Highcrests Uprooted

“Remember, wherever we go, we go together.”

They were the words Tal’thon’s granduncle, Adrynar Highcrsest, had given as the magisters’ spell came into fruition and formed the portal. The sun was just about to set over the eastern mountain range in the Sin’Redar Province, a mountain valley in eastern Quel’Thalas. The orange and red hues painted the sky brilliantly, it was a sight he did not wish to forget, for he feared he might never again see his home.

It was now night, wherever they were. They had arrived in a large clearing in a dense temperate forest – or so he assumed given the abundance of coniferous trees. In the distance he could see a set of tall snowcapped mountains, akin to those in eastern Quel’Thalas. Yet those in his homeland never had snow thanks to the environmental magic that kept the High Home as warm as it was. The sounds of animal life had always been a comfort to Tal’thon, but here in this strange place, they hoots of owls and cries of foxes and their cousins seemed almost… unnatural. There was a savagery to this land.

Tal’thon pulled his legs toward himself, placing his right arm on his knees and stared into the fire before him. The log that was his seat was uncomfortable and he was ashamed to admit he longed for the comfortable trappings of his family’s estate. He adored the outdoors like any Blood Elf, but in this place he longed for the excitable chatter of the newest Highcrests, the hushed, respectful tones of those middle aged children born of bastards – his parents’ generation, and finally the boisterous, booming voice of the family’s famed patriarch and his great-grandfather, Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth.

Across from him sat his sister, Elisae. She looked visibly distressed, the fel fire in her eyes that distinguished them from their hated cousins, the Quel’dorei, moved from the fire, to the forest, to him, to the sky and all around as she tried to make sense of the land. As a novice magister, she felt disconnected from this world. “I can call magic to me, you know,” she had said when they arrived, “But it feels so distant… As though it doesn’t want me.”

The other magisters had complained of a similar ailment. Even Adrynar’s sly confidant Tal’theran seemed nonplussed by the magical properties of the land. As one of the few Farstriders, novice or otherwise, of the family, Tal’thon did not feel particularly devastated by the missing magic, but he suspected it was fueling his unease.

“I want to go home,” Elisae abruptly said across from him, her voice quiet and weak. She had always been quiet from a young age, a quality the Magisterium seemed to enjoy in their pupils but was anathema in the Highcrest family. She had always said that they were not even Highcrests by blood, only by decree of their junior patriarch, Adrynar.

For his part, Tal’thon wholly agreed with her, but he couldn’t seem weak and fuel her fears or his own, and so he did his best to be brave for his sister: “This is home. At least, it will be once the magisters figure out how to tap the ley lines,” he offered her a small smile as he brushed back a lock of signature blond Highcrest hair, “You’ll be fine.”

She looked up from her skirts that she had gathered around her knees and smiled back at him, and a moment of peace fell upon the two. It was, however, ended when a familiar hum of arcane sounded next to them, vibrating the air and dancing along Tal’thon’s skin as a hand materialised on his shoulder. Above him stood a figure hooded and robed in crimson and black. Crimson hair fell from his hood and azure runes could be seen glowing off the skin of his neck and forehead, giving a mischievous light to his hawkish features.

Tal’theran patted the similarly named Tal’thon on the shoulder. It had been a running joke for as long as the latter could recall that his name was the amalgamation of the former’s name and an associate of Vynlarion. “Very well said, Tal’thon, very well said!” He patted him again before moving silently to Elisae’s side, looking upon her with hidden displeasure.

“My dear, I understand better than you the nature of this fear with which you are beset, but…” He paused, casting a hand out to the heavens in a display mildly reminiscent of his former lord, the elder Vynlarion, “Bravery is not the absence of fear, but the ability to overcome it. Be strong, like we all know you to be inside.”

Elisae responded physically to the red mage’s words: she sat up straighter and stared up at him with a look of veiled adoration. She was eighteen and by no means was a child, but a man like Tal’theran who could conjure such vast reserves of mana was an impressive sight. To Tal’thon, he seemed a little silly, but if his strange antics cheered his beloved sister up, he would play along. “Well said, sir!” He grinned at the magister, who offered a little mock bow.

“I am to please, good Lord Highcrest,” the hooded man teased the young male Highcrest who detested such pomp and circumstance. “But, I did not come merely for japes,” this was no surprise to either sibling, “Tal’thon I have come at the behest of your uncle. The mages are all a bit too fatigued and frazzled to be teleporting people willy nilly. Will you accompany Lord Adrynar and Lady Kali'thal on a little excursion?”

Tal’thon knew all too well his participation had already been confirmed and that he was likely to be carrying his great aunt’s staff and to be his great uncle’s partner in endless conversation. He ginned again, “it could be worse,” he mused and then nodded at the mage, “I’ll do it.”

“Fantastic!” He proclaimed, and with nary a word, he clapped his hands together and disappeared with a sparkling of arcane dust falling to the ground in his place.

Elisae simply blinked, still perplexed by Tal’theran’s antics before looking back to her brother. “I’m going to get some sleep, this magic distance issue is very tiring,” she said ending her sentence with a yawn. “Goodnight, Tal.”

He raised his hand in farewell and nodded, “Goodnight Elisae. Sleep well.” After she left, he found himself drawn to the fire for both reasons pertaining to cold and concentration. He stared into its depths, watching the flames dance. It was soothing and familiar. Every home had a fire to watch, a universal constant both high- and low-borne could appreciate.

He missed home. His heart ached for the familiar room in which he had grown up in. It had been in the south wing of the home and overlooked the gardens where his great-great grandmother, the enigmatic Alenyia Highcrest, née Duskwhisper, could often be found with her daughter-in-law, the much beloved Lathinal. He had never met either woman – they had died before he was born – but knew they were both accomplished sorceresses in their respective fields and great influences on his personal hero, his great-grandfather, Vynlarion.

“The Dragon of Quel’Thalas,” he spoke aloud, imagining the old knight in his prime, cutting down Amani Trolls with such speed and skill he was honoured with such a title as to invoke the grandness of the greatest beings Azeroth offered. He never saw the old elf much, but when he did felt as though Vynlarion held a special fondness for him. Before his parents had been killed in the Third War, Tal’thon’s mother had always told him that Vynlarion saw much of himself in the boy. It was a huge compliment, one he tried embody in his actions.

Yet, much to his idol’s unknown disappointment, Tal’thon was too slight of build for the calling of an elvish knight, a rarity in their society and something the Highcrests prided on providing in bulk to the state. Instead he had trained with the Farstriders and despite Vynlarion’s hidden disapproval with his career, visited him in Farstriders’ Square and said that, if he worked hard, he could be “a new age Alorinis Bloodarrow.”

However he was drawn out of his fond memories and into the real world when the very same training suddenly proved itself useful. Tal’thon heard the faint rustle of fallen leaves in the forest behind him. In front of him, most of his relatives had gone to their tents to rest for the night while the contingent of soldiers they had brought – and the remainder of those who had not simply left upon arrival – acted as guards.

Yet none had heard what he had heard. Tal’thon surmised this was because of how far he had set up the fire from camp. He heard the rustling again and was instantly on his feet, fumbling for any weapon, but found only a small knife clipped to his belt. He was wearing loose trousers, a loose wool shirt and boots: not exactly the most practical gear to be exploring. Instead, he decided to remain quiet and did not draw his weapon.

In front of him, a form moved in the shadows of the trees. Or did it? It was the dead of night and he was tired. Tal’thon struggled to trust his instincts as his trainers had taught him. After a moment of silence, he again saw a hulking shadow move in the trees. It was tall, lanky, and stooped over. Other than that, he could not tell. Indecision wracked the 20 year old elf’s brain as he looked from the forest to the camp behind him, unsure if calling for help would send the strangers into attacking him or if anyone would even come.

“Who… Who’s there?” He called out in Orcish, arbitrarily deciding a more universal language on Azeroth would for some reason prove more useful in this situation. No response came, and so he repeated himself in Thalassian: “Is anyone there? Show yourselves.” The lack of conviction in his voice was palpable and he mentally kicked himself for not sounding more threatening.

Still, no response.

Tal’thon waited. And waited. He waited for an hour and still no one or no being revealed itself. He decided he must have scared it off, and so he turned toward the camp and made his way to his own tent.

Unbeknownst to him, the shadow in the woods slowly unclenched an axe strapped to its back.

~*~

Tal’thon had woke and met a strangely quiet and philosophical Adrynar and a typically silent Kali’thal. The former was still sporting a blond beard and a healthy tan, but he looked tired and, for once, closer to his age of, what Tal’thon knew to be somewhere around 600. The three of them had been walking for a few hours when they reached the base of what Tal’theran had eloquently described as “a big hill.”

The large mound seemed to be natural to the landscape and, despite the unnerving episode the previous evening, nothing to suggest there was any intelligent life in the woods. “Sir,” Tal’thon began after a thirty minute stretch of silence that had made the youth’s head feel like it was about to explode.

His great-uncle looked over at him disapprovingly, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Adrynar was tall, like his father, but Tal’thon was quickly catching up and joining the ranks of looming Highcrests. “Tal, call me uncle, please. We’re not even in Azeroth anymore, what does my station there matter?” He offered the young man a small smile before looking to his half-sister, “Kali, can you look around and see if there’s anything we should be on the lookout for? Traps and the like?”

Kali’thal wordlessly took her staff from Tal’thon, who had it tucked under his arm, and took off. “Never one for words, is she…” He mused ruefully and received a stifled chuckle from Adrynar. “Why did we come here?” He finally asked. Any good humour left in the elder Highcrest quickly drained and he grew contemplative once more.

“Father was a flawed man, and he did terrible things in the name of Quel’Thalas,” Adrynar admitted after a pause, “But he was loyal to his family. Loyal to the end. Even if I suspect he’s not actually dead...” He waved a hand dismissively and continued his thought, watching Kali’thal scry off to the side. “He wanted a peaceful life for his successors – and it’s something I agree with. If we can cultivate a home somewhere that war isn’t raging all the time, somewhere that our children’s very lives aren’t in question on a daily basis… why not?”

Tal’thon nodded, but still felt confused: “Then, how did we get here? Wherever… here is?”

Adrynar gave a thoughtful hum, but was interrupted by the return of the ever enigmatic Kali’thal who handed her staff back to their junior member. Much to Adrynar and Tal’thon’s surprise, she was the one to answer: “Some activist Sin’dorei acquired a few shards of the artifact the Bronze Dragon Kairozdormu used to transport Garrosh Hellscream into the alternate Draenor. I believe he called it the Vision of Time…”

She shrugged, “Nevertheless, one of these shards was sent to Lord Highcrest… my father… as a gift for his endless efforts to make everyone prostrate themselves for his ego. It proved expedient for this little adventure” She was snide and cold, and it even seemed to take Adrynar by surprise. “Shall we continue?”

Tal’thon could only nod, and so the three ascended the hill. He made continual looks over his shoulder to the west, north and south, given that in front of him was just a wall of mountains. What he saw, initially, were just trees, but as they ascended higher and eventually reached the top, something truly strange came into sight in the distance.

Far to the west they could see nothing but forest and a slim line of ocean. To the south they saw forest and another line of mountains. To the north, however, they saw forests, a river bisecting the land, and a sizeable stretch of lowlands north of that where they saw something different. “I can’t quite make it out… What am I looking at?” Tal’thon asked.

Once more he felt the staff he carried be removed from his person and planted on the ground. Kali’thal positioned it in front of herself and drew her hand in front of it. Arcane runes appeared for a moment before subsiding to reveal a grey, cloudy surface. She closed her eyes and concentrated, one hand holding the staff, the other reaching out in that direction.

As she scried, the grey cloud swirled and undulated like a tempest over the ocean. After a minute, new colours began to emerge. Adrynar stepped closer, pushing his golden scaled cloak over one shoulder, revealing the chainmail and light plate armour he wore. On his hip was strapped his longsword – a gift from his late mother and the twin of the one his father used. On the other hip hung a libram, a book of holy spells he could conjure.

The image in the clouds was further refined over time and after a few minutes of rapt silence, a sprawling and by elven standards primitive city as wide as the vision allowed was visible. Kali’thal let out a stifled sound of shock, “By the Gods… It’s a city…!” Her fingers twitched in the air before them, and the vision moved closer in, “If I can get closer…” She began, but abruptly the vision went dark. Adrynar looked over at her, an eyebrow cocked, but she was already on the move. “We have been discovered! Run!” She called back, her robes billowing around her as she fled into the forest covering.

“Move!” Adrynar ushered the younger Tal’thon forward and down the hill. The light foot falls of elven feet sounded as they bounded through the forest with Kali’thal, levitated above the ground by her own magicks, in the lead.

Tal’thon’s heart beat noisily in his ears, his breath came out in short puffs and his legs cried out for reprieve, but he would not slow. Sweat appeared on his brow and fell into his face, but he brushed them aside irritably and pushed forward, surpassing his great-uncle whom he surmised was sustaining his own speed with the Light.

It was over an hour of breathless, exhausting running until they reached their encampment. Walls had been strategically raised by the magisters, many of whom languished in heaps on the ground, exhausted from the work of raising structures from the ground, especially without a nearby ley line to draw from. Tal’thon quickly joined them, collapsing onto the ground, coughing and wheezing.

Adrynar, too, collapsed forward, his long hair covering his face, which was red with exertion. He placed his hands on the ground and hauled himself to his feet, struggling to contain any sense of exposure. “We have…” he steadied himself against a nearby tent, “We have been found.” A few gasps could be heard nearby, members young and old of the family immediately looking alarmed.

Tal’thon pushed himself to his feet, making his way to his uncle, “We need to get ready to defend ourselves.” The audacity of giving advice to the Highcrest patriarch took Adrynar by surprise, but after a moment, he nodded and turned toward the camp, using a level of shouting akin to Vynlarion’s. “Soldiers of House Highcrest! To arms! Members of the House! Arm yourselves! We shall stand as one!” Those around him stared on for a long moment, either confused, scared, or both. “Move out!” He commanded imperiously.

The younger Highcrest could only smirk at Adrynar sounding so much like his father. Concurrently, he achieved similar results. A flurry of activity struck the camp as magisters picked themselves up and moved toward their tents to change into their battle garb. Guards moved to the grinding stones to sharpen their swords. Tal’thon, however, remained at Adrynar’s side, the latter strangely still.

“We came here for peace,” the elder Highcrest began, “And now we are besieged. Curiosity really did kill the cat, didn’t it?” He let off a self-depreciating chuckle and shook his head. He placed a hand on Tal’thon’s shoulder, “Go on, and get ready. We’ll need your arrows, Tal.”

Tal’thon nodded, “Right,” he began. However as he moved towards his tent, he looked back at his uncle, “Maybe they’ll come in peace? To investigate?” Adrynar let out a thoughtful hum, before shaking his head.

“I don’t think so. If they’re what I think they are… They won’t welcome us.” The words were strangely cryptic for a man so open about his mind, but Tal’thon decided it was best not to ask. He nodded again and made his way to his tent. Inside, he found Elisae sat on her bed opposite his, clutching a simple wooden staff tightly, her eyes boring into the ground. Tal’thon opened a chest at the foot of his bed and began buckling leather armour to his body. First, his greaves, then his armguards, gloves, and finally his breastplate.

The silence was uncomfortable, but he knew he did not have much to comfort his sister with. She hated fighting: her interest in magic could be best described as academic, not applied. It was a pure curiosity of hers, one that he thought ought not be perverted with battle. Tal’thon himself feared fighting and could feel anxiety building up in his midsection like a flame under his heart.

“Forty signatures spotted in the forest! Estimated time of arrival: thirty minutes!” A voice called out, likely one of the magisters who had been scrying. Elisae visibly shivered and Tal’thon gulped a wad of saliva. The uneasy tension felt much worse, and so he took a seat next to her.

He took in a deep breath, summoning any comforting words he had, “You’ll be okay.” She looked at him, panic in her eyes, desperate to believe him. “You’re my sister,” Tal’thon continued, his voice unsteady and unsure, “I’ll protect you. Mom and dad would want me to.” Elisae simply looked away, nodding. He took that as approval enough and stood again, grabbing his bow and his shortsword and left the tent.

Outside, the camp was a flurry of activity. The walls that had been erected shielded only the western edge of the camp where Tal’thon had once been sitting, whereas every other direction was left open. Looking around, he saw the fear in the eyes of his kinsmen. There were children here, so young some could not even stand. As well there were Highcrest nobles who had never fought a day in their lives and, despite their fine clothing, looked more uneasy than their children.

The maddened footfalls of the elven guards stomped to and fro as they tried desperately to erect battlements from cut fire wood not yet cut, but they were flimsy and short, and the guards quickly gave the idea up. “Where is Adrynar?” He said aloud, looking around for the missing patriarch. “Where is Tal’theran?” Again, he could find no sight of Adrynar’s personal aide. These people needed leadership, Tal’thon realised, and yet their leader was not present. Kali’thal and her fellow magisters were the only source of calm in the frenzied camp of the few families looking for shelter and harried guards. The magisters sat in a circle, their hands folded before them and their heads tilted up toward the sun. They were preparing.

In total, Tal’thon counted twenty non-combatants – families and their children – and thirteen combatants including the missing two senior agents: himself, Adrynar, Tal’theran, Kali’thal and her four magisters, and five guards armed with bows and swords. It wasn’t enough. He hurried toward the magisters, deciding to throw cultural respect to the wind and consequently interrupted their ancient mediation rituals: “Ma’am,” he addressed Kali’thal respectfully, given that she was with her subordinate magister Highcrests, “How many are inbound?”

She did not open her eyes, nor did she even physically acknowledge his presence. She did, however, answer: “a sizeable force considering our numbers. Fifty.” Tal’thon’s stomach knotted with anxiety. Fifty!? They were sure to die. He nodded to her respectfully and hurried off.

He looked around once more: Adrynar and Tal’theran were still missing. He had to do something, anything. “I told Elisae I’d protect her…” he pleaded in his head, begging for someone to show up and lead this. His heart spoke to him in that moment, asking a question that one would not expect from the source of one’s emotions: “What would Vynlarion do?” His eyes widened for a moment as he looked around the camp, at the madness and lack of organisation.

He would do it. Tal’thon would lead.

The Blood Elf, just over two decades in age and the youngest combatant they had, climbed onto a cart that had held some of their supplies and looked around: “Everyone?” He half-heartedly shouted. Only a few stopped momentarily, but resumed their frenzy. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment and he clenched his fists and jaw. “I will not be ignored! We have to do something!” He then remembered the one word that always commanded respect amongst Vynlarion’s forces.

“ATTENTION!” He shouted like a drill sergeant, his throat burning from how loud he had managed to be. In that moment, everything, everyone stopped. The nine present combatants and the numerous family members still trying to find a safe place to hide stopped to look at him. Incredulity and even varying degrees of anger were on their faces. The magisters remained aloof for the time being.

He pointed west, toward the walls. “I need two magisters to strengthen that wall!” He commanded, his voice waivering for a moment. The magisters did not move for a moment, but, silently, two in their circle disappeared and reappeared at the walls, and placed their hands on them. The walls, built with magic, could be improved by magic. The barriers, once separated by small breaks of thick trees, closed ranks and grew into the air, creating a barrier too high to climb. Next, the walls bent inward, toward the camp, and slowly formed a large circle. Finally, from their open roof, a crimson peak grew. In the end what existed was a sizeable fortified room.

He nodded at the two magisters who looked to him expectantly, “All non-combatants will wait there! One magister will remain with them to transport them to safety if the need arises!” Tal’thon resisted saying ‘when the need arises,’ but knew they had little hope. He was both protecting his family, but also caging them in. It was a gamble, but he believed it to be the best one.

“Guards!” He shouted after a pause, realising he was just spitballing on the spot and hoping it would work. “You will take position ten feet from the forest walls! Keep your bows out and fire at anything that doesn’t look like a squirrel!” The five guards looked between each other before hurrying off to equidistant spacing around their small camp. “The other magisters will form an inner circle twenty feet behind them to provide suppressing firepower!” With another breath, he went to shout, but felt a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.

He jumped at the cool metal leaching warmth from his skin and looked back, only to find Adrynar standing on the cart next to him. “Excellently done, Tal, I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Adrynar looked over the crowd and gestured to Tal’thon, “You heard the lad, move out!” With his orders given, Tal’thon watched the stragglers disperse into position.

Silence fell over the crowd once more as they fell into position. Tal’thon made his way to the outer circle while Adrynar stood between he and the mages behind them. He took a look back and much to his surprise found Tal’theran, adorning his signature flowing crimson robes, stood at the ready. The runes on his body glowed brightly under his hood and on his exposed hands which were folded before his sternum. The red mage, looking oddly serious, nodded once to the youth.

A horn sounded from the north. A deep, woody sound reverberated all around them. It was familiar, very familiar. By the looks on everyone else’s face, it appeared Tal’thon was not alone in his assessment. However, he could not remember where he had heard the sound. Nevertheless, it chilled him to the bone and boiled his blood with an uncharacteristic anger.

The horn sounded again. This time from the south. Then from the west. And finally from the east. Hushed whispers moved between the magisters who had turned in toward one another. Tal’thon could not make out what they were saying, but after a moment realised they were casting a spell. The world around them rippled with the arcane. Unseen to the common eye, elves had such a keen sense for it that it was though the very air undulated like waves, being pulled toward the source.

Tal’thon looked forward, and let out a choked cry of surprise as a huge figure burst through the thick foliage. Bulbous eyes, mad with anger, paralysed him with fear. The thing before him was lanky and its skin was a mossy green colour. Lean muscle covered its body and small totems and other ornaments dangled from its neck and leather armour, as revealing as it was. It was a troll.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Tal’thon had never seen a troll like this before. It was big for a troll and it looked almost feral. Yet there was intelligence in those mad eyes that stunned him. However intelligence was replaced with shock as the Troll’s midsection spurted with blood before its upper body slid messily onto the grass below and its legs flopped to the ground, twitching.

Next to the dead troll stood Adrynar, his longsword bloodied. He had changed armour and was now armoured in light black plate accented with crimson velvet overlaying chainmail at the joints. In his left hand he held a shield with the Blood Knight insignia to match his tabard. Evidently, he intended to fight this battle as a Blood Knight.

“Amani Trolls!” the Highcrest lord bellowed. Panicked eyes moved back and forth before their time for fear simply ran out. From every direction burst the trolls which did look strikingly like the Amani, if more primitive. It was the same tactic they used in Quel’Thalas: forest ambushes. “Fall back! Back! Mages!” Adrynar shouted, shoving Tal’thon back as he went.

“Anar’alah belore!” Tal’theran called out. An earsplitting crackle of arcane erupted around their perimeter. From every angle Tal’thon saw droves of trolls hurrying toward them, but they were abruptly obscured by an all-encompassing wall of fire taller than the trees from which the trolls had hid. Screams sounded from the barrier as their enemy flailed through as charred heaps of flesh. The guards spared no time and began ruthlessly cutting them down as they escaped the raging inferno.

In the centre of the camp, the Kali’thal and Tal’theran directed their fellow magisters, their hands high in the air as they channeled in unison, the motions of their bodies in sync. Sweat formed on all their faces save that of Tal’theran, though his impossible supply of mana was no secret.

Tal’thon looked forward once more and found a Troll, his once healthy green skin a horrific, mutilated grey and black, lurch toward him, his eyes missing and his mouth steaming. The young elf’s stomach twisted in disgust and a surprising level of pity. Instinctually, he pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back, loaded his bow, and let it loose. The arrow found its home in the skull of the anguished troll, who immediately fell forward dead, snapping the arrow on its collision with the ground.

The inferno momentarily wavered as a magister collapsed, exhausted, but remained strong. Even still, trolls were still trying to force their way through. Tal’thon did not hesitate and fired a multitude of arrows with his kin, the ‘whoosh’ of so many projectiles a distinctly elven sound. As they did, more magisters ceased casting, and the fire wall lowered significantly to the level that Tal’thon could see the baleful looks of the remaining many trolls, now realising they could simply wait them out.

“Cease casting!” Kali’thal demanded, and the wall fell.

“Open fire!” Adrynar demanded, and Tal’thon and the guards complied. Numerous trolls simply died where they stood, but others were spared and surged into the camp. The guard a few feet away from the young elf howled in agony as an axe was buried in his shoulder before being silenced as his head was sent flying from his shoulders.

His comrade’s severed head landed at Tal’thon’s feet, oozing blood and with a look of such terror and agony he looked away, only to find another troll bearing down on him. She was too close for him to draw an arrow and so he hurriedly pulled out his short sword, and ducked to the right, narrowly missing a fatal blow to the head by a tomahawk. He moved to the right again, and slashed at her midsection. The troll was quick and moved away, leaving only her arm to be moderately injured by the tip of Tal’thon’s blade.

She held forward a hand toward him and suddenly his legs felt heavy and his mind sluggish. He had been incapacitated by magic! He uselessly lifted his hand, but control of his body was gone and all he accomplished was dropping his sword. “Ja be on Amani lands, mon… We be havin’ enough of you and yours,” the Troll with doctor sneered in Trollish. Tal’thon had only a basic understanding of the language but knew enough to understand what she said next: “We be the Amani, mon. And you will learn to fear us.”

Tal’theran abruptly appeared between them, his hands extended, head lowered as he leered at the troll woman. “I knew it was your kind the moment I laid eyes on you,” he growled darkly in Trollish, “And you will learn to not threaten the Highborne elves.” His words, so callous and cold, were abruptly followed with a heat so intense the air it blew back pushed Tal’thon onto his back as the Amani sorceress exploded into a flaming inferno.

The red mage himself was strangely unaffected by his own torrent of fire. He still stood before the conflagerating corpse that stood in place, her being seared to the ground. His cloak had been blown back and his crimson hair billowed out behind him, revealing the arcane runes that snaked up his neck and into his hairline at the temples.

From this position his hands flourished outward, pointing at nearby Trolls, incinerating them. Tal’thon slowly felt the curse leave his system and as he stood, he took count. He found three dead guards, two dead mages, Kali’thal defended the last mage who leaned against her, failing to find the strength to cast. Adrynar was with the remaining two guards, hacking and slashing at the Amani trolls which outnumbered them now ten to one. Either they had reinforcements or the elves were simply too exhausted without latent magic to support them.

Tal’theran’s grand display of magic was even beginning to drain him, as evidenced by beads of sweat falling down his exposed face. Tal’thon was now back on his feet and loosing arrows at the enemies near and far, but soon ran out and resorted to his short sword. “Magister!” He called out to the beleaguered Tal’theran, “We need to do something! There’s too many!” The magister nodded and abruptly vanished.

Tal’thon was left on his own, and abruptly remembered the hold they had made for those incapable of fighting. The fort’s walls were thick, but numerous trolls were smashing against its door and he was now cognisant of the cries from inside.

Nearby, Adrynar called out: “No, get back!” But he was too late. Yet another guard, this one a young woman with striking black hair, collapsed with a cry as a crude sword was impaled through her chest. The Highcrest patriarch looked agonised for a moment before clenching his hand around his sword: “For Quel’Thalas!” He bellowed and hurled his shield into a witchdoctor nearby, embedding the heavy plate bulwark into his chest before, with both hands on the hilt of his longsword, decapitated the trollish man.

Tal’thon saw an opening as the trolls attacking the penned in non-combatants and sprinted toward it, only to find himself joined by Adrynar. Longsword and short sword glinted in the fading evening light as they buried their blades into two unsuspecting berserkers.

The younger elf found greater resistance in his next target: another hulking, bulky berserker. He let out a bestial roar before swinging a fist as hard as rock through the air. Tal’thon moved back out of lethal range and felt the movement of air in front his face. He slashed out weakly, his arm burning from exertion and his legs ached from the amount of running he had done.

This time, the troll did not miss. A sickening crush sounded as the troll swung its other arm, catching Tal’thon by the shoulder and throwing him into Adrynar. His head collided with the elder Highcrest’s pauldron and he fell to the ground, his ears ringing and his head spinning.

As the berserker moved in for the kill, its huge fists moving in to crush his chest, the troll roared a guttural, agonising cry of pain as a huge, crimson broadsword pierced its chest before ripping out through its side. The Amani troll collapsed to the side, revealing its killer.

There stood a tall elf with golden hair falling down his back as he fixed his posture. Intense azure eyes peered down at the dazed Tal’thon. The young elf was baffled: he was both Night Elf and High Elf. His ears jutted out to the sides like the former, his skin was just barely tinted violet like the fomer, but it was majorly similar to Tal’thon’s own skin, like the latter’s, and his almost regal countenance was more indicative of the latter. The stranger wore gold and azure armour adorned with the old sigils of an empire long lost to antiquity.

“Attack!” A commanding, elegant voice called out from the distance. From all around, similar elves dropped out from trees while others silently burst from the dense foliage, utterly annihilating the Amani forces. In a matter of seconds, the trolls were dead and left a stunned few Blood Elves face to face with what Tal’thon could only describe as familiar strangers.

From the treeline emerged a truly fantastical figure. Garbed in violent plate armour and fiery orange-blond hair, his likeness was well known to them. Immediately the battered and bloodied Adrynar dropped to a knee in the man’s presence. Tal’thon was utterly baffled.

The regal man looked to Tal’thon saviour and nodded, “Excellent work, Sir Dragon,” he said in Highborne Darnassian, a language similar to Thalassian, but had not been spoken in centuries. The violet armoured elf looked to the young Blood Elf struggling to stand and moved to him, waving away the man whom he had referred to as “Dragon.”

The man offered Tal’thon a hand and helped him to his feet, “Are you injured, strange one?” He inquired, his piercing gaze matched with a triumphant grin. “I am Lord Dath’Remar Sunstrider, leader of the Highborne. The look on your face tells me you understand me.” Looking to the Blood Elves around him, he nodded to his troops who immediately went to their side, “I believe we have much to discuss.”

~*~

When Tal’thon opened the door of the fort the magisters had erected, inside he found a group of nobles trembling in fear, some having soiled themselves, and others quietly sobbing. His heart had broken at the pitiful sight, seeing such refined people reduced to such desperate terror. Yet, he understood: to be locked in that small, windowless room for two hours with no idea of their fate must have been a terrifying experience.

Yet, Elisae was not like her family. She was not tear stricken, she had no embarrassing stain on her dress and otherwise seemed very much composed. She had been the last to leave the protected room, but did not seem fearful of leaving. When Tal’thon encountered her, she simply walked by as though she did not see him.

Confused, he went to her, but felt a hand on his shoulder. Adrynar shook his head gently, and said quietly: “Let her be with her thoughts, Tal’thon.” The patriarch’s formality struck him as important and so he nodded. “She will need time to consider what has happened.”

Their saviours had had the good sense to leave and not incite total confusion, though one figure did remain. The blond Highborne elf adorned in gold armour with blue velvet accents and a massive crimson broadsword stood silently at the edge of their camp, the cobalt fire in his eyes flickering with intensity as he looked around. His wideset ears, indicative of his close biological linkage to the Kaldorei, twitched from time to time as he kept watch on the nearby forests and the Blood Elves.

Tal’thon observed the stranger as Adrynar tended to his wounds, wrapping his arm with thick bandages and healing what he could. The Blood Knight-turned-priest looked exhausted, but did not complain. Instead he quietly worked away. Tal’thon, for his part, found the Highborne elf decidedly pompous and oddly regal.

The Highborne leader who had claimed to be the legendary Dath’Remar Sunstrider had set up camp with his fellow elven leaders, though informed the Sin’dorei it would be wise to move camp, lest they be discovered by the droves of Highborne soon to arrive in the valley.

“Sir Dragon” as he had been referred finally seemed to notice he was being watched, but simply raised an eyebrow. Adrynar looked between the two of them as he finished patching a wound on Tal’thon’s side. “You should speak to him,” the healer urged, “Deep down, you know who he is.” It seemed he knew more about their situation now that he had seen such a legendary figure as the first High King of Quel’Thalas.

Tal’thon considered the prospect for a moment. “You’re right, uncle,” he began, receiving a grateful smirk from Adrynar who dreaded being referred to as great-uncle, despite it being the factually correct title. With his bandaging and spot healing completed, Tal’thon pulled his doubloon down over his chest, gingerly touching at the large wound on his side he had received from the berserker. Before he could thank Adrynar, the young hunter found his great-uncle had moved on to the one surviving guard. Why he had denied the Highborne healers’ aid Tal’thon did not know, but given only a handful of them had survived, the healer seemed to be faring well.

The Highborne knight nodded in greeting as Tal’thon approached, “Hail, young man,” he said formally. The dialect the large man spoke was strange, but it did use essentially the same words as Thalassian, if with a style of pronunciation that made him sound as though he were reciting grand poetry in a slow, dramatic voice.

“Good evening, sir,” Tal’thon began somewhat awkwardly, unsure how to address one of his people’s forbearers after they had saved him. “I was wondering,” he began, only to receive another cocked eyebrow, “Let me restart. I am Tal’thon, it’s an honour to meet you. Thank you again for saving my life,” he stuck out a hand to shake.

The large elf took Tal’thon’s forearm in his hand – an old greeting only elderly elves like Vynlarion would bother to use – and gave it a firm squeeze and single shake. “You are very welcome, but it was Lord Sunstrider who insisted we come to your aid when we heard those savages were attacking your camp, you should thank him.” The man hesitated for a moment, as if cognisant of how shocking his next words would be.

“I have spoken with your Lord Adrynar, and we have realised a… curious commonality,” the man swept his cloak back from covering his broad form. “I am Sir Vynlarion Highcrest, Great Dragon of the Highborne. I serve Lord Sunstrider as one of his vassals in this tumultuous time of relocation.” Tal’thon simply stared for a long moment.

“Vynlarion Highcrest?” His mind deadpanned. Adrynar was Vynlarion Highcrest the Seventh, his hero was Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth, yet… Here stood one who claimed to be simply Vynlarion Highcrest? And to use the title their first family lord had used?

Sensing the youth’s bafflement, Sir Vynlarion motioned to a nearby cart – the one upon which Tal’thon had stood to address his family. “Let us sit, Tal’thon, my lord has given me approval to reveal the theory our magisters have compiled with your Tal’theran vi Felo’Aran – an interesting choice of surname I might add – and I believe it will clarify what must be very confusing.”

Tal’thon silently went to the cart and took a seat on its edge. Sir Vynlarion flipped his cloak over the side, took a seat, and the cart groaned in protest of his armoured weight. “I am here because Lord Sunstrider took pity upon me. I, like my lord and my kinsmen, were granted long life by the powers of the Well of Eternity and so this may be surprising to you outlanders, but indeed, most of us were subjects of Queen Azshara.” He paused for a moment, looking up at the sky which was alight with hues of red and orange as the sun set in the distance. “I was naïve, I believed her to be infallible and so I did not recognise her betrayal until the very end. It was he, Dath’Remar Sunstrider, who opened my eyes to her evil.”

He shook his head, “I barely escaped Zin-Azshari – nay, I barely escaped Elun’dris, the true name of our lost capitol – with my brethren. For twenty-three hundred terrible years we were reduced to practicing the arcane in secret, like magical vermin.” His words came out with a furious hiss, but his eyes conveyed a deep shame and regret for his blindness to Azshara’s evil and the conditions under which the Highborne had lived. “In Eldarath, upon the rocky eastern shores of our new land, we sustained ourselves… But the druid Malfurion and priestess Tyrande discovered this. They did not care that we had a need for the arcane, and so they banished us.”

Tal’thon knew this story well: it had been retold a thousand times in his short life: “And so you sailed from Kalimdor to the Eastern Kingdoms. You settled in what we know as Lordaeron, but you left and came north… to… here…” His voice slowed tremendously as he realised it. The reason why this land felt familiar was because it was Quel’Thalas.

This land of Trolls, wintry weather and pine trees: it was Quel’Thalas before the High Elves reformed it to their liking. “Our people have always wondered: why did you leave the lands to the south? What did you find that drove your kinsmen so terribly mad?” Tal’thon asked, a dread curiosity seeping into his throat, fearing the answer.

Sir Vynlarion looked to him, his piercing gaze making the young Blood Elf feel small in the sight of a man who had lived through the Sundering, “We found many things in this new land. We found the Humans, a primitive people of diminutive stature and intellect: they live in bands and battle often. Yet through them we found a holy site of theirs: a greater silver hand. We soon realised that the rumours of which the humans spoke were true. This was the last remnant of the great Titanic Watcher Tyr…”

Tal’thon had heard of the Titanic Watchers, great and powerful beings made of metal, constructed by the Titans to watch over Azeroth in their absence. But he had always thought the Titans were a myth: superstition of dwarvish and gnomish origin! Yet here sat his ancestor claiming it as irrefutably true as though he were to declare that, at midday, the sky was blue. “Millennia ago, it is said that Tyr battled two terrible aberrations of evil design: the C’Thraxxi known as Zakajz and Kith’ix. The ancient tablets say that Tyr sacrificed himself to defeat these monsters, but was capable only of killing Zakajz… Kith’ix has never yet been seen.”

The young elf had heard stories of the mysterious C’Thraxxi, a race of malefic beings in service to the Old Gods, but had never heard confirmation of one as Sir Vynlarion spoke. He knew the Amani spoke of their triumph of Kith’ix as their proudest achievement prior to the arrival of the elves, but to know that it had been this beast that had battled the mythical Tyr? It was all too much.

“Zakajz, being of their creation must have poisoned the land upon his death… His evil blood cursed the land and when my brothers and sisters tried to tap into the land’s arcane, they drew upon his essence and went mad.” The memory seemed to pain the great knight terribly, and he took a moment to steady himself, “After being banished from our people, we were reduced to fighting like mad dogs. It was by the wisdom of Lord Sunstrider we fled those dark lands and have been seeking refuge to the north where our magi believe we may find relief for our burden…”

It was then that Adrynar arrived, “Sir Vynlarion,” he said somewhat awkwardly, “I hate to intrude, but I believe we realise the error in our ways. We sought a place free of the violence of our home, and so our magisters used Bronze Dragon artifacts to find us this place.” The Highborne Vynlarion gave an incredulous look. “I realise how hard this is to understand, but we are of the same family. I am Vynlarion Adrynar Highcrest… the Seventh. You are my… great-great-great-great-great granduncle.”

“Surely you jest. Your eyes are of a wicked fel colouration and you are small in stature. We could not be related,” the Great Dragon of the Highborne protested as he slowly stood. The man’s cloak fell around behind him, slowly waving back and forth. “Such madness is clearly the work of the Legion. Tell me, is that why your eyes burn so? Are you of Sargeras’s ilk? Is your purpose here to decimate the Highborne who did not follow your master’s evil plans?!” His voice had grown to a furious bellow, attracting the attention of the remaining family members.

Tal’thon jumped in front of his supposed ancestor: “No! We hate the Burning Legion as much as you do, Sir!” Sir Vynlarion folded his arms over his chest, peering down with suspicion at the young Blood Elf. “Our eyes are like this because when we lost something dear to our people we had no choice but to take in fel magic. We don’t do so anymore, but it’s stuck with us. It’s partly why we call ourselves Sin’dorei!”

The young hunter stepped forward, closer to Sir Vynlarion, his voice imploring: “We are not your enemy! I know we are but strangers in a distant land you have just found, but you must believe me that this is our home – yours and mine.”

Tal’theran abruptly sounded from behind Tal’thon. The latter swung around to find the magister, cloak down, revealing the runes on his body and the fel fire burning in his own eyes, “Please, Great Dragon of the Highborne. I beseech you: take pity upon us, wayward vagabonds of another time. Grant us an audience with the Magisters Maris and Valora Firestorm. Between them and myself I believe we can rid this time of our presence and leave you and High Kin – Lord Sunstrider and your people to your destiny.”

The magister’s supplicating tone and respect that no magister would ever show to a Highborne knight took Sir Vynlarion aback both physically and mentally. He recoiled with a widening of eyes and raising of head. “How do you know these names, mage?” He inquired coolly.

“Many millennia from now, our houses will join. Maris and Valora Firestorm are spoken of with honour for their deeds to come and those of their daughter. Please, sire, grant Magister Tal’theran audience with these good people,” Adrynar urged Sir Vynlarion. He seemed to be growing less suspicious by the moment, and with the near begging of these otherwise refined looking people, he let out a heavy sigh.

“Very well, so be it. I will remain to assure you do not try anything foolish and see you off, should the magisters be able to help you. Allow me to –“ the knight was cut off as the rippling of time and space was seen and heard beside them.

From a portal stepped two figures, arms linked. They were tall and proud looking: the Highborne man had fiery red hair, much akin to Tal’theran’s, and a confident, stern visage. His companion, a subdued woman with a great wisdom in her gaze had more auburn hair. Both wore elaborate robes befitting Highborne mages: the most respected of Highborne in the shattered society of the Night Elf Empire.

“They make a convincing argument, my love,” spoke the man, whom Tal’thon realised was Maris.

“True, but it is incredibly supplicating. Unbecoming of their finery. Perhaps they are thieves,” mused Valora thoughtfully, though shook her head. “No, thieves would not carry themselves so well.”

Maris spoke again: “Come, good mage. There is much we must consider before your timelost kin may return home.”

~*~

Tal’thon was unsure why he was here with the two Highborne magisters, a Highborne knight, the Highcrest patriarch and his magister aide, and strangest of all, his sister. The seven of them had been walking for hours toward the north. Where, the young elf was not sure, but their new mage allies had assured them this was where the spell could be cast.

“If we are successful, then your family can come. For now, entrust them to Lord Sunstrider’s forces,” Sir Vynlaion had suggested to Adrynar who, though initially hesitant of leaving his family with strangers, felt assured that surely his own ancestor would have the best intentions for his own. A nagging unease gnawed at Tal’thon, but he did his best to push it aside. He could not think of a more celebrated Highcrest – other thatn Adrynar’s father, Vynlarion the Sixth – than the one ahead of him.

To see Grian’deldun, the Blade of the King swung slowly before him on Vynlarion the First’s back. Tal’thon had never seen the blade look so new. The long, crimson blade had streaks of undulating silver down its length, and around them were runes he had never seen so clearly, and some that had been lost entirely to time. Motioning to writing he could not decipher, he nudged Valora who walked next to him. The reposed woman lofted a brow but seemed to understand after a moment: “Blade of the Queen,” she translated. “Yet he appears to have edited it to say “Blade of the King.””

Where Tal’thon walked on Valora’s right, Maris was on her left and looked at the young hunter for a moment: “I suspect that’s referring to Lord Sunstrider. There’s been a large push for him to become king of our people when we find a home.” The youth resisted explaining what was soon to occur: they would create the Sunwell and Dath’Remar would be crowned High King of Quel’Thalas.

“As I said previously,” the rigid knight spoke up, though did not look back, “For too long I blindly served Azshara. I devoted my labours to her and her reign. She was the one to allow me to join her royal guard after I stopped a dissident from disrupting Prince Tortheldrin’s coronation years ago.”

At the mention of the future leader of the Shen’dralar in Eldre’Thalas, or as Tal’thon knew it, Dire Maul, Maris let out a cool laugh, “You ran the blaggard through in front of the prince. I’m quite sure he almost vomited at the sight of entrails on the end of your sword, good knight.” Vynlarion the First merely shrugged, and did not give a response.

At that moment Tal’thon noticed an anomaly in the forest: up ahead, the thick treeline simply ended. “What’s ahead, there?” He motioned to the break in the trees. “Is it a clearing?” The young elf had not wanted to admit it, but he was beginning to feel effects of continued distance from the arcane sources that sustained their people. For him, it was a headache.

Looking back to his sister, Elisae, who trailed some distance behind them with Tal’theran, Tal’thon could tell she was not doing well. Why the Highborne couple had insisted on bringing her was beyond him: she had been in poor mental health ever since they arrived and everyone knew the Amani were watching them, her included, so he could not imagine what possessed them to bring her. To answer her question, she looked toward him, “A confluence of power, but that’s all I can tell…” She was covered in sweat and her knees shook as she stepped. At this point, Tal’theran was pretty much dragging her.

“Please, Elisae, if you’re not feeling well, I’m sure Tal can send you back to camp. You don’t look well at all,” he slowed his pace to walk next to her, slinging her arm over his shoulder and shouldering her weight, allowing the unathletic Tal’theran to immediately roll his shoulder.

It was, surprisingly, Adrynar who spoke up: “Elisae understands that she needs to be here, Tal’thon.” His words were surprisingly curt and left the young elf in a mildly shocked silence. “Besides, I don’t think any of our mage-friends here could teleport anyone. Tal’theran expended himself during the fight and needs to recover along the way. And, if my history lessons are correct, our Highborne friends are really feeling the loss of the Well of Eternity.” Valora shot Adrynar a baleful gaze but after a moment nodded in acknowledgement that he was right.

“But, why does she have to –“ Tal’thon was cut off as the two at the front of the pack simply stepped into an opening. Adrynar had his hand on his longsword while their ancestor had drawn Grian’deldun, holding the blade before himself defensively. The two magisters then went through, and finally Elisae, himself and Thal’theran.

Before them was the same small valley that lead down, and then up toward what he would see as Silvermoon City in his time. However, Tal’thon saw before him a city of huts, temples, barracks and other Amani buildings scattered before him. Stranger yet, there was no sound coming from them. “Where are they?” Sir Vynlarion growled under his breath, still alert.

“This is their sacred city,” Valora explained, “We scried upon it before being discovered as well. Dath’Remar determined it to be only used in times of crises. Given how dilapidated it looks, I don’t think they’ve needed it for some time.”

Elisae momentarily looked at her brother, her bloodshot eyes glassy, “We need to move further into the city.” The very idea of moving in seemed madness, but apparently she was not alone in her opinion.

“The girl is right,” Maris declared and strode confidently forward, waving a hand before himself. Before him, an otherwise invisible field rippled with azure hues and an opening akin to tent-flaps parted before him, allowing him entry.

Valora scoffed, “Child’s play, really. They think that will keep us out? Laughable.” Their haughty demeanour, Tal’thon found, was entirely befitting the parents of Erythis Firestorm, a woman whom he had seen only a few times, but found to be very condescending.

The rest of their group stepped inside, and as the barrier closed, Tal’thon noticed that his similarly named mage companion, Tal’theran, visibly stood higher and took in a deep breath. “Clever trolls,” he mused ruefully. Elisae too seemed recover and slowly pushed herself away from her brother and stood on her own feet. “Do you have it, Adrynar?” The red mage inquired.

Adrynar nodded and procured from inside a satchel attached to his belt behind his cloak a long shard of glass. Yet, when Tal’thon stared at it, the light did not reflect off it. Instead, a prismatic, shifting range of colours glittered on its surface. He walked up to his uncle to observe it and eyed it closely. To his surprise, even though it looked like a shard of glass from a distance, closer up he saw an endless passing of colours and in them obscured images. In one moment he saw a barn, in the next Dalaran, in the following moment a land he could not even describe.  “How does it work?” Tal’thon inquired as he stared into its transfixing surface.

When he looked up, he found that Maris was missing, and Vynlarion the First and Valora stood at a distance, staring at Tal’thon and Adrynar. Something felt wrong. He abruptly turned around to find a confused looking Tal’theran and Elisae standing there, but behind them the looming figure of Maris. He snapped his fingers and an arcane blast immediately smashed into his sister, sending her flying into the air before tumbling downward. “Elisae!” He shouted.

Tal’theran abruptly vanished before re-appearing, “We are betrayed!” He hissed furiously, drawing up a fury of fire around himself, sending his robes into a windy flurry. However Vynlarion the First stormed through them with such speed Tal’thon thought impossible for such a heavily armoured man and with one punch, knocked the unsuspecting mage out cold.

Adrynar had drawn already drawn his sword and looked at Tal’thon: “Get your weapon!” He urged, and the youth complied, drawing his shortsword after realising he had not restocked his arrows. “Sir Vynlarion!” He shouted at the man who rolled Tal’theran’s limp body away, a large red welt forming on his temple and obscuring his runes. “What is the meaning of this!”

The large knight moved his sword into his right hand, “You think we would be so naïve as to trust the word of fel-tainted beasts!? Your master Sargeras nearly ruined this world with his evil power. We shall not allow you to corrupt this land!” Tal’thon was aghast: they thought the Sin’dorei travellers were not from another time, but in fact agents of the Burning Legion.

“That’s not true! We told you the truth! We’re from a different time!” Tal’thon urged the man. Behind him, Valora was rejoined by Maris who flashed into existence on the knight’s other flank. “Why would we lie? Why would we come so lightly armed?”

Valora scoffed, “You demon-spawn come in many forms. Some of you are not so bright. Given that Bronze Dragon trinket, it is not impossible you are from a different time, but a time in which the Legion rules regardless!” She lowered a hand and with outstretched fingers formed a ball of fire.

Her action was copied by Maris who mirrored her on Sir Vynlarion’s left side. “Your shard will prove a valuable tool for our new society. Dath’Remar has determined this city here will be the best place to build our new home. I can think of no better way to christen this land as ours than to spill the blood of the beasts who ruined this world!” With that, he and his wife unleashed two large spinning balls of fire at Adrynar and Tal’thon. As they did so, Vynlarion came up the middle, forcing them to dive to the sides to avoid being hacked to ribbons or seared alive.

“See reason, damn it!” Tal’thon shouted as he stood up, only to have a massive Highborne knight bearing down on him. The young elf jumped to the side, narrowly missing the huge blade of his family. The blade crashed against the ground, but Vynlarion was not deterred and spun it around with impressive speed. Tal’thon could not move back, and as the blade came around he closed his eyes, flinching against the inevitable.

However a deafening clash of metal filled the air and more fireballs whipping by as the two magisters slowly approached. Tal’thon opened his eyes and found Adrynar, both hands on the hilt of his sword and trembling in his effort, holding Sir Vynlarion and Grian’deldun, the Blade of the King, back. “Tal’thon, go!” He urged his grand-nephew to flee: “Take your sister and go!”

Tal’thon immediately burst into a sprint, but in the wrong direction: toward the two unsuspecting mages. “No, Tal, run!” Adrynar said through clenched teeth as he was pushed further back. He jumped into the air and went to land his sword directly on Vynlarion’s head. The Highborne knight, seeing the attack, disengaged with a flurry of dirt as he kicked himself back.

The young hunter did not abate. With speed his opponents could not match through encumbrance or lack of agility, he sprinted with lighting speed toward Maris Firestorm. As he arrived before the man, he spun his blade around so that the pommel of his blade was first and slammed it into the man’s stomach.

The magister cried out a winded cough and stumbled forward. Tal’thon would not back down. “Elisae’s life… Uncle Adrynar’s life… Tal’theran’s life… My life… They’re all depending upon me!” He stepped toward the man, shoving him back and spun around, catching him off balance with his fist and struck him in the temple with a resounding ‘knock’ of knuckle on skull. Maris groaned and collapsed forward, knocked out.

“Maris! You damned demon brat!” Valora cried out and sent a fireball out. This one Tal’thon could not stop. It struck him on his arm and back, and he screamed with agony as his leather armour cracked and ultimately broke, leaving his skin to burn. Falling to the ground, he cried aloud, clutching at his back, tears streaming down his face from a pain he had never felt before.

He heard the sounds of plated footfalls on dirt, “Vynlarion the First is coming… I need to stop him, but I can’t! I can’t move, it hurts too badly!” He clenched his hands in fists, accidently grabbing fistfuls of dirt. With a movement that caused him to shout aloud once more with pain, he hurled the dirt in the on-comer’s face. Sir Vynlarion stumbled a moment, losing his momentum, “An ignoble attack!” he said, wiping furiously at his eyes.

“Oh for the gods’ sake, I’ll do it, then!” Valora stormed toward Tal’thon who still clutched his side. He stumbled backward away from the magister, tear stricken and shaking with blood loss and fear. Her eyes were set with righteous fury as she closed in on him.

“Wait!” Adrynar suddenly called out, struggling to his feet, holding his shoulder. His pauldron had been shattered and his right arm hung limply with blood dripping off his fingers and seeping through the hand that clutched the injury. Evidently, Sir Vynlarion had overcome his defenses during Tal’thon’s altercation with Maris. “You’re going to have a daughter!”

Valora stopped, her expression turning from fury to confusion. “What…?” She said, though did not lower her hand which was alight with arcane fire. However after a second, her form stiffened and anger returned to dominate her figure. “You won’t fool me, demon!”

“It’s the truth,” Adrynar said, as he stood in front of Tal’thon, his one useful arm extended. “I know you couldn’t have that little girl you always wanted in Zin-Azshari. But in a comparatively short while… You’re going to have a baby girl.” With the love that only a parent could speak of, Adrynar expanded on his point: “I know you don’t want to believe me, but I’ve met her! She will grow up and make you and Maris proud parents. You will watch her develop into a beautiful and powerful sorceress beyond anything you could imagine.”

He offered her a small smile, “Someday, after many lost loves, she will marry an elven elder, a great knight and aristocratic lord of the realm, Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth, my father.”

He placed a hand over his heart, “If we were demons, why would I bother to know that? It wouldn’t help me at all! If we were demons, why would I have not tried to kill you outside the arcane barrier. Tal’theran knew it was there – he told me!”

Valora slowly lowered her hand, letting the spell subside, “I’m… going to be a mother?” She said aloud. Behind her, Maris let out a long groan as he slowly clutched his head where Tal’thon had spinning-fist punched him. “Maris!” She turned around, hurrying to help her husband up, “I’m going to be a mother someday!”

“Do not be deceived!” Sir Vynlaion bellowed angrily as he stormed toward the group, sword drawn. “These foul demons will say anything so that we lower our guard! The minute they do, they will cut our throats or worse, turn us into demons too! Have we not lost enough? Has the Night Elven Empire not been savaged already?”

“Sir Vynlarion!” Adrynar called out. “When you crafted that sword, you enchanted it so that only one person can use it: you. But you knew that someday you might pass it on to your son.” The Highborne knight raised an eyebrow in surprise that Adrynar knew he had a son: he had not spoken of him. “You and Amara will have a boy and a girl, and one day when you aren old man, you will gift that sword to him. You’ll learn that the enchantment is not as you intended. You can hold it, yes, but so can anyone who has in them only the purest of your blood and the noblest of minds: the patriarchs of House Highcrest.”

Adrynar extended his left hand, “I am your descendent, your great-great-great-great-great-great grandson! That sword will not reject me!” He implored the man closer, “Let me show you only as a knight can be shown the validity of my claim that we are your kinsmen, not your enemy!”

“This blade will strike down any whom it does not welcome. Grian’deldun is enchanted this way. You will die for your treachery, demon.” Sir Vynlarion warned as he stepped closer, and turned the pommel of his massive blade toward Adrynar.

Adrynar looked back at Tal’thon who had watched the exchange in stunned silence and gave him an uneasy nod. It was clear Adrynar was unsure whether the sword would actually accept him. He slowly extended his useful hand toward the grip of the hilt of the blade, and with one deep breath, clenched his armoured hand around it.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, Adrynar let out a choked cry of surprise as a powerful arcane aura momentarily surrounded the blade and his hand. The blade physically shrunk roughly ten inches in length to better fit Adrynar. Vynlarion the First was stunned. “By the gods… You have not deceived us…”

He turned toward his Highbone allies, “Magisters Firestorm, we were in error. These are our kin! We have only one route of action: we must summon their portal and send them where they wish to return.” Adrynar returned the sword to his ancestor who found it to resize to him once more with a glow of azure magic.

Tal’thon, relieved that no one’s lives were endangered, slowly got up and moved toward his sister who had been knocked out nearby. “Elisae,” he whispered to her as he crawled toward her body. The others watched on, Maris most of all, realising her death would be on his hands were she not to be roused by Tal’thon’s calls. “Wake up…” The young elf said sadly.

He placed her head in his lap and on contact with her skin found it eerily cold. “Eli…” He whispered, crumpling over her still form, “No… Don’t leave me…!” He cried brokenly. Hot tears stung his face as he touched his forehead to hers. Tal’thon shuddered with agony as he felt no heartbeat in her. He wrapped his arm around her, his other still useless from the wound thereupon his shoulder and back. “Wake up, Elisae. Wake up!” He cried into her hair. He held her tight and did not even notice as Adrynar placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’re going home! Don’t you want to go home?” He asked her still body. His face contorted in agony as tears continued to flow.

He fell silent for a moment, and slowly placed her head on the ground. With shaking, stumbling feet, Tal’thon rose to a stand and turned toward the Highborne magisters. “You…” He said, his voice trembling and hands shaking, “You murdered my sister!” He surged forward on unsteady legs, “I’ll kill you, you monster!” He ran at Maris, who looked visibly taken aback at the news. The magister did not even try to move and as a result Tal’thon tackled him to the ground. “How could you?! She wouldn’t even have fought!”

The young hunter grabbed the front of the man’s robes in a ball and with his good arm struck him across the face. “You call us monsters?! You killed a defenseless girl!” He punched him again and again, “You monster! You bastard!” As he went in for another, he felt a hand come over his own. It was strong and plated. Through tear-filled eyes, Tal’thon looked up to find a visibly distraught Vynlarion the First holding him back.

“Brave child,” he said solemnly, “All may not be lost.” The ancient Highcrest motion to his descendent, Adrynar, who knelt over the still form of Tal’thon’s sister. Holy Light formed a majestic glow around their forms, sending off waves of healing power. “Your patriarch is calling upon the power of the Holy Ones…”

Maris for his part had not stopped Tal’thon from punching him and now, with a broken nose and split lip, he simply stared at the young man who hovered over him in grief and confusion. After a moment, Tal’thon rose and simply stood, watching Adrynar work.

“It’s not… working,” the Highcrest patriarch said weakly. The glow around he and Elisae flickered and dimmed as time wore on, “I am too weak.” He let the spellwork go, “The damage is not of a physical nature, it is arcane. I cannot heal her.” Any hope that had been fostered in Tal’thon left him again, delivering another heart shattering blow.

“Then there are other ways we can save her,” the voice of Tal’theran, hoarse and groggy, sounded. Having evidently only regained consciousness, he staggered over to the fallen young magistrix, still clutching the welt on the side of his head. He hovered a hand over her body and the arcane runes, once dim on his form, exploded into cobalt fire as his body stiffened with spellwork.

A pillar of arcane struck Elisae’s dead form with such power her limbs momentarily rose into the air before collapsing. Tal’theran’s eyes were afire so brightly with the arcane the verdant flames of their people were overpowered by his magic. He was putting everything he had into his efforts. After a moment, he added his second hand over his first, doubling the stream.

“Adrynar, now!” His voice, sounding unearthly with power rarely seen in their people, echoed furiously. Adrynar nodded and placed his hands on her midsection, his fingers widespread. Arcane and Holy Light erupted into a dance of powers over the girl’s body as they fought to bring her back. “Further!” Demanded the mage, “Further!!” He shouted.

Adrynar did not speak but evidently complied as the supply of Light magic was increased. After what seemed like an hour of Tal’thon numbly watching the grand display of magic, refusing to let his hopes rise, despite a growing optimism in his sad heart, something happened. A ragged, violent breath was sucked in by Elisae.

The spellwork suddenly stopped as she did, and Tal’theran simply fell backward in a display of billowing robes and limp limbs. Adrynar, who had been crouched next to her body, slumped to the side. Tal’thon hurried her side, leaned over her, and their eyes met. She looked confused and tired, but offered him a weak smile.

Tears for the third time appeared in Tal’thon’s eyes, “You’re back…” He whispered and abruptly hugged her close. Her arms wrapped weakly around his form, and he flinched when she touched the seared flesh on his back and side. He didn’t mention it, and instead held her ever closer. “Elisae, you’re back…”

“Sorry to make you worry, Tal,” she whispered weakly to him. He closed his eyes tightly, simply revelling in the sound of her heartbeat.

~*~

Tal’thon, with thick bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder, stood behind his sister. “Are you ready? We can wait if you want,” he asked her. Before them floated the Shard of Time and around it stood Kali’thal, Tal’theran, Maris, and Valora.

She shook her head, “Tal’theran, I think, imparted some of his power onto me when he saved me with Uncle Adrynar.” She looked over her shoulder at him, and smiled. “I’ll be fine.”  She turned away from him and nodded to Tal’theran.

Tal’thon looked over the empty trollish city. In just a few days the Highborne, led by Dath’Remar Sunstrider, would erect Silvermoon City here and begin anew their society. He wanted so badly to see it, but knew it would be best if future inhabitants of the city they were to raise were not present.

Tal’theran nodded back and took in a deep breath, extending a hand. His counterparts mimicked him, pointing their palms at the levitating shard. “Now!” Valora called out, and four beams of arcane light crashed into the Shard. The air around the point of convergence ripple and gave way to a swirling bronze vortex. It slowly grew in shuddering gasps. It was then that Maris called out: “More!” He extended his other hand. His action was copied by the other magisters.

With all their might put into the spell, the portal abruptly surged outward with such vigor it sent out shockwaves, billowing the cloaks and robes of spellcaster and observer alike. Vynlarion the First who stood next to Tal’thon shielded his eyes while Adrynar only grinned in amazement. Further back, the family members awaited, watching on in awe.

“There!” Elisae called out and the magisters dropped their hand. The portal had been established. Those surrounding it visibly sagged with relief and exertion from putting so much effort and power into the spell. In its now bronzy sheen, Tal’thon saw two figures.

One was clad in elaborate golden armour with crimson velvet accents that covered points of mobility in the armour. Over his back was strapped the same sword Vynlarion the First had sheathed in the same place. The latter knight let out a shocked sound, holding a hand to his face. “So it’s true…” In the glassy portal Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth seemed to see his ancestor and his eyes widened, a hand similarly rising to cover his mouth.

“Maris, look!” Valora exclaimed, pointing at the second figure in the portal. She was clad in a crimson dress. The elaborate gown had stitched into it a golden dragon running up the side and a golden phoenix acting as the single shoulder cover. Her fiery hair was loose down her back and her eyes widened in shock. Erythis Firestorm stared in disbelief at her parents – young and vibrant, while they stared back, seeing what they immediately knew was their daughter.

No words could be exchanged, but for a long moment Valora held to her husband, tears of pure joy at seeing her accomplished, powerful daughter stand there in the portal’s horizon. “She’s beautiful,” Maris said, clearly at a loss for words. He held up a hand and made a small wave, which Erythis, smiling grandly, returned.

Adrynar stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Tal’thon’s shoulder. “It’s time to go,” he said calmly.

The young elf turned to face their allies, turned enemies, turned friends. “Thank you all for saving our family, for helping us make this portal, and yes, even for showing my sister and me that we have strength we never thought possible.” He bowed deeply and received a round of applause from the Highborne men and women that would shape their nation. With a calming breath in, he turned and stepped through the portal.

For a moment, there was nothing.

The next moment, he stood before Knight-Lord Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth, Dragon of Quel’Thalas and his betrothed, Lady Erythis Firestorm, the Phoenix of Quel’Thalas. “Well, I imagine you have quite the tale to tell, hm?” Vynlarion said with a grin on his face.

Tal’thon let out a nervous laugh he did not realise he had been holding in. “Maybe we should sit down, first.”

Erythis let out an amused giggle and motioned to a nearby seat in the parlour, “A fine idea.”