To Save A Paladin.

[Yva]

(Some of my favorite rp to date. Logs, as requested.)

At the Pig:

Jolstraer sighs with a frown.

[Over the buzzbox line] Jak: We're waiting.

Jolstraer fidgets a little bit, then slowly stands.

Bricu says: Well.
Threnn: Right.
Bricu says: Business calls.

Threnn glances at Jolstraer and Bricu.

Jolstraer nods.

Jolstraer says: ...Ayeh.

[Over the buzzbox line] Jhoryla: *begins humming Yva's song*

Feliche says: Take care Bricu...Jols.
Threnn says: Right.
Bricu says: See yeh lot in a bit
Threnn says: You lot take care, yeah?
Feliche smirks. "Ayeh, you too."
Aelflaed says: Ayeh - ye twa.

Jolstraer looks down at a clenched fist, then nods, setting his jaw.

Jolstraer says: Good tae be 'ere wit' yeh lot.
Keiana says: See ya, mister.

Jolstraer nods to himself, then tromps out, looking like a man headed to the stocks.

Feliche quirks an eyebrow at Jols. "Oi...Jols."

Jolstraer nods to the both of them.

Bricu says: C'mon.
Jolstraer says: Le's git oan wit' 'et.
Threnn says: You're pulling through this. Not up for negotiation.
Jolstraer says: Yes ma'am.

Jolstraer chuckles.

Threnn says: Light's Hope, then?
Bricu says: Aye

Arriving at the Eastwall Tower, in the Plagues. The tower floor has an enormous ritual circle with runes etched along its side. There is a table laid out in the middle of it. A matching circle is on the wall, smaller, but it’s a replica of the first. Yet a third circle is on an altar by the door, but this one is a miniature. There are the same runes, a candle, and four perfect pearls spaced throughout.

Jolstraer nods with a grunt.

Threnn puts a hand on Jolly's shoulder.

Jolstraer says: Le's git oan wit' 'et, 'en.

Darrows adjusts the positioning of a pearl.

Jolstraer arrives, looking ready to face a horde of zombies.

Jhoryla smiles to the newcomers.

Darrows says: Jhory, can I borrow one of your blades?
Jhoryla says: Of course you may. Please.

Jak turns and faces the door.

Jhoryla says: Walk along the wall.
Darrows says: Don't cross the circle please.

Bricu nods at Jak.

Threnn flanks Jolstraer, taking in the room.

Jhoryla slips polished clean steel into Yva's hand.

Jolstraer grunts, eyeing the scenery.

Darrows pulls a bowl forward, and with a small hiss, slices her arm open from wrist to elbow. She bleeds. A lot.

Darrows says: I hate this bloody part.
Jak says: Master Bittertongue, Missus Bittertongue, Sir Taborwynn.

Jak inclines his head politely.

Bricu says: Please tell me the pun was intended.
Darrows says: If only I was feeling so glib tonight.
Bricu says: Ah fuck.

Darrows drips blood into the bowl, murmuring quietly.

Jak glances at Yva, trying to wipe the worry from his face and be steadfast and grim, with only moderate success.

Darrows smiles at him.

Darrows says: You get to bandage me later. Exciting, I'm sure.

Jolstraer slowly tugs off his gloves.

Darrows makes a fist and turns to regard Jolstraer.

Darrows says: . . . hello, good evening, take your shirt off.
Jolstraer says: Nae e'en dinnah fuhst?

Jolstraer fails at smirking.

Darrows sags into Jak's side.

Jolstraer grunts, pulling his tabard over his head.

Threnn holds out her hands.

Threnn says: I can take your things.

Jak wraps his arm around Yva's waist, staring down at the circle.

Jolstraer nods to Threnn with a look of thanks, folding his tabard reverantly and placing it into her hands.

Darrows whispers to Jak.

Jolstraer struggles to unbutton his tunic and shrug out of it.

Jak slides his hand up Yva's arm gingerly, blood ticking gently against his gauntlet.

Jolstraer manages to not grunt, despite the nasty state of his bandages.

Threnn takes tunic and tabard and tucks them carefully into her packs.

Jhoryla says: Those bandages will need to come off, will they not?

Jhoryla peers over at Yva.

Darrows says: Yes.

Threnn frowns at the bandages, fingers twitching.

Jhoryla says: I need space.
Darrows says: A moment.
Jak says: It's a long sentence.
Jolstraer says: Thrennah...'elp me git 'ese thangs off'n.
Threnn says: 'course.

Jolstraer starts unwinding them.

Darrows eyes the circle for a moment. Her fingers darken with shadow. The outer edge of the circle flares once and then dims.

Threnn helps remove them, being extra careful around the wound.

Darrows says: . . . the wards are gone. Cross them. Jolstraer needs to be on the table. Jhory, you can step where you need to do your work. You won't harm anything.

Jhoryla smiles.

Jolstraer exposes an mish mashed expanse of old scars and new, and one hideous looking gash in his right ribs.

Jolstraer says: Raight 'en.

Jolstraer digs his flask out, takes one last swig, and caps it, handing it to Threnn.

Jak looks at the suppurating wound with an air of professional calculation, nodding slowly.

Threnn stashes the flask beside shirt and tabard.

Jak says: We're not a moment too soon.

Jolstraer eyes the table warily.

Darrows says: You'll be fine, Jolstraer.

Jolstraer pulls himself up on it, stretching out with a grunt.

Jhoryla says: Don't worry.

Jolstraer lies down.

Darrows opens her palm and a blackened stone appears. She tosses it up in the air.

Jhoryla makes her way to the center of the circle.

Threnn says: Where do you need me?

Jhoryla kneels down.

Threnn raises her eyebrows inquisitively at Darrows.

Darrows says: Wherever you're comfortable Threnn. You're the 'in case'. And moral support.
Threnn says: Right.
Darrows says: If you have access to him, you should be fine.

Jolstraer grunts.

Jhoryla slips across on the far side of the table, her fingers idly brushing over a small jar of ink, her eyes resting on a sharpened needle.

Threnn says: Suppose I need to be outside the circle, yeah?

Darrows moves her injured arm towards Jak.

Darrows says: You can cross it for now. Later, not so much. I dropped the wards.

Bricu nods at Jolstraer.

Jak removes his gauntlets and attends to the cut on Yva's arm, tying it off with businesslike efficiency.

Jhoryla leans down, her voice quiet, but audible, "Don't worry Jolstraer, I'm a very old professional." She grins, resting a hand upon his forehead.

Threnn says: Mean when the ritual starts. Rather be close enough to offer a hand to hold.
Darrows says: Outside of the circle and not near the one on the wall.
Threnn says: Right.
Bricu says: Now would be a shite time ta throw herrin' at yeh, huh?
Darrows says: Bittertongue, could you come here a moment?
Bricu says: Aye

Bricu moves carefully between the circles

Darrows points at a small circle with a candle and four pearls.

Threnn positions herself outside said circles but within Jolstraer's line of sight.

Darrows says: . . . do you think you could set those pearls? A ring a necklace, something? Jolstraer will need them.

Jolstraer chuckles at Bricu.

Bricu says: Aye. In what sort o'settin'? Silver, gold?
Darrows says: Whatever is resilient.
Jolstraer says: Yeh'll git yer chance, if'n 'is works, Brick.
Jhoryla says: It will work. Now.. I must concentrate.

Jhoryla closes her eyes.

Bricu says: Resilient....right..
Darrows says: Titanium perhaps?
Bricu says: I was thinkin' as much
Darrows says: You're the professional. Whatever you think is best. And thank you.
Bricu says: Aye.

Jolstraer breathes evenly, but starts feeling a bit tired again. For a moment, he glances at his pouch with his shirt and tabard, and grunts.

Jolstraer mutters. "Feckin' 'ad tha las' wunn annahwey."

Darrows says: . . . let's do this.

Jak fixes his eyes on the circle on the wall, lips moving silently.

Jhoryla reaches, still with eyes close, grasping the needle. Slowly at first, she begins to twirl the instrument between her fingers. Slowly, but then faster, faster, the needle nearly a blur.

Darrows eyes Jhoryla up and down.

Jhoryla begins uttering something, something barely audible, her eyes opening in a violet blaze, the needle's spin halting, hand dipping its point into a black vial of ink. Without a moment of hesitation, her arm sweeps over the Paladin, fingers bobbing, preternaturally fast, as a large rune cuts its way into his flesh.

Bricu watches Jhoryla with concern.

Jolstraer grunts at the first prick.

Jak murmurs as the needle works, his whispering voice audible in the tomb-silent space. "Melech moiar - make this flesh a road."

Jhoryla moves swiftly, fllowing every intricate line, every precise edge memorized in her mind. The rune grows, stops, and another begins to form, beautiful twisted things taking shape about the scourged flesh.

Jolstraer does his damndest not to flex the arm taking the work, but his free hand is in a tight grip on the edge of the table.

Darrows begins to pace some, her fingers flashing with shadow.

Jak says: Davac'cai ban caen - spur these clutching hands.

Jhoryla retrieves more ink, continuing her work, her rhythm in line with Jak's ancient and powerful cant, as more shapes appear along the Paladin's side, slithering, crawling their way to his shoulder.

Jak says: Ved'ya bech, ved'ya ruch, venastra magyath.

Darrows picks up her bowl from the altar and a brush and approaches the wall circle.

Jolstraer lets out another long grunt.

Threnn folds her hands, as if to keep them still.

Darrows traces along the outer edge or her glyph, sealing it with her blood. It seems to trigger something, and the lines of the circle, the glyphs inside, begin to flash.

Jak says: Old hunger be dismayed, old hunger be emptied; this flesh will not be yours.

Jhoryla continues, her eyes still ablaze in their hazy purple glow. Slowly, more carefully crafted shapes form over Jolstraer's cracked Northron flesh, like spiders, yes they resemble spiders, sweeping from shoulder to tricep.

Jak says: Venastra magyath. /This flesh will not be yours/.

Darrows closes the wall circle with a sweep of the paintbrush, watching the blood drip down the stone.

Jak 's voice is dry and analytical in the space, a professor lecturing.

Jak says: The taint is loosened. Now we send it forth.

Jolstraer 's jaw cracks, his teeth bit down and grinding.

Jhoryla redips the long needle, the runes becoming more intricate even as they shrink, forcing the dark magic of the scourge, channeling it, diverting it. The shadows about her ebb and flow, a low thrum echoing about the place like some ancient drum of war. She does not slip, makes no mistakes; her work is precise, delicate, terrible. Onward, across a forearm, to the wrist, wrapping about it, encircling it.

Jak says: Hamanai, argonai, deva'chatral. The last road, the following road, the bile-dreams of your Old Father.
Jak says: Caudyek! Abjured.
Jak says: Semhail! Unhomed.
Jak says: Uthonai! Dispossessed.

Jak 's voice drops to a quiet whisper.

Jak says: Oun vai. You are named.

Jhoryla begins to tremble, quiver, the power of the cant, the ritual, nearly overwhelming her. She resists, drawing out those dark lines of the final road, to the tip of the paladin's index finger. The final rune placed, something unexpected, the spiders weaving into the shape, of Lordaeron seal.

Jolstraer lets out a brief roar of pain, his painkillers having worn off at the /wrong/ time.

Darrows peers at Jolstraer searchingly.

Bricu grinds his teeth.

Jak narrows his eyes.

Threnn 's folded hands clench tight.

Darrows rolls a Demonic Soulstone towards Threnn. It goes around the ritual circle, deliberately trying to find her feet.

Jak says: Oun vai, Jhoryla. What did you...

Jak trails off, approaching to the edge of the circle and staring at the final rune.

Darrows peers at it, her mouth flattening into a line.

Jak says: Oun vai...lorn daer ronae.

Threnn bends to pick up the soulstone.

Jhoryla mutters, her voice low. "There's a break.. now finish it"

Jak says: ...aye. The pearls.

Jolstraer 's free hand writhes at his side.

Darrows glances at Jak.

Darrows says: . . . is it my turn, love?

Darrows smiles wearily.

Jak says: It is.

Bricu sets the pearls into a titanium setting.

Jak says: The thing, the Scourge - it's been named. The taint is alive in him. We need to siphon it out.
Darrows says: It will go to the pearls. The ring . . .

Threnn catches the shape of the tattoo and smiles.

Darrows says: Put it on and then I'll do it.

Darrows rubs her wrists, murmuring. The room's temperature drops by at least ten degrees.

Jak glances at Yva, a troubled look on his face, but says nothing.

Darrows says: And then I need everyone out of the circle except for Jolstraer.

Darrows 's feet are surrounded by a small pool of ice.

Jak steps back, folds his hands on his axe again.

Darrows thanks Bricu as he hands her the ring. She gently lifts Jolstraer's hand and slides the ring onto his bloodied finger.

Darrows says: Are you finished, Jhory?

Jhoryla nods, slowly, her eyes beginning to fade.

Darrows says: Out of the circle unless you want to be caught in a witchstorm.
Jak says: There are worse things.

Darrows tilts her head back and stares at the wall. It's glowing faintly.

Jhoryla moves away, slipping against the wall.

Darrows murmurs.

Jhoryla kneels down.

Darrows waves her fingers and the circle around Jolstraer flashes bright white and then dims. Inside of it, the runes begin to glow faintly, red and purple and gold.

Darrows crosses the room to Jak. She smiles at him before running her palms down his axe blade, making two precise cuts. She returns to the wall glyph.

Jolstraer 's skin crackles where run and flesh are one, cascading down from neck to arm. Jol bucks once, letting out a loud grunt of surprise.

Darrows looks over her shoulder at the tattooed paladin.

Darrows says: . . . if you need to be held down, I'll be disappointed.

Darrows braces herself and begins to hum. The ice at her feet spreads, and then the shadows in the room thicken, oozing out of the corners.

Darrows says: Niha Lo Orderem.

Darrows takes a deep breath and puts her bloody palms to the two runes in the center of the circle. As she does so, the runes around Jolstraer grow bright, brighter.

Jolstraer yells out once, muscles flexing and tensing in a rippling fashion. Runes sizzle and flash as the colors dance from neck down to wrist, over and over again. His free hand slams down on the wood beside him, creaking it, as his right arm seems to be trapped

Darrows feeds magic into the circle on the wall and it grows brighter. The shadows begin to crawl, swirling around Jak's feet, and then Jhoryla's.

Threnn starts forward, then catches herself before she can take a step.

Jak says: It won't go quietly.

Jak looks across the circle and the writhing paladin, watching Threnn and Bricu.

Darrows says: The FIRST!

Darrows breaks one hand away from the wall and touches her blood to the first rune there, the one matching the largest tattoo on Jolstraer's side.

Bricu crosses his arms.

Jolstraer bellows once, his right arm writhing. The largest rune blazes, and a chilling roar coems from the old man's throat.

Darrows wastes no time going to the second. The room's temperature drops again, and a swirl of wind brushes through. "TWO."

Threnn mutters. "Bloody, godsdamned..."

Bricu clenches his jaw.

Jolstraer 's second rune flares to life then, and another yell of pain, his throat going half-hoarse.

Darrows 's hand shakes as she moves it to the third. The shadows in the room throb. A purple haze is glowing upon her skin now.

Darrows says: THREE!

Jolstraer yells: LAIGHT--!

Jolstraer throat is raw, his arm writhing more intensely now, and his free hand banging on the wooden table repeatedly, heels drumming.

Darrows says: NIHA LO ORDEREM VAL TRASKA!

Jhoryla is absolutely still, unmoving, her eyes closed once more.

Darrows slams her other hands against the fourth. The light grows brighter, almost too bright to look at as the glyphs nearly explode with magic.

Threnn reaches out and clamps a hand on Bricu's arm to anchor herself.

Jolstraer cries out in a plea to the Light, the words unintelligible and frantic in their speed.

Darrows sags against the wall. Ice has wound its way around her feet and skirts in thick cords now.

Bricu moves closeer to Threnn.

Darrows grits her teeth, the purple magic on her skin darkening as she forces her palm against the rune at the ten o'clock position in the circle.

Darrows says: FIVE!

Darrows is panting. Her shadows twirl around the floor and make their way towards the paladins. The magic climbs the walls behind them, reaching dark tendrils towards them, but they skitter away at the last moment.

Jak stands statue-still, his gauntlets creaking from the strain around his axe, his eyes fixed on Yva.

Jolstraer roars again, his eye shedding tears more than in all his lifetime combined. His pleas are roared from begging to demanding, curses and blessings all coming out in a croaked yell.

Darrows tilts her head back and laughs as the purple magic around her churns in a maelstrom. She reaches her arms above her head, both palms bleeding.

Jolstraer's runed arm begins to raise off of the table, no matter how hard he fights it, jerking his head back and forth wildly.

Darrows yells: NIHA LO ORDEREM VAL TRASKA ESPARTRA!

Jak whips his head around, staring across the circle to the Bittertongues. "Talk to him!" he hisses through the din. "He has the waking Scourge in his flesh!"

Threnn says: Hold on, Jolly. Sweet Light.

Darrows SHOVES her palms against that last sigil, and magic just explodes. The ice around goes across the floor, up the walls. The circles, all three of them, alight.

Bricu says: OI. It takes more than this shite ta keep a good northron down. Even one that dont' know his fuckin' leeks.
Threnn says: Don't you bloody dare give in to it.

Jolstraer bellows out with the last of his breath, the last of his strength, the last of the Light's hope left in him.

Darrows screams as well, and the runes on his side and arms are shining bright white. They begin to flicker, bottom to top and then back again, faster and faster. The runes on the wall do the same, in that order. Yva falls to her knees with another shriek.

Threnn says: I'll drag your ass back here just to kick it from here to Light's Hope and back.
Bricu says: C'mon Jolly

Jolstraer 's arm falls to the table with a resounding thud, in time with another defiant roar to the world.

Jak turns swiftly back to Yva, practically straining at the air around him to cross the circle to her side, knowing he can't.

Jolstraer yells: LOOOOOORRRRDAAAAEEERROOOOONNNNNNN!

Bricu says: There yeh go!

Darrows is humming and laughing now. Her eyes aren't right. She looks at the door.

Darrows says: COME!

Darrows calls her demon to her, and it stumbles over. Its tentacles reach for the purple magic on her skin and begins to pull it off. Yva gasps and falls to her side.

Darrows says: Br-break the bloody stone, Threnn.
Darrows reaches a hand towards her, twitching.

Threnn throws the stone to the ground, hard.

Darrows goes limp on the floor. As the soulshard breaks, the magic in the room just . . . goes away. It’s gone. The circles all turn gray. The light inside of the runes dissipates, and all that's left is a solid line of black.

Jolstraer heaves, his throat raw, his voice spent, but the pain continuing. The runes die down slowly, turning warm, one after another.

Jak nearly bounds across the room to Yva's side, skidding to one knee in front of her. He kneels down.

Threnn, meanwhile, kneels besides Jolly.

Threnn says: Jolly...?
Bricu says: Right. Oi

Bricu kneels down.

Threnn touches Jolstraer's shoulder, gently.

Jolstraer 's chest heaves, his eye clenched tight, his muscles twitching, but otherwise all right.

Jolstraer says: ....Laight

Darrows 's eyes are closed and her breathing is labored. The felhound paces around her, its tentacles siphoning tiny bits of magic here and there.

Jhoryla opens her eyes and stands.

Threnn doesn't bother asking permission. Her hands skate over Jolly's chest, seeking the place where the wound was.

Jhoryla strips off her vest, her hands moving to her temples, rubbing.

Jolstraer 's skin is hot to the touch where the runes remain.

Jak places his hands on Yva's brow and closes his eyes briefly.

Darrows 's hand falls open and a small piece of paper falls out of it.

Threnn says: How you feeling, there?

Jolstraer croaks.

Jolstraer says: Like ah been used like ah anvil.

Jhoryla looks down at the fallen warlock, grumbling something in a fel tongue.

Darrows opens her eyes. They're unfocussed and glazed.

Bricu peers at Jhoryla searchingly.

Darrows whispers something, barely audible.

Bricu says: Can yeh sit up an' get some tea or some shite?

Jhoryla begins shaking out her wrist.

Jhoryla says: Better...
Threnn says: Yeah, well, you're a Northern man. Are you lot supposed to be able to hammer out swords on your bare chests anyway?
Bricu says: He's supposed ta know what leeks are...

Jak leans closer, murmuring to Yva.

Jolstraer grips the edge of the table with his free hand, pulling once to no effect. His jaw set stubbornly then, and he nearly bellows pulling himself to a sitting position.

Jhoryla returns, thermos in hand.

Darrows tries to move her hand to push the paper towards Jak.

Jhoryla says: . . . Coffee.
Jolstraer says: Would yeh...give ovah...'bout tha feckin' leeks?

Jak glances down and catches sight of the paper. He plucks it from the floor and unfolds.

Threnn smirks slyly at Jolstraer.

Jolstraer cracks a faint, exhausted grin.

Jhoryla slips down, offering it to Jolstraer.

Bricu says: Not till yeh have me damn stew.

Jolstraer takes the coffee with his unruned hand, gulping it down.

Jhoryla stands again.

Bricu says: The honey should soothe yer throat.
Jhoryla says: That went well.
Threnn says: Right. No dying on me in the next few minutes.
Jolstraer says: Ah'll eat annahthin' yeh feckin' put in fron' o'mah.

Jolstraer nods wearily.

Jak 's lips tighten, and he raises his head and voice.

Jak says: Sir Taborwynn.

Threnn kneels beside Yva.

Bricu says: Left overs. I'll make somethin' fresher.

Bricu goes outside to cooks something up beside the fire.

Threnn looks from Jak to Yva.

Jak says: Yva wrote a note. She knew she'd be...unable to speak.
Threnn says: Is this exhaustion, or worse?

Jolstraer grunts, setting the empty cup down and tearing into the meat.

Jak speaks without looking over his shoulder, his voice carefully uninflected.

Jak says: "When the pearls turn dark, the taint's overcome them. The ritual must be repeated."

Jak looks over at Threnn, shaking his head.

Jak says: I don't know. She pushes herself.

Jolstraer 's face is chiseled with a deep set frown.

Jhoryla ruffles a hand in Jolstraer's hair, then wanders off to Yva’s side.

Bricu returns, food in hand.

Bricu says: Try this
Jhoryla says: Yva?

Jolstraer takes a haunch of hot meat from Bricu, tearing into it methodically.

Darrows blinks her eyes, the glaze clearing away. Her mouth moves, but at first no sound comes. Slowly, the song begins to come forth in a raspy voice.

Threnn makes one of those noises you'd hear from a matron at the orphanage, on hearing a particular charge has gotten into yet another scrape.

Threnn says: Yeah. I hear she does that.

Jhoryla sighs.

Jhoryla says: Yva.. I can't stay. I'm sorry.

Jak 's lips curve into a shaky smile, and a strange sound comes from somewhere in his throat. Eventually one might realize he's humming along, somewhat tunelessly.

Jhoryla brushes a hand over the mage's knee, then stands, and begins to stumble out.

Jolstraer 's breathing becomes less labored, and he stares across the room at Yva's prone form.

Darrows 's eyes flicker to Jhory. She hums a little louder.

Jhoryla hums softly, her own music strained and cracked.

Jolstraer attempts with a raw throat...and takes up humming the tune himself.

Jhoryla turns back, smiles, and wanders out.

Threnn fills her hands with the Light, giving Yva the once-over. She whispers prayers of healing, smaller ones building up to larger, so she doesn't overwhelm.

Bricu says: "My love is ice an' fire an' win"

Darrows gasps as the light hits her and her eyes fly wide.

Bricu says: "The rush o'river the larks thag sing..."

Darrows turns her face, looks at the felhound, and a crooked grin appears.

Darrows says: Die for me.

Darrows opens her palm and a bolt of shadow arcs out. The felhound is simply gone.

Jak murmurs "Don't worry. She doesn't mean me."

Threnn says: Get her to bed. For three days, at least.
Bricu says: I'm not takin' any chances...

Jak nods at Threnn and slides his arms under Yva's slumped form at hips and shoulders, smiling down at her.

Jak says: We're all learning that bloody song, dear.

Darrows frowns at the words "Three days". She glares at Threnn.

Threnn glares right back.

Threnn says: You'll stay the fuck in bed. Did some kind of a wonder here tonight. *Rest.*

Darrows sighs and closes her eyes, cuddling up against Jak's chest.

Jolstraer sits in a kind of stupor himself, his runed arm flexing and unflexing distractedly.

Threnn turns to Jak.

Jak gets to his feet, lifting Yva as if she was made of paper.

Threnn says: She tries so much as swinging her legs over the side, you push her back down.
Jak says: I'll be watching her.
Threnn says: Good.
Jak says: Thank you.

Darrows is already out. Her chest rises and falls with sleep.

Jak glances over at Jolstraer, his relieved smile settling into a measuring stare.

Jak says: Sir Taborwynn.

Jolstraer idly runs a hand over his ribs, the smooth, still-pink flesh of fresh healing, then looks up at Jak.

Threnn nods, done with one patient, returning to the other.

Jolstraer seems to have a weighing look in his eye, then he nods.

Jak says: You're well?
Jolstraer says: Ayeh. Ah'll be raight s'rain t'morrah.

Threnn purses her lips. She's not so sure of that.

There’s a pause.

Jolstraer says: Jak...

Jak glances down at Yva's sleeping face, then back up to Jolstraer.

Jak says: Sir?

Jak 's voice is utterly toneless.

Jolstraer furrows his brow, a deep sigh coming out.

Jolstraer says: Annahthin' yeh twae evah need. Yeh let mah knae. Annahthin'. Lordaeron son's honah. Ah swurr 'et.

Jolstraer nods grimly.

Jak watches Jolstraer for a long moment, then lowers his head.

Jak says: I ask nothing but that you earn this, Sir Taborwynn. Aught else is between you and the days you've won. I'll tell you when Yva is receiving visitors.

Jolstraer nods.

Jolstraer says: Thank yeh, lad. Ah will nae f'rget 'is.

Jak lowers his head silently and moves for the door. He stops at the doorway and looks over his shoulder.

Jolstraer slowly swings his legs over the side of the table, pulling himself to wobbly feet.

Threnn holds out an arm for Jolly to lean on.

Jolstraer accepts the arm gratefully.

Jak says: The runes - Jhoryla did something differently. I'm not sure what it will mean.
Bricu says: What do yeh mean she did somethin' differently?
Jak says:I don't believe anything ill. I'll tell you when I know.

Bricu nods at Jak.

Bricu says: Let me know when yeh do.
Jolstraer says: 'Et'll beh wot 'et'll beh.
Jak says: The end of the sentence. "Oun vai." I name you. It was meant to be...something meaningless. "Ghoresh," Black Bile, or "Femec," Despoiler. Perjoratives. In the style of the thing. Jhoryla...named it for Lordaeron. The Land of the People of Peace. I...

Jak shakes his head, bewilderment smoothing his features to youthfulness.

Jak says: I don't know what that will do.

Bricu rests on his sword.

Bricu says: Peace. Wonder if she does....

Jolstraer shakes his head with a faint, sad smile on his face.

Jolstraer says: We willnae be 'et peace ag'in. Nae 'till we're all dead'n goen.

Jak looks about ready to respond, but in the end he just lowers his head again and walks out, carrying Yva in his arms.

Jolstraer runs a hand over the smooth, pink flesh again.

Jolstraer says: Leeks. Ah'll feckin' grow tha 'ell outta some leeks.
Bricu says: So. Doctor. What is yer patient gonna be eatin' oer' the next few days?

Bricu snickers.

Jolstraer nods with a shaky grin.

Threnn pulls Jolly's shirt and tabard from the pack.

Jolstraer slowly shrugs into them with a bit of help.

Threnn says: Leeks, I suppose. Long as they're in a soup.

Jolstraer chuckles a long, weary chuckle.

Threnn says: And to hell with this "I'll be fine in the morning" thing. Want you resting for two days.

Jolstraer grunts and nods resignedly.

Jolstraer says: Awraight. Twae days. Nae ah minute moah.

Jolstraer slowls pulls on his gloves.

Jolstraer says: S'feckin' wohk tae be done, ye ken.
Threnn says: 'course I ken. Won't get anything done if you work yourself right back into a frenzy again.
Jolstraer says: Ayeh. Ah'll dae me bes' lassie.

Jolstraer sighs wearily.

Jolstraer says: Ah wan' goe 'ome.
Threnn says: Then let's get you there.

Jolstraer nods.

Bricu says: Right. I can make a leek an' turnip soup stew.
Threnn says: He'll be sick of leeks before the summer comes.

The party of paladins heads for Hillsbrad.

[Jolstraer]

Two days, he promised Threnn. Two days he gave. In his own way.

For his part, he stayed on the newly-acquired farmland in the foothills of the Alterac mountains. If not home, as close to it as he could, he promised. And in those foothills, he worked.

He stood, bare chested and bare of bandages, save one curious patch that was wound over his right shoulder. It covered a fair patch of pectoral, a failure at hiding the ebon runes bed into his flesh. The skin bare to the cool Northern wind was slick with sweat, as he stood as still as the mountain peaks in the distance. Heartbeats stretched into longer moments as he stood there, a bared blade held point up, hilt near to his shoulder. His one eye remained closed, his body as still in breath as the quaint house behind him. A statue, a monument to stubbornness.

Waiting.

Steel whistled through the air, blade and man moving as one in a sudden burst of life. The blade thrust out and slashed upwards, like a mountain lion springing from the rocks. Forward he charged, sword windmilling to either side in a flurry of movement to press on attackers that were not there. A pause that lasted half the length of the blink of a grizzled eye, and he thrust once at chest level, then committed to a pivoting kneel, the blade slashing through the air above him as to cut down an attacker that had been behind him. He wasted no time in coming up off of his knees, the living sword in his hand slashing up from low to high, from right to left. From here he thrust again at eye level before the blade returned to guard, point high and hilt up near his shoulder.

Waiting.

He had eaten like a bear starved through the winter. His body had been famished that first day after, and friends and comrades had been all too willing to bring him food. Tashyia's soup from the day before warmed his belly still. But he had quickly had enough of sitting and waiting to heal. He needed movement. He dared not tempt Threnny's wrath with venturing outside the bounds of his home, but he damn well wouldn't sit and let muscles remain idle.

Another series, wildly different from the first, compiled of quick slashes and blinding fast thrusts. He would not go to battle yet, but damned if he would not work himself through it.

He stopped again, his chest heaving with the effort of his movements, and he let the sword drop to his side. His eye caught on the spidery runes that trailed from the back of his hand upwards. He was thankful for it, but at the same time wary. Shadow magic was a dangerous thing.

Oun Vai Lorn Daer Ronae.

His hand touched the Lordaeron seal on the back of his hand, a fain shiver running up and down his arm. "Yeh areh named tha Lan' o'tha People o'Peace." How did that change things? What would it mean, in battle against the Scourge? To his mind, peace would never again come to his people, or his homeland. They were cast out from the hills and lakes they had grown up loving. Their pride had been shattered at the hands of one of their own. Now they were a people with revenge in their heart. Revenge, for the memory of what was lost.

His free hand slid up the runes to the bandage over his shoulder. With a grunt, he gripped the bandage tightly, ripping it off in one swift motion. The skin beneath still looked a little raw, but emblazoned in gold in blue was that same standard branded on his hand. It stretched from collar bone down to the taught muscles of his abdomen, standing out better than the worn and oft-beaten crest on his shield.

So he hadn't quite stayed at home.

A fellow in Dalaran was skilled with a needle, albeit much less than Jhoryla. He hadn't work near as quickly, or as intricately, but was good enough for the old man of Stratholme. He felt his chest swell with pride with that crest cut into it. No one could ever deny he was a man of his homeland. He made damn sure of that. And it wouldn't pass once he was in the grave. It would remain in some way.

The ring on his hand glinted in the sunlight. He looked at it again closely; Bricu had made damn fine work of it. The pair of pearls, still shining bright white, reminded him of tears he had seen one fateful day. His own tears, as they had glittered on her skin.

There was work to be done, he had told Threnn. The blade came up again, hilt to shoulder, point arrow straight. Closing his eye, he took in a deep steadying breath.

Waiting.

[Jolstraer]

Something was wrong with the world.

The runes that etched their way around his arm from wrist to neck still stung with their branding, but their shadow magic was not what made his brow crease with an angry frown as he moved through Dalaran at a quickened pace. He didn't give a Laight /damn/ who got in his way now, only that this terribly wrong feeling tha crawled around in his gut had nothing to do with the wound in his side - a wound which, already, was healing. No, this he could feel down into his soul.

The Flightmaster's stables were a constant bustle with the comings and goings of so many adventurers to the floating city. It took a little time for Soarer to be armored and saddle and brought out to stretch his wings. When Jol climbed upon the gryphon's back, it let out a screech of worry. It could feel it too, and not just from its rider.

Something was wrong.

Uncertain of where he was going, Jol clicked off his buzzbox. Whatever it was that he had to find, he couldn't bear the distraction - and right now, there was plenty of that going about. He still felt the need to cause grivous bodily harm to one of their own, but the boss had made it plain that he wouldn't allow it. Jol would obey, begrudgingly; Drachmas had thrown the lot of them into danger on a whim, on his own, and without them all. That he could not forgive, not now. Soarer leaped from Dalaran's flight deck and caught a thermal, wearing his namesake with pride as the world passed by quickly below them.

North. Always north; if Jol believed what the gnomes said, a person couldn't help but feel pulled ever Northward. Jol wasn't one to believe in contraptions and fields and newfangled schemes cooked up by those damn little creatures; no, he knew what pulled him North was an outside force that needed to be purged. A wrong, one which the world cried out angrily to be righted. Maybe then the pain would stop. Maybe then forgiveness could be granted. Maybe--

Icecrown. Soarer squawked a warning as they rose higher and higher, and the wind grew even colder. Jol pull his helmet down tight and yanked up his cloak to try and keep the biting wind from getting to him, but at these heights it was almost no use. His one eye peered searchingly at this distance, looking at the ground littered with dead and undead alike. Nothing but death and angry desolation could he see through the ever-present snow. Suddenly, Soarer shrieked frantically; Jol knew the gryphon had seen something it recognized in its keen mind. Jol gave it a nudge ad let up on the reigns, letting the animal take over. It dove, and Jol held close to the gryphon's neck, bursting down through the heavens to come at the ground all too quickly for comfort. Before striking ground, wings outstretched, catching the air and swooping low over the ice. A trail of bones and rotted corpses, leading almost in a straight line. /There/. His heart sank into a pit he knew all too well.

Soarer climbed briefly, circling. The gryphon cared more for their surroundings than Jol could right then, but he stayed in the saddle, resisting the urge to unbuckle himself and fall free. When the Gryphon thought it was safe, he swooped down gently, talons thump-clicking as it landed on the ice, and walked over to the grizzly sight.

"Laight help mah," Jol said with a heavy heart, unbuckling from the saddle and sliding down the Gryphon's back. He pulled his sword fre, warily, and proceeded to the focus of his attention with dread.

There, before him, with a hand outstretched in a frozen reach for something that had never been there, lay Miahala. Icicles had formed on skin blue ad drained of all other color. Her body was half buried in the snow, telling Jol that he was far, far too late. he scanned his surroundings with a grizzly eye before kneeling down next to what remained of her, reaching out tentatively with steel-covered hand to touch her. She was frozen solid, and long gone from this world. He couldn't accept that.

Without thinking, the Light came to him - without pain, for once, and without fear. It filled him to the brink of drowning him whole, and he pressed his hand to her body. Light pulsed out of him and into her, weaving its way through her form. Muscles twitched. Blood warmed, and heart began to beat. Thickened clumps of the red liquid oozed out of her side continually, the hole there not closing. Muscles jerked, and a head twitched up, looking at him with eyes devoid of life, of soul, of meaning. He knew what he was doing would make no difference, but by the Light, he had to /try/. But her eyes would not lose that glassy film. No matter how much Light he poured out, he could not change the pallor of her skin.

Crumpling inside, the Light vanished from him. Her body crumpled with him, falling into the disturbed snow with less rigidity than before. With a grim set to his jaw, he looked up and gazed out over the ice again. Further on, he could see a lump of plate and feathers, what could have only been her mount. Damn the blade. If only he had been here. If only her stubborn pride would have called on him for help. If...

"Forgive mah," he whispered heavily, fighting back tears. He fought bitterly, with the hard temperance of too many battles. His resolve won too quickly. His hard edge returned with brutal efficiency.

Reaching for his buzzbox, he fiddled with it until he reached the channel he needed then, thumbing it on.

"Tash. Lassie..."

"'ello, Luvvy. It's a bit early ta try an' tup me. Dinner first, or at least a good drink, aye?"

Jol grunted sourly. "Nae t'day lassie. Ah...need yer 'elp. Ah need yeh..'et tha Argen' Camp, b'low Dalaran. An' hurrah, lassie. Fer tha Laight's sake, hurrah." His tone didn't convey the urgency, but only a hard edge.

" . . . righ'. I dinnae ken what's goin' on, but keep yerself safe. M'on me way."

With a heavy heart, Jol took up the limp body before him, carrying it in his arms. Walking over to Soarer with his burden, he took his time setting the animal for the extra weight, and for the precariousness of the travel. The gryphon knew, just as sure as he had seen them from the air. He was a good animal. Jol gave him a pat on the neck, smoothing feathers down. The gryphon looked back it him, almost as if it had sadness in its eye. Jol mounted up then, and gently nudged its flanks. Soarer leaped into the air with powerful legs without effort, turning in the air and soaring for the Argent Vanguard, a mournfull cry piercing the cold.

Tashyia was fortunate enough to arrive just as the aged Paladin trudged up the hill from the aviary, a form wrapped in his cloak draped over his arms. The look on his face was cold, a strange dichotomy of anger and guilt. By the time he reached the crest of the hill running through the middle of the Argent camp, it was clear what he was carrying, though not completely whom. His face gave name to her easily enough.

"Break ah rune fer mah, deary," he said wearily. A horse-drawn cart was brought to a halt a little ways before them, one of the Argent Crusade's recruits saluting before hurrying on about his orders. Jol brushed past Tashyia with slumped shoulders, gently laying the body on the cart bed.

"Where tae?" she asked quietly, though she knew the answer. He didn't respond, instead brushing back a lock of hair from Mia's face, and gently closing her eyes. Tashyia muttered something that he didn't hear, digging a rune out of her pack and crushing it with a nimble hand. Arcane magic whirled through the air and resolved itself as Jol pulled himself up onto the driver's seat, taking up the horse's reigns. Before he could urge the horse on through, though, Tashyia put a hand on his leg, making him acknowledge her.

"Ye call meh if ye need me, aye?" she asked plainly enough. Jol looked at her with a cloudy eye, but nodded a faint grin of thanks. She looked as though she wanted to say more, but she didn't and backed away. With a clucking sound, Jol flapped the reigns, and the lone cart trundled through the portal, crosing from the cold of the north onto the cobblestone streets that lay outside the gates of Stormwind.
***
The ride from Stormwind to Darkshire was a long and lonely one, despite the relatively short distance between them. Not many travelers were out and about these days, what with the war on, but those few that were about seemed to pay the old man no mind. Whether it was the large sword propped up in the seat beside him or the lone covered lump in the back of his cart, he didnt care. When he reigned in the cart below the towering willows that guarded the way to Tranquil Gardens, he was greeted by a trio of gaunt faces. Father Bromil was the Light's presence in Darkshire, and had been for some time. His sons, Dannil and Huxley, had followed their father's work in good times and bad. None of the three bothered with a greeting to Jol, and he returned the favor. There was an unspoken disapproval of the paladin, for word had traveled quickly in the place of Mia's birth. Of how he had abandoned her in her time of need.

He had been reminded of that far too much in that short cart ride.

Mia's body was reverantly removed from the cart, and taken to a freshly dug grave on the edge of the cemetary. She was shrouded in white silk, and placed gently into the earth's embrace while Father Bromil intoned in a drawling sadness, asking the Light to watch over her. Jol said not a word, standing as stone at the foot of the grave while Dannil and Huxley began to carefully fill the grave with the soft, still-wet earth. Even after the other three had left, murmuring their condolences, he remained there, standing as still as the stones that marked dozens more graves just like this one.

A light rain began to fall, a steady pitter-patter that grew no worse or no better. Thunder rumbled in from the none-too-distant coast, an admonishment that seemed meant only for him.

"Some pahts o'ah man 'ee cannae give awey." The sound came out hoarse, from a throat that was far too dry. "She wos raight. Wot can ah say tae 'at, hmm?" He grunted, shaking his head and sitting down on the ground. "Wot can ah say tae make thangs raight?"

He couldn't, he knew. So many things unsaid, so many unspoken, and so many had led to this. Perhaps it was pride, or vanity, or plain and simple arrogance. But what he knew of himself was enough.

"Ah shoulda tol' yeh." He snorted. "Sae much, ah kept from yeh. Ah shouldnae. Laight help mah, yeh were me wife. Ah loved yeh, in me way. But ah couldnae wit' tha thought o'yeh lookin' 'et mah wit'--" With what? Horror? Revulsion?

Pity?

"Ah dinnae wan' yeh tae see mah fer wot ah reallah am. Wot...ah b'lieve ah am. 'Ese han's 'et brushed yer cheek, 'et held yeh taight. 'Ey did murdah tae tha fuhst puhson in 'is worl' 'et ah evah cared sae deeplah 'bout. An' suah as ah stan' heah, 'ey did 'et tae yeh, tae. Nae wit' tha blade, 'is time, love. Wit' tha lack o'wunn. 'Ow's 'et fer ironah?" He chuckled mirthessly, digging out his flask and taking a long gulp.

"Ah ne'er wan'ed yeh tae see mah as weak. Mebbe ah'm tae stubborn. Me Northron pride." He nearly spat, but thought better of it. "Ah shoulda tol' yeh ah wos 'urtin'. Leas' yeh woulda ken ah wos neah me en'. But ah still got frien's, ayeh? 'Ose 'et're sae concerned wit' keepin' mah alive. Keepin' mah from fallin' doen tae tha Scourge."

He slumped in his soggy seat then, running a hand through his hair shakily. "But wot good is 'at, eh? Ah couldnae be 'ere fer yeh. Ah wasnae 'ere fer yeh. Ah shoulda been 'ere fer yeh." His fist hit his thigh with a heavy thump.

Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a thick glass vial, its contents glowing with a soft light all of its own. He stared at it for a long time, holding it as if it were one of the most precious things in Azeroth. Perhaps it was.

"Ah..s'pose 'et's me confession, love. All me sins, laid bare. Ah've killed 'ose 'oo're deah tae mah. An' ah cannae wash 'et from me han's. Ah cannae e'en try, annahmoah. But ah ken swear bah tha Laight, yeh will nae be damned." Pulling himself to his feet, he unstoppered the vial of holy water, one of the last few precious remnants of his once proud home. Holding it up before him, he began the sacred cant.

"Tha Laight bless 'ee an' keep 'ee..."