hold their own ground for their own reasons. Spitting words of defiance against the Lich King, boasting of their prowesss, hiding any fear that might've soaked through their bones with the rest of the cold at the edge of the world...
On a hill half a mile from Angrathar, some fifty adventurers, chiefly humans and Kal'dorei but with a handful of others, arranged themselves from crown to slope. Two familiar banners stood at the top of the hill, in the center of a triangle of heavy ballistae generously donated by the Alliance in return for the coin of their blood and lives. They swapped jokes, exchanged furtive kisses, and watched the pass beneath them warily, sparing an occasional glance for the bronze-and-blue mass advancing on the saronite horror in the distance.
Under a hard pale sky, they waited for the dead to come.
The Alliance was marching on Angrathar.
They were not alone; though no proper word had been given, it was common knowledge that the Horde rode out too, under the old Warsong banners, helmed by a daring and able young Warlord. And ranged in the hills about the Wrath Gate were the Irregulars - sellswords, criminals, would-be heroes, drawn by Varian Wrynn's pardon, the glory of the great battle of their time, or simply the bitter knowledge that all the world was engaged in this war.
The icy mountains that loomed over Dragonlight were pocked with tunnels and passes, smaller tracks that opened onto the steppes and could disgorge the endless ranks of the Scourge's great army like so many spurts of bile. It was here, for some miles on either side of Fordragon's front, that the Irregulars made their lonely stands. A dozen, twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred, each group determined to hold their own ground for their own reasons. Spitting words of defiance against the Lich King, boasting of their prowesss, hiding any fear that might've soaked through their bones with the rest of the cold at the edge of the world...
On a hill half a mile from Angrathar, some fifty adventurers, chiefly humans and Kal'dorei but with a handful of others, arranged themselves from crown to slope. Two familiar banners stood at the top of the hill, in the center of a triangle of heavy ballistae generously donated by the Alliance in return for the coin of their blood and lives. They swapped jokes, exchanged furtive kisses, and watched the pass beneath them warily, sparing an occasional glance for the bronze-and-blue mass advancing on the saronite horror in the distance.
Under a hard pale sky, they waited for the dead to come.
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 36 guests