Of Knights and Mages

When Tal’theran returned to the Highcrest manor from Falthrien Academy, he had naively expected the lord or lady of the house to be present. Yet, when he entered through the kitchens – consciously avoiding the main entrance, as it was a social faux pas for a ward to enter the same way aristocrats did – he encountered the family’s baker, a young elven women whom, he found, was more magister than chef and her baking was testament.

“Lord and Lady Highcrest?” She lofted a brow at the teenager, “They left just a few days ago for… Stormwind, I think?” She shrugged lightly, “Guess you’ll have to make friends with the other Highcrests.” She chuckled and ushered him on his way.

Tal’theran had been attending the academy for five years and found that, despite his proclivity for magic, he struggled greatly to control the arcane powers that surged through his body. Even as he walked into the empty dining hall and observed the grand table which sat upwards of twenty people and chandeliers overhead, he could feel mana roiling like a tempest in his very being.

The house was brightly lit by natural light streaming in from the numerous large windows, many of which were open to allow a fresh spring breeze in to keep the manor from smelling stale. Lathinal detested stuffy manors and Tal’theran had been told by servants that she was incredibly chagrined to move into one of the oldest elven manors in Quel’Thalas.

As he passed into the grand entryway, a foyer so huge it had pillars a meter wide wrapped in vines supporting the ceiling three stories overhead, he absentmindedly noted the standards that hung from the ceiling and those that were affixed to the walls. Upon their luxurious fabrics were the banner of the Highcrests, the icon of the Quel’Thalas and finally the personal sigils of Vynlarion and Lathinal. In the centre of the hall was a huge marable staircase that split at a landing and wound smoothly up to the two wings of the house on either side.

The grandeur of the Highcrest manor still astonished the boy who, for his part, had grown up in an orphanage and more often frequented Murder Row to panhandle than anything else. Those memories were becoming more distant, but the feeling of despair and misery still clung heavily to his heart.

As he passed through a study, he made brief eye contact with a group of well-dressed elves chatting lightly, though a few stopped to stare at him, some with curiosity in their eyes and others with contempt. He knew he was here only at the behest of Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth, ruling patriarch of the family.

Finally, he exited into the courtyard behind the manor. On either side were the wings of the house, while before him was Lathinal’s most treasured area in the estate: the garden. Cobblestone paths led into the airy growth of wildflowers, large overhanging trees, and a multitude of kinds of shrubbery lining the walkways. Further back, a gentle slope gave way to a steep incline.

The estate had been formed into the side of the mountain valley that was the Highcrest manor. If one stood at the front gates, the boy mused, they would be able to see everything the family lorded. Conversely, from anywhere in the valley one could see the opulent house of their masters. The latter sentiment left him with unease – it was a struggle for him to conscience living in such a beautiful house when he realised that just down in the valley lived the disadvantaged souls he knew so well.

Tal’theran decided to clear his mind as the empathetic lady of whom he had grown so fond did: he entered the garden. He scuffed his boots against the ground and absentmindedly rubbed a bit of dirt of their exterior before smoothing out his beige trousers and azure and gold tunic. He made a mental note to smooth out his crimson hair, suddenly aware that he was entering what was tantamount to sacred ground for the Highcrests.

Here in this garden, he thought to himself as he admired the foliage around him, Alenyia Highcrest, Vynlarion’s mysterious mother, could be find, reading from onerous tomes. Few could tell, but Tal’theran was painfully aware: she was a shadow priestess, and one of great power. She hid it well, but his agonisingly strong powers nagged at him when she was nearby.

As well, Lathinal would wander these groves, oftentimes with her relatives, or other times alone, content with the peaceful company of the birds and insects that now flew overhead the boy. As he rounded a bend in the path, the electric charge of magic tugged at his mind. Tal’theran looked around, concerned. Then, he spotted her, seated on a bench overlooking a lily pond, whose surface was alive with violet flowers.

Alenyia Highcrest, garbed in a magnificent flowing ebon dress, topped with the finest of feathers that reached up bosom, predictably held in her hand a large book with mysterious diagrams on its pages. She faced away from Tal’theran, but he could see the marvellous, claw-like gauntlet she wore. It was delicate in its fine making, but dangerous: the fingers ended in sharp talons. It glinted a brilliant silver in the sunlight that trickled through the canopy overhead.

Her hair, once a lightless black, had given way to silver streaks at the temple. For his part, Tal’theran found her only more imposing as an elder elf than how she might have been prior to his birth and inception in the house.

“Do not be afraid, child,” her voice, calm, yet cold, sounded from the bench. “Come,” she instructed him, never once looking back at him or even moving a muscle. She spoke into her book, but he felt her voice pierce his mind painfully.

Tal’theran, for a long moment, contemplated just running away from the unnerving woman, but decided not to and summoned up his courage to face the woman so aptly named, The Dusk Whisperer, in homage of her fallen family’s surname, Duskwhisper. “My lady,” he said with as much reverence and as little fear as he could summon, before drooping into a deep bow, his hair covering his eyes and shielding him from her intense gaze.

Rising after a long moment, he found her still reading from her mysterious tome. She did not speak to him, nor indeed offer any sign she knew he was standing awkwardly next to the bench, his hands at his sides and his breathing as quiet as it could be.

These were skills he had honed during his time in the Highcrest manor: breathe quietly, step quietly, act quietly, and honour everyone he met profusely as though they were kings and queens. Highcrests, he found, were generally very vain and difficult to please, but easy to anger. Thus, he simply stood, waiting for her to speak.

After what seemed like an unbearable amount of time, she exhaled and slowly placed the book on the bench next to her, before flourishing her gauntleted hand at the seat next to her, separated by the book. Tal’theran quickly took a seat, and the two simply looked over the tranquil lily pond before them. “How long have you been my son’s ward, now?” She inquired after another long pause.

Tal’theran thought on the matter: “About… eight years, my lady.” She nodded before looking over the pond once more, leaving the mage apprentice to his memories. He still remembered the day Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth, Dragon of Quel’Thalas and Lord-Commander of the Knights of the Realm, saved his life…

“Please!” He begged anyone that would listen, “I didn’t mean to!” His voice cracked in fear and misery as the crowd of affluent elves looked down upon him. He stood against a lamp post, his hands shaking with magic. Ahead of him, across the street, a guard lay in a smoking pile, occasionally twitching.

He could hear the heavy footfalls of more guards, alerted by the large crowd and badly injured guard. “Like hell you didn’t!” One woman shouted, holding her daughter close to her side. The child looked to be Tal’theran’s age: no more than seven years of age. Another man leered balefully down at him: “You little freak! The guards should exile you!”

He shook his head at the accusation, but his heart sunk at the next suggestion: “He’ll just get back in,” a local smithy argued, “I say he gets executed here and now: save Silvermoon the trouble of just doing it when he actually kills someone.” The man leaned down, now shouting in Tal’theran’s face: “If you can’t control magic, you don’t deserve to have it, and since you’re an elf you may as well be dead!”

“Yeah!” One woman shouted in agreement, “Execute him before he attacks one of us!” More and more began to agree. Tal’theran had seen such savage treatment of the downtrodden often in Murder Row, but this was the Walk of Elders, where the rich and well-connected did business! To see these people, dressed so well and with accents so fine, to shout and scream such hateful things at him was astonishing.

At that moment, the boy resolved that, if he lived beyond today, he would never forget that beasts lived in the hearts of all men and women, regardless of what prestige they were assigned. As the shouts for his exile and or death intensified, one burly looking elf, likely an off-duty guard given the standardised hairstyle all guards had, grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. “I’ve got him!” He shouted over the crowd as city guards pushed their way past the onlookers.

One more senior guard who did not carry a shield and glaive like the others, and instead had two warglaives, listened to the stories of those around, about how this ‘wicked child’ had abused magic to try to kill a guard to stop him from ‘stealing’ from passersby. The truth was that Tal’theran had been panhandling, begging for a few coins so he could feed himself. The orphanage had too little food and the matron of the shabby place did not like him at all for his erratic magical discharges.

“Alright,” the old elf said, apparently uncaring that no one could hear him, “Your ass is grass, kid,” the man said as he took him by the arm and started dragging him in the direction of a nearby guards’ station.

He shook his head vigorously, “They’re lying!” He protested. “Why won’t you listen!? They just didn’t want me begging: they’re lying to you!”

“I know that,” the man said grimly, “But if we don’t get rid of you then we’ll be the ones in shit. I have a family, you’re just some fucking pauper.” The words cut deeply into Tal’theran’s miserable heart and he hung his head, no longer fighting the man’s grip. He was going to die because it was convenient, because in a police state like Quel’Thalas, ‘Happiness is mandatory’ and an aberration like him disturbed that order. He felt tears well up again: it was all so wrong and unfair, and he was powerless to stop it, the magic he had accidentally summoned was all but expended.

He heard the hateful jeers of the crowd as he passed through their ranks and began to resign himself to death when a voice, so loud and booming, it shattered the cacophony of hate and silenced them in a second.

“SILENCE!” the imperious voice echoed grandly. The crowd abruptly split before Tal’theran and the guard, many of whom bowed or inclined their heads at the source of the voice. There stood a tall, strong elf, with golden hair and cool, intense cobalt eyes. He wore intricate golden scale armour, with grand pauldrons that resembled dragons taking flight while on the back of either gauntlet was the sigil of either Quel’Thalas or a noble family the boy vaguely recognised. Across his back and strapped to the underside of his wide mantle was a flowing azure cloak that obscured his arm left arm, while the other was raised to acknowledge the guards who had seen him. Over his back was a huge crimson broadsword, engraved with ancient runes of power.

The guard, whom Tal’theran now suspected was a guard-captain, dropped the boy’s arm and saluted crisply. “Lord Highcrest,” he said, both surprised and uncomfortable. Evidently the man before him had a reputation. The man slowly walked toward the guard-captain and the boy, the latter of which was cautiously optimistic, but most him warned that few nobles cared for the poor.

Those intense eyes bored into the red haired boy before shifting to the older guard expectantly. “My lord, this boy attacked a guard and has been reportedly stealing from passersby. He has disturbed the happiness of the citizenry, sir, I intend to remove the threat he faces to our people.” The lordly knight listened closely, though his visage was a passive mask of inscrutability.

“I see, and captain, you learned of this thievery and the intention behind his act from this unruly mob?” He asked the guard-captain, his voice laced with incredulity. A small spring of hope opened in Tal’theran’s chest, silently praying to any gods that be to show him mercy. “It seems quite suspect. Observe, captain,” the golden haired elf said and turned toward the crowd.

“Who here was stolen from by this boy?” The crowd of now wary onlookers shifted glances from between one another, but no one came forward. Lord Highcrest looked over his shoulder at the captain, a brow lofted. “Who here saw him steal from anyone?” Again, no one came forward. “As I thought…” He turned back, “Captain, you have been misled by the vigour of an angry mob of precocious middle classmen.” His derisive words resulted in a few disgruntled voices, but those were quickly silenced by guards who gave the sources of discontent dangerous looks. Happiness is mandatory, after all.

“But, what of the guard whom he attacked, surely we must –“ the guard-captain protested, though was cut off by a raised hand from Lord Highcrest.

Turning to Tal’theran, the man abruptly went to backhand him. The boy flinched and shut his eyes, expecting the brutal pain of a gauntleted hand to break his jaw. Instinctively, an arc of arcane magic exploded from his person wildly into the air before dissipating.

Tal’theran opened his eyes to find a surprised looking lord, and to his shock, a small smirk on his lips. “Impressive!” He bellowed amusedly, “I have never seen a boy as young as you with such latent power! The greatest magisters in the land would be envious to know a lowborn boy has more power than their coveted children.” After a pause, he swooped a little lower, his sword jutting out behind him and his hair falling slightly forward, giving a shadow to his face that accentuated the magical glow in his eyes – the birthright of their people, as the High King liked to say. “What is your name?”

“Tal’theran, sir,” the boy said, feeling less scared and more confused now. Vynlarion half dragged, half walked him around his strong person to face the crowd.

Lord Highcrest, whom Tal’theran now realised this was the famed aristocrat knight who endlessly battled the Amani Trolls to keep them in Zul’Aman, Vynlarion Highcrest the Sixth. Even the pauper boy had heard the story of him and Lady Lathinal, his future wife: she had forged a dragon out of fire magic inside of which Vynlarion was suspended, free to slaughter their enemy. It was a famous story of bravery, magic and skill: the kind orphan matrons told to give false delusions about what great people the orphans could someday be.

“This boy, Tal’theran,” Vynlarion Highcrest began, “Is not your enemy. Nay, he is emblematic of the greatness of our people – a shining example of how grand our birthright is!” He raised his hand and clenched it in a fist, his face now a triumphant grin, “The Sunwell grants all her people magic, and has blessed this boy with such power that he could simply not contain it: he exploded with the raw fury of our beloved Sunwell when he was accosted by a guard.”

“Indeed!” He continued, “He should be vaunted for such a natural communion with our great magicks and those of the land around us.” He raised his fist into the air and shouted; “Anar’alah belore! Glory to Quel’Thalas! Long live the High Elven kingdom!” His chant was received with a chorus of similar cheers and applause, the crowd now all noble smiles and glee.

Vynlarion once more turned Tal’theran to face the guard-captain. “I agree his panhandling was inappropriate, given the locale. But, I have a solution.” Both the boy and the guard-captain looked at Vynlarion expectantly.

The grand lord who had become famous for his valiant warring deeds spoke words that, forevermore, Tal’theran would remember as clear as day: “I will take him in as my ward, and he will be sent to Falthrien Academy, where his talent can be honed and his life given purpose.” After a brief exchange between guard-captain and noble lord, the golden haired man looked down at the boy.

Vynlarion patted Tal’theran on the shoulder, offering him a kind smile, “You’re coming home with me, Tal’theran. Mark this day in your mind, for it is the last day you will have ever spent wanting.”

Tal’theran was brought out of his memories as she spoke again, her eyes glittering with unseen knowledge. “What a beautiful memory,” she said, her voice still calm. “My son acted wisely when he found you, besieged by hatred and fear.”

Alenyia Highcrest relaxed for a moment, and shook her head. “I, too, know their fear. They fear my power and my family’s birthright,” she looked at him for just a moment, and in that moment he felt her mind invade his own, looking for something. “You will be a powerful sorcerer, I see it in the shadows,” she portended ominously, “And you will be the one to stand beside young Adrynar when to him, all seems lost.” She continued her predictions, her voice ominous as her dark eyes bored into his soul, “You will be a man of many faces, and yet a constant in his, and his father’s life, for many years to come.”

The mysterious elder elven lady nodded, “Go, now. My grandson is up ahead. Know that, although you do not yet know it, your life has purpose.” Tal’theran felt his body rise to a stand and slowly begin to walk away, but it was not by his own volition. Before he regained full control of himself and could look back at the bench upon which Alenyia and he had sat, she was gone.

Ahead was another clearing, except where there was a lily pond in the last one, here there was a circular cobblestone area with a battered training dummy in the centre. Hacking at it with a training sword was someone Tal’theran had seen many times. He was two years younger than the mage-apprentice and had blond hair like his father, as well as being tall like him. Unlike Vynlarion, however, he had kind eyes like his mother and a less angular face.

When the other youth noticed Tal’theran, he stumbled in surprise mid-swing and called out exasperatedly, “Tal’theran!” Breathing heavily from exertion, he took a few seconds to steady himself, “You startled me.” Vynlarion Adrynar Highcrest the Seventh offered Tal’theran a bright smile – the same one his mother had.

~*~

“My dear, are you sure you don’t want to go below decks? The rain will not be letting up anytime soon,” Vynlarion half-shouted over the torrenting rain. The precipitate sounded noisily off his golden armour - the same set he had worn when he had found Tal’theran – and his cloak had become heavy with water. His golden hair was matted against his head and back and Lathinal found he looked more like a noble drowned rat that anything else.

The auburn haired sorceress let off a light laugh: she was in great spirits, despite the poor weather. Around them, the fine elven vessel, Arrow’s Flight, cut through the waves like a knife and, despite the large grey waves that churned around them, the ship only gently bobbed up and down. Overhead, the skies had unleashed torrential downpours uncommon for the southern Great Sea. Off the port bow, the one over which Lathinal and Vynlarion observed, was the rocky coast of the central Eastern Kingdoms.

To the various other crafts on the seat they occasionally passed by, Arrow’s Flight was invisible. Magisters worked tirelessly to obscure the ship from view: pirates and legitimate traders alike, none were to know the Highcrest delegation was coming to discuss trade with Stormwind’s best.

Lathinal turned to face her husband, placing a hand on his cold breastplate, “My dear, my inner fire keeps me warm. But you, Vynlarion Highcrest, look like a drowned rat. Perhaps you could wait belowdecks?” She winked at him, knowing that the scoff he immediately sounded meant he was far too prideful to allow his wife to be wet and cold while he would be dry and warm. She shook her head and leaned on the railing of the ship, her heeled boots scuffing quietly as she relaxed. Few were on the exposed deck, and those that were, were far too busy to care about what their VIPs were doing. “Very well, then. We shall both remain,” she declared after Vynlarion slowly folded his arms over his chest.

“Do you believe we shall meet the king? I would so like to tell him how idiotic his people are when it comes to handling your luggage,” Vynlarion mused aloud, “When last we visited a few years ago, I swear one of your trunks had a corner missing from how hard one of those twits smashed it against a doorframe.”

Lathinal patted his crossed arm lightly, “Oh, my poor husband,” she cooed in a good-natured, if wholly sarcastic tone, “Cannot bear to see his wife’s belongings damaged but will subject her and himself to terrible weather because they are both too prideful to admit they are drenched and cold.” He rolled his eyes and repressed a smile tugging at his lips.

“You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met. From the time you turned me into a bloody fire dragon to the time you decided to teach my – pardon, our orphan ward, the ways of magic… You continue to surprise me with your shenanigans.” Vynlarion moved up to the railing and placed a gauntleted hand over hers. “This must go well,” he said seriously. “Father was much like Vornelius the First: contemptuous and distrustful of the humans. I will not allow my lands to fall into poverty because of what primitive people humans can be.”

Lathinal nodded understandingly, “I recall. When we were betrothed and travelled to the Alterac capitol I recall your father outright, just, said: “Humans are trash.” In Common! It was a very stupid move.” She shakes her head of his concerns, “But my dear, you are not Vornelius the Third nor his grandfather. You are Vynlarion the Sixth, and human traders still speak fondly of the elder Vynlarions, even if one is missing.”

Vynlarion seemed calmed by the idea his name might assuage some concern. His granduncle Vynlarion the Fifth, had died a few decades ago, but having acted as the family’s chief facilitator of trade, had helped differentiate the Highcrests to their human, dwarven and gnomish trading partners. “Let us hope that, to the humans, there are Vynlarions, and there are Vorneliuses.”

“There’s always the dwarves. I made great strides opening up trade with them,” Lathinal offered, though Vynlarion remained unconvinced.

He looked over at her, and down to her partially exposed bosom. Her robes cut away at revealingly on her sides and in a V-shape over her chest. “My dear I believe you did so well with the dwarves, in part, because you were giving them something else than sample ores to look at,” he grinned wryly, although she did not seem to find it as funny.

“My lord, my lady!” The helmsman abruptly shouted, gesturing toward the forward bow of the ship. Ahead, a family fishing ship had been drawn into their path by the strong ocean currents. The two aristocrats were already moving to the centre of the ship.

“Magisters! Cease casting!” Lathinal called out, “Move to me!” She raised her hands into the sky, her heavy cloak being blown back in the wind as she did so, sending her wavy locks of auburn hair into a tumultuous dance in the air. Her slim, elven frame was revealed as her robes pressed against her skin.

Vynlarion, for his part, was stood a distance before her. “Drop sail: half sail!” He commanded, hurrying to the guides to bring them down. “Helsman, hard to port!” The ship groaned as the man did as he was ordered and the vessel caught the winds, now turning. They were still going too fast and were going liable to destroy the fishing vessel, which was now sounding all sorts of sirens as the massive elven carrier surged toward it.

“Now!” Lathinal ordered her fellow magisters, their spell having been sufficient accumulated. A roiling vortex above their heads smashed into the water off the aft bow of the other ship and send it surging forward and out of the way. Arrow’s Flight finally slowed to a normal speed and slid up silently next to the trading ship. In the distance they could see the twinkling lights of the bustling city that was Stormwind.

The other ship’s crew, consisting of a captain and a few deckhands whom Lathinal considered his children rushed up to the side of their ship to see what had almost obliterated their ship. “Apologies, captain,” she called out, the wind still catching her cloak and hair, “Your ship drifted into our path.” She explained.

The family aboard the other ship mumbled a bit to themselves before each of them offered her awkward bows. “Helmsman, bring us into port,” Vynlarion instructed as his wife made pleasantries. With the collision averted, the ship continued on course, though was now visible. It was double the length of the standard elven carrier, but only slightly wider, giving it a long, sleek likeness. Below the waterline, the ship was painted gold, while above it was an azure backdrop with golden accents swirling around.

The ship was just one long above deck with a slightly raised poop deck where the wheel was. There were three levels below decks, though most rooms were empty for this trip.  As the ship slowly pulled into port, a contingent of Stormwind City Guards amassed on the docks while the ship was secured. Much of the large vessel jutted out beyond the deck, but this was a commonality for their travels. Vynlarion did not often use this ship for trading missions, but he did when he wanted to make an impression.

Arrow’s Flight dwarfed the nearby human ships and was easily more beautiful. It was a typical comparison people made between humans and Quel’dorei. Lathinal for her part strode up next to him and waved her hand, instantly drying them both of the water that had matted them so thoroughly while in transit. Overhead, the sky had finally begun to clear and on the docks moved a procession of dignified human nobles.

Vynlarion extended his arm out at the elbow, his hand facing upward. Lathinal placed her hand in his gantleted one and the two descended the ramp set up for them with all the grace and dignity elves possessed. The Stormwind nobles nodded respectfully at their elven counterparts and they returned the gesture. “Lord Davos Stonewatch,” Vynlarion greeted a broad man clad in a crimson vest and matching pants with a beige collared shirt underneath, “It is good to see you again.”

Three other men were present, accompanied by their wives. “Lord and Lady Moonbrook, Sir Stoutmantle and Lady Stoutmantle, and of course Lord and Lady Ebonlocke,” Vynlarion and Lathinal exchanged pleasantries with the humans representing the economic interests of Westfall, Elwynn Forest and Brightwood – eventually known as Duskwood. 

“Come, good Highcrests,” Ebonlocke said, his voice quiet and wary, “We have much to discuss.” The elven coupled exchanged looks before setting off for Stormwind Keep.

~*~

Tal’theran and Adrynar had taken to silently walking side by side through the gardens and toward the manor. The young mage-apprentice glanced over at his blond companion, finding him to be absent-mindedly fiddling with the cuff of his leather bracers. Overhead, birds flew from tree to tree, while around them, the croak of distant frogs could be heard from the pond he had met Alenyia Highcrest at.

The path rounded the corner and toward where the mysterious lady had been seated, though she had not returned. As they passed the bench, Tal’theran made idle note of the ominous tome from which she had read was now placed where she had sat. “You seem uncomfortable,” the red-haired youth ventured, “Is something the matter?”

Adrynar looked over abruptly, seemingly startled by the accusation. “Not at all!” He shook his head emphatically. “It’s just that,” he pauses, finding his words, “I’m not really sure what to say to you…” Tal’theran blinked, and his brow knitted in confusion. “It’s not like that. Just, well, father brought you here years ago and yet, because of our schedules, we’ve never really seen much of one another.”

“So you don’t know me?” The mage-apprentice inquired with curiosity in his voice. “Well, I’m not sure how to remedy that…” He drew inward, considering how he could end this awkward tension between the two of them. Adrynar rubbed his chin in thought, giving a ‘hmm’ aloud.

The blond Highcrest snapped his fingers, “I’ve got it!” His eyes flashed with the triumphant flare that his father’s always had, and he grinned victoriously, having vanquished his mental foe. Grabbing his housemate by the shoulder, he let out a laugh. “It’s simple. We’ll go camping!”

Tal’theran blinked once more, confused. “Camping?” He spoke with incredulity.

“Yes, it’s brilliant. I’ve been wanting to go south and check out Zul’Aman forever, but my parents would never allow it.” He pushed the mage to keep walking, their pace much faster now. Adrynar tugged his bracers off as he continued disrobing his leather training garb. “This is excellent. Get a bag ready: bring a sleeping bag and a change of clothes or two. I’ll meet you at the main gates!” Adrynar patted him on back, his excitable nature readily apparent. He charged off toward the house, leaving a very confused Tal’theran in his wake.

“What a strange person…” Tal’theran mused, before considering his slow, thoughtful pace toward the house.

As the garden gave way to the lawn, then the lawn to the grand foyer, Tal’theran ascended the huge staircase toward the second floor, and turned away from the wing where the family resided, and instead toward the opposing wing where the guests stayed. He had been given a large room that overlooked the gardens.

When he opened the door to this quiet room, he found it as he had left it. Two wide windows opened up the room to bright noonday sunshine. Between them was an ornate. So fine was its design that it seemed out of place given the otherwise humble furnishings. Nevertheless, it was covered in scrolls, tomes and codexes of all sorts. At the end of the desk was a third window, this one being a circular portcullis. On the right hand side of the room was an armoire, and finally directly on his left and across from the bed was a floor length mirror. Finally, a sturdy chest sat at the foot of his bed.

The young elf moved to the armoire and opened it. His nose curled against the musty smell – something very pervasive in ancient homes such as these. He took from it a set of riding clothes: tan trousers, brown boots, an off-white shirt and a matching brown jacket whose collar stood rigidly upward, providing some defence against the wind. He placed the outfit into a rucksack he procured from the floor of the armoire.

Tal’theran moved the rucksack to the foot of his bed and turned to face the mirror. He was still very slim, but had grown a great deal since he had moved in. Where once sunken, sickly features were his visage, now he had high cheekbones, a hawk-like chin and nose, and a pair of bright, inquisitive eyes. A shock of crimson hair fell loosely just above his shoulders.

Whenever he had been alone with Lady Lathinal, she always told him what a handsome young man he was, and how she even gave Adrynar a run for his money. Tal’theran was reticent to believe that, though. Adrynar was universally adored by his relatives and friends. He had short, well styled bright blond hair, a healthy, lithe build, a glowing smile and a countenance that was both cheerful and kind. He exuded the kind of brilliance that a Highcrest heir would, but in a manner very different from his father. Though Lord Vynlarion was a doting father, he expressed it through challenges and riddles, and was far more intimidating than his son. Adrynar’s appeal was in the simplicity of his compliments and banter. Despite them never spending much time together until now, the mage-apprentice had always found Adrynar to be a generous person in his dealings with those around him.

After a moment, he unclasped his overlapping robes and tossed the heavy garment onto his bed. Now clad in only his beige trousers and shoes, he frowned at what he saw. Long scars marred his back, and similar, shorter ones, raked across his chest in a seemingly random zig-zag pattern. He ghosted his narrow fingers across them, his visage contorting to dismay. The memory, like many prior to his saving by Lord Vynlarion, was an unhappy one he wished to forget.

With a breath released he did not realise he had been holding in, he returned to the armour and took from it a loose fitting ghostly blue blouse. He buttoned it swiftly and tucked it into his pants before smoothing out the wide sleeves. He always tailored his garments to have loose sleeves: there was something comforting about having a place to hide hands when he was in thought. Finally, he slipped on a brown wool jacket. He then switched his shoes for a pair of black riding boots.

Moving to the mirror once more, his footsteps sounded on the hardwood floors. He nodded at himself. No one would guess he was a mage. He looked more like a stable-hand than a magical elf, now. He took from the chest at the foot of his bed a long dagger and clipped it to his belt. Satisfied with his attire, he opened the door to his room once more and narrowly resisted looking startled.

A surprised Adrynar lowered his hand from where he was about to knock. “Ah, hello Tal’theran,” he said somewhat awkwardly before flashing his signature smile, “I didn’t meant to startle you.” An awkward silence settled over them as Tal’theran considered the youth before him. “But…” Adrynar looked the mage over, “I think I might have been a little more jumpy than you, all things considered.”

Adrynar Highcrest was, predictably, dressed too well for a camping trip. He wore a pair of fine black leather boots, trimmed with intricate flowing designs. Tucked into them was a pair of grey cotton trousers, cinched together with a black leather belt matching his boots, and affixed with a fine golden buckle with the likeness of a dragon stamped into it. Next was his white blouse, ironed perfectly to a pristine crispness. Over this shirt he had on a knee length wool coat. However the fabric was where its similarities with Tal’theran’s own coat ended. Where his was slightly coarse, the noble youth’s was smooth and well-tailored, with large cuffs capped in similar golden filigree. It even had small epaulets and a tall collar that gave him a decidedly regal look. Clasped to his hip was a short-sword, and over his back a backpack hung.

“Shall we go, then?” Tal’theran inquired, resisting the urge to make a comment about his aristocratic housemate’s outlandish outfit. Adrynar nodded once and the two set off down the hall. “We don’t need to worry about a tent,” the mage-apprentice assured his blond acquaintance who offered a curious expression in response, “I can create one.”

Adrynar shook his head, “Even though I’m an elf, I swear I must be more like father than I realise. Magic just baffles me!” The would-be knight chuckled, shrugging in disbelief. “But I suppose that’s why he took you in – father is a kind man but he doesn’t understand the idea of sympathy for the sake of sympathy,” he remarked before abruptly slinging his arm over the mage-apprentice’s shoulders, bringing him closer.

Tal’theran blinked and felt his face involuntarily heat up at the abruptly touch. “I guess that makes us brothers, huh?” He grinned, “But father probably doesn’t see it like that.” He felt a hand pat his far shoulder as Adrynar spoke, “Well, I’ll settle for friends.” The crimson haired elf was released as they entered the upper area of the foyer. “I know I said I’d meet you here, but I got excited,” Adrynar explained as he hurried forward, evidently a little embarrassed by his almost childlike glee for adventure.

At the base of the stairs, standing before either bannister and facing away from them, toward the huge doors at the far side of the expansive entryway, were two guards. At the main doors to the manor were two more guards, all of whom were garbed in light chainmail with crimson tabards depicting a dragon midflight on a golden shield. It was the sigil of the Highcrest family, and one that spoke strongly of their self-styled status as protector of the southern forests of Quel’Thalas. They were the defenders of Quel’Thalas from the Amani Trolls – the very beings Adrynar sought to see.

Adrynar descended the wide staircase first, and Tal’theran gave conscious effort to only follow once he was a ways down, ever mindful of his place in this house. Adrynar nodded at the two, “Good afternoon, Jeremias, Alphen.” The two offered respectful nods, but remained silent. Looking back to Tal’theran he smiled ruefully, “The guards aren’t supposed to talk on duty.”

The mage-apprentice lofted a quizzical brow, “Then how do you know their names?”

His blond fellow seemed confused Tal’theran would ask such a question. “Well, I spoke to them when they were off duty.” The answer seemed obvious to Adrynar, but it surprised his newly minted friend that the heir to this grand house would socialise in the servant’s quarters. Turning to the two guarding the entry, he looked between them, “Good afternoon, Eri’can, Sir Lightborne,” the latter of the two offering a crisp salute. “We’ll be going on a little trip, can you let my Lady Mother and Lord Father know when they return from their trading mission?”

“Young Lord,” began Sir Lightborne, “It would be dangerous for you to go out on your own. Please, allow me to send with you a few guards.” The knight, whom Tal’theran knew to be one of the guard captains, was a middle aged elf with short brown hair and was distinguished by the polearm resting across his back.

Adrynar shook his head, “No thank you, sir, we’ll be quite fine.” He motioned to the door and, after a moment of consideration, Lightborne gave in with a sigh. The man waved his hand through the air, and the huge doors slowly opened. At first, there was nothing but a crack of light, but it grew and soon the entire foyer was flooded with brilliant natural light. Chandeliers overhead sparkled magnificently as the many facets of their crystals. The finely polished bannisters even seemed to glow as the sun shined upon the interior of the Highcrest home.

Adrynar stepped confidently out and toward the stables, and when Tal’theran went to follow, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. The guard captain spoke quietly as he watched the young noble disappear out of sight. “Keep an eye on him, Tal’theran,” he urged the mage-apprentice, “He is too reckless. He’s picking up bad habits from Sir Varinal.”

Tal’theran nodded at the elder elf, “I will, sir.”

“Thank you, young man,” the knight seemed genuinely touched by Tal’theran’s steeled response. “I’ve served the Highcrests since Lord Vornelius the Third lorded over these lands. Blessed Sunwell embolden Lord Vynlarion, but his son is a rare gift to noble circles: he is kind and just. He will make an excellent ruler someday.”

Tal’theran stared at the Sir Lightborne for a long moment, surprised by his honesty and openness. With that, he nodded, and took his leave. “We will return, sir.”

~*~

“A lowered tariff would be very much advantageous to your manufacturing sectors here in Stormwind,” Lathinal said diplomatically, her hands folded before her in a conciliatory fashion. Her statement was met with a moment of silence, save the sound of rain beating down on the stone roof overhead. It offered a steady thrum of noise, but also a persistent chill in the old man-made castle.

Across from her, Jacob Ebonlocke, lord of the Brightwood, looked unconvinced. “You are correct that it would advantage the city of Stormwind, but not the nation as a whole. Lowered tariffs mean that there is less demand for goods coming from the hinterlands, such as Westfall and Brightwood,” his eyes narrowed for a moment in mistrust of the elves, and his hostility toward them was laid clear.

Surprisingly, it was Lady Eliza Stoutmantle who spoke up in their defence: “Really, Jacob. You mustn’t be so paranoid,” she chastised him tactfully. “The elves are not here to despoil our lands: they are here to trade. Just as we are.”

Lord Ebonlock looked over at the woman, who both by virtue of her social station and gender was his inferior: “I was unaware your wife made policy for Westfall, Eric,” he hissed at Eric Stoutmantle, though the man could only balk at such a naked display of sexist elitism.

Vynlarion Highcrest gave the table a firm rapping, getting their attention. “If I may interject,” he began, his accent grand and foreign in Common, “It is not by the Westfall noble’s hand that the ladies are here. It is elven tradition that women take an equal seat in discussions of power.” Looking to Lord Stoutmantle, he leaned forward in his seat, offering an imploring gesture, “I am sure you will find that they can be of great assistance by offering a different opinion on matters of import.”

Lathinal smiled lightly, though quickly forced her countenance to one of indifference. Humans were remarkably resourceful people and would not need their trade if they fully tapped the resources of their lands. “Of course, Lord and Lady Highcrest understand that we cannot simply eliminate tariffs: that would destroy competition in our lands,” Davos Stonewatch abruptly said from his position at the far corner of the table, “But we cannot expect them to give us preferred trading status if we do not accommodate them.”

“Agreed,” began Lauren Moonbrook, “I say we eliminate the taxes and tariffs on the resources we simply do not have, and begin a four year long progressive reduction of tariffs on other goods to 75 percent of what they are now.”

“Thank you for your wise words, Lady Moonbrook,” Lathinal smiled at the woman, “But… 50 percent.”

“70 percent,” repudiated Edward Moonbrook, though a grin played on his face. This was a game they often played.

Drumming his fingers on the table, Vynlarion countered: “60 percent and I’ll support your government’s effort for my people to show yours how to make complex composite metals.”

The eight human lords and ladies looked between each other as silence once more descended over the room. “May we have the room to discuss this arrangement, Lord, Lady Highcrest?” Jacob Ebonlocke inquired. Vynlarion pushed his chair back with a heavy scrape and stood.

“Very well. We will be in the other room.” He and Lathinal moved to exit the meeting room. He spared a glance back, finding the humans busily conversing at the long table. At the far end of the room was a hearth crackling with a large fire, while at the other end two guards. This was, after all, Stormwind Keep, and security was paramount.

The two elves shut the doors behind them and found themselves in a dimly lit study. All around them, tall bookcases were crowded with old books and scrolls. “It reminds me of your study,” Lathinal remarked wryly, “Overfilled and desks badly needing cleaning.” She ran her finger over the surface of one and found it to be extremely dusty. Outside, the night sky was dark with rain, leaving only the light of a few sparsely spaced candles to illuminate the space.

“Do you believe it was wise to leave just as Adrynar was coming home? It’s been so long since he was home…” Lathinal looked to her husband for his wisdom, though before he could speak, both of them were abruptly dragged backward, away from one another.

Sharp, cool steel was placed against their necks. Vynlarion grunted in irritation, but did not move. Lathinal, for her part, too remained still. “Move and die, knife ears!” Hissed the assassin behind Lathinal. Her husband took in his likeness: he wore tight fitting black leathers and had his faced obscured by a steel mask with the likeness of an angular face.

“What is it you wish? Who are you?” Vynlarion grumbled lowly, but remained eerily still. His amour clanked lightly as he stooped over, allowing his assailant easier access to his throat, something that seemed to confuse the man. “Speak!” The elder elf commanded in an angry whisper.

The knife drew closer on Lathinal’s neck, drawing a droplet of blood which trickled down her pale neck. Vynlarion took comfort in seeing his wife’s completely composed disposition. They had both known the hand of death inches away from their souls before, this was nothing new. “You knife-eared freaks,” hissed the same man who had drawn blood, “Leave tonight or die!” Once more, he drew his knife into the elven lady’s neck.

The married couple exchanged glances before offering a nod. Arcane magic abruptly drew in toward the fiery haired woman. Her eyes flashed with power before she simply disappeared, leaving her assassin to stumble forward. At this, Vynlarion grabbed his enemy’s arm and stepped backward into the man, throwing him off balance. He wrenched the man’s arm away from his neck before throwing him over his head and into the other man, sending the two crashing noisily into a nearby bookcase. “NOW!” Vynlarion shouted.

Lathinal re-appeared and drew her hand down in front of her person. Manacles appeared the masked men’s wrists and ankles. Vynlarion surged forward, his grandly armoured form sounding noisily on the wooden floor. He grabbed one man by the scruff of his leather jerkin and slammed him into a nearby cluttered desk, sending scrolls and documents scattering. “Speak!” His voice boomed.

The door to the study flew open to reveal a group of startled nobles looking on with concern. “Lord Highcrest!” Jacob Ebonlocke shouted in shock, “Guards! Guards!” He called out. The two guards from the meeting room entered the study, but Lathinal stepped in front of them.

“No, gentleman,” she began, her hand raised in a polite but firm gesture, “I implore you to give us a moment.” She turned and pointed at the other shackled enemy. “Up,” she commanded, and the man levitated into the air. “Why did you threaten us? Who are you working for? What are their goals?”

The levitated man looked to his compatriot with hidden concern, but did not speak. “Do not test an elven lady,” Vynlarion warned the men lowly. Behind them in the entryway, unarmed Stormwind nobles shifted uncomfortably, unsure of when to draw the line and stop their guests. At Vynlarion’s warning, the man’s hands began to tremble, shaking the chains that now joined them.

“I will ask again: why did you threaten us? Who are you working for? What are their goals?” Lathinal’s voice was deceptively calm. The man’s trembling became worse and he let out a cry. The skin of his exposed hands began to erupt into small, fleshy bubbles, as though he had been badly burnt. “Speak and this will talk!”

“Stop!” Vynlarion’s captive shouted, “We work for –“ the man let out a strangled cry before he, panicked, clawed at his mask. The elder elf who held him down peeled the mask back to find a dart had buried itself in his neck. The man’s scarred, tan face, was now made hideous as his eyes became bloodshot and bulged out of his head. He frothed at the mouth, thrashing around.

Lathinal dropped her prisoner and hurried to the man’s side. “The poison is moving too fast,” she stated irritably as her hand moved up and down, hovering over the man’s body, “I can’t remove it without killing him.”

The man, now choking on the frothy saliva that escaped his lips, screamed a bloodcurdling, agonising bellow of agony before his chest shot upward before he fell still. “Faith…” The man whispered in his dying breath.

Before anyone could react, the second prisoner had also began to exhibit the same symptoms. Levitated midair, he looked like a macabre puppet. The noblemen and women looked on with sick curiosity, transfixed as the man thrashed around. “FAITH!” He slapped his manacled hands against his chest. Finally, as blood trickled from his eyes and ears, he sagged forward, dead, hovering in the air.

Lathinal slowly lowered the man to rest on one of the nearby tables. Vynlarion observed the darts in both men before looking to the window: “There!” He shouted and threw the glass panels open. In the mad torrent outside, a singular figure crouched atop a nearby chimney stack. Her hair was as black as night and her form lithe and small. She wore a large hood, but, too, wore a theatrical mask which glinted in the night.

Lightning flashed, and the figure was gone.

~*~

“You know,” Tal’theran began gently, “When the common folk go adventuring, they try to dress to avoid attention.” The mage-apprentice looked over to Adrynar and found the young knight observing his clothing. The white hawkstrider below him, so perfectly bred that naught a single feather was of a different hue, shook its head in boredom.

The much more common bird on which Tal’theran rode had a green and violet plumage, giving it a decidedly Night Elven look, but he did not mind. This bird had been very friendly, despite hawkstriders’ reputation for being something like giant ostriches: foul tempered and strong. “But I did dress down,” the young Highcrest protested after a moment, “Is this not good enough?”

Much to his surprise, Tal’theran found a level of bashfulness in the noble youth’s voice. “Well,” he began somewhat awkwardly, trying to preserve his newly made friend’s self-esteem, “It’s not like we’re going anywhere that you being dressed well will attract attention.” His attempt seemed to be somewhat successful, as the concern on Adrynar’s visage lessened. The mage-apprentice took the silence to survey their surroundings. They had travelled south down one of the private trails on the eastern ridge of the Sin’Redar Province. Having made good distance, the valley was becoming less clear behind them as they entered the mountainous region between the province and Zul’Aman. It was a topography not easily traversed, and it had been made so.

Thick trees grew between the mountain passes: it was an impossibility anywhere else, but in Quel’Thalas where the very climate was controlled, the soil was so rich even in the rockiest of areas that trees could thrive. It made for a natural border that was too thick for any troll army to realistically pass through without being noticed. When they did, which had occurred from time to time, the Highcrest family would rally its forces and seek their allies’ aid and cut down their enemies as they were slowed to single file transit through what Tal’theran knew had been coined Dead Troll’s Pass.

“You know,” Adrynar began after a pause. Tal’theran had quickly learned that Adrynar either very much enjoyed the odd apprentice’s company or simply enjoyed talking. “My father has fought many battles here. The Amani have often tried to use the Sin’Redar Province as a staging ground for an attack on Quel’Thalas.” The blond elven youth shook his head ruefully, “It seems they keep forgetting that they’d have to deal with Dead Troll’s Pass and the entrance into the rest of the country.”

The crimson haired apprentice nodded thoughtfully, but did not speak. He did not have much to say to this comment, as it was something he already knew. The two of them fell silent once more. The trail they were on began to slope downward toward the natural end of the valley. There, many trails simply dead-ended, for none desired any close contact with their people’s ancestral foes.

Unfortunately, the remoteness of this southern tip of the province was a prime location for criminals and gangs. Tal’theran kept up his guard, but knew that if they encountered more than a few, they’d be overpowered. Evidently, Adrynar was also aware of where they were, as he now had his hand on the hilt of his sword. He drew his cloak further around himself, not because it was cold, but to hide his fine clothing from any onlookers.

“Tal’theran,” he whispered, but did not look back to the mage who now followed closely behind. The young aristocrat tipped his head to the right ever so slightly. Lower in the valley, a bush rustled against the wind. The two of them kept moving, but given his now stiff body language, Tal’theran could tell Adrynar was becoming anxious.

The path before them continued to slope down and to the southwest toward the Pass and before long they stopped before it. What was entirely unsurprising to Tal’theran, as he had been scrying the land around them since Adrynar had noticed the odd bush movement, now became ascertained. A figure moved out from behind a tree in the dense foliage of Dead Troll’s Pass. Behind them, two more figures appeared. They were bandits. Elven bandits.

The one before them wore simple black leather armour and a crimson bandana over the lower half of his face. The two behind them were dressed in more patchwork garments but also wore the same bandanas. They were all dirty and held cheap swords, heavily nicked and scuffed. “That’s far enough,” the one before them announced. He pushed dirty auburn hair out of his eyes, revealing a surprisingly young face. He looked to be only a few years their senior. “Out of the saddles, nice and slow.”

The two bandits behind the elven travellers advanced slowly. Tal’theran looked to his societal superior, who, although his eyes were alive with fear, nodded. The mage apprentice’s black leather boots scuffed the gravel path below them while Adrynar made special effort to conceal himself under his cloak. Nevertheless, the scabbard of his sword stuck out, partially revealing the finery below.

The ringleader noticed this and looked to his two compatriots, and snapped his fingers. Tal’theran’s breath was abruptly stopped as an arm grasped him firmly around the neck. Something jabbed painfully into his side, threatening to spill his organs were he to move. He was not afraid, but he stiffened as he saw Adrynar be detained.

The aristocratic youth was grappled under the armpits, pinning him. The ringleader advanced and pulled back his cloak. “Oh my,” the elven man grinned wickedly, “What treasures you wear!” His eyes narrowed dangerously as he looked between Tal’theran and Adrynar. “Where’s the money?” He demanded of the latter.

The blond elven youth set his lips in a thin line, and did not speak. Much to Tal’theran’s dismay, the bandits’ ringleader delivered a firm punch into the noble youth’s ribs. Adrynar cried aloud, but still did not speak. “Not feeling talkative, eh? Damned rich little shit…” He drew a dagger from his side and pressed it against the youth’s cheek. “I have other methods… I’m sure you’ll be a little more…” He paused and dragged the tip of the blade down Adrynar’s cheek, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down. He winced, his face crinkling in pain, but still did not speak.

“Little fucker…” The man grumbled before spinning the dagger around in his hand, “Waste the red head! I’ll deal with pretty boy here,” He raised his hand into the air, evidently planning to stab Adrynar in the neck.

“STOP!” Tal’theran called out, and felt the bandits’ eyes flip to him. “I won’t let you hurt him,” he declared sternly. The ringleader’s brows shot up in surprise before he let out a hollow, cold laugh.

“And how do you intend to stop us?” He slowly advanced on Tal’theran. The mage-apprentice curled his nose against the foul smell of the man’s breath and sneered at him.

His eyes opened wide with anger as he stared down the ringleader, before switching his attention for just a second to Adrynar, who nodded ever so slightly. Tal’theran abruptly grabbed the blade whose tip was pressed against his back. The cold steel bit into his flesh, drawing blood, but he did not relent. The arcane hissed around them as he cast. “Fuck! A mage!” The man holding Adrynar called out.

However, it was too late. The blade pressed against Tal’theran’s back abruptly grew red hot and its owner cried aloud, dropping it. The red haired apprentice was freed and threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding a fatal slash of the dagger from the ringleader. The man who had been holding him clutched at his severely burnt hand in agony, but his allies were more than capable. “Adrynar!” He called out.

“Right!” The aristocratic youth wrapped his foot around his assailant’s ankle and tripped him, falling back onto him. He extended his elbow and drove it into the man’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of him before drawing his sword and throwing off his cloak, revealing his fine clothing.

The young knight’s fine blade clashed with the dagger of the ringleader. “You little shit! Now you’re gonna die!” The man drew another dagger from his other hip, and leaned into their crossed melee, quickly overpowering Adrynar who backed off. Behind him, his captor was on his feet.

Tal’theran would not allow this. His face contorted into pure hatred as he saw the man try to attack Adrynar from behind. “Attacking from behind!?” He questioned furiously before summoning a fireball and firing it at the man, sending him flying into a nearby tree, a smoldering hole in his filthy clothes. He groaned before collapsing backward, unconscious.

Adrynar quickly backed off from the ringleader, using the length of his sword to his advantage. He parried the ringleader’s harried attacks. “I am not some pampered noble!” He declared with some sense of irony, “I am Adrynar Highcrest!” He slashed outward, his first offensive display, and caught the man across the shoulder. The ringleader instinctively dropped a dagger and clutched his new wound.

Meanwhile, Tal’theran extended his hands forward, creating a shield to stop his former captor’s assault. “I’ve had enough of you,” he hissed coldly before bringing one hand to the man’s level and slowly lowering it. The man cried aloud as a sickening crunch sounded from his ankle. He collapsed forward before being pushed onto his stomach. Tal’theran rushed forward and delivered a swift kick across the head, knocking the man unconscious.

Adrynar took the advantaged gained by injuring his assailant to sidestep him and slash the back of one leg before dancing around his foe once more. He swung the back of his fist into the man’s temple, and he dropped to the ground with the clatter of his remaining dagger.

The two took a moment to recover their breaths before Tal’theran noticed the blood smeared across his friend’s face. He hurried to Adrynar’s side, “Adrynar!” He announced worriedly, grabbing him by the jaw and examining the wound on the side of the aristocratic youth’s face.

“It’s fine, Tal,” the blond elf professed, embarrassed by the concern the mage-apprentice showed, looking away. “Just a scratch…” He sighed, stepping away, wiping some of the blood onto his fine clothes. “Sorry for getting us into so much danger. I should have been smarter with how I dressed.”

The mage shook his head, “Not at all, Adrynar – I mean, Lord Highcrest, apologies.” Adrynar looked up with a strange vulnerability in his eyes, imploring the mage for something Tal’theran did not know.

“It’s alright, you can call me Adrynar. We’re friends, aren’t we?” It was both a statement and a question, and Tal’theran was unsure what to do. “Let’s go. We’d better get back home, then… This has all gone to hell.”

As Adrynar turned toward the valley, Tal’theran placed a hand on his shoulder, turning the knight to face him. “No,” he began, “We came here so you could see the trolls. We’re not backing away from that.” He grabbed the noble youth by the wrist and dragged him forward toward Dead Troll’s Pass.

“… Right,” Adrynar stammered, “Yes. You’re right. We came all this way to see trolls. Let’s see some damned trolls!” His declaration made, he stormed forward, but then stopped: “But what about the hawkstriders?”

Tal’theran did not stop walking, “They ran off in all the commotion. We’re walking.” Adrynar shrugged lightly and jogged up to the mage, slinging his arm over the crimson haired elf’s shoulders.

~*~

When the sun crested over the mountains to the east of Stormwind City, it found Vynlarion and Lathinal quite awake. In fact, they had not slept. Missives had been sent out to Thalassian allies, elven and otherwise, to find out who it had been that had attacked them. It had only been due to the sorceress’s wise advice that her husband had not gone out himself, citing the disruption it would be to city life if an elven knight was harassing suspicious individuals.

Due to this, he now sat stooped over a chess board. The room in which he was situated was in fact not a room at all. Overhead was a large stone pointed roof supported by four wide columns decorated with vines. Around him, a spacious garden stretched out in all directions, while looming overhead to the west he could see the stocky, sure spires of Stormwind Keep. “It is your move, Lord Highcrest,” the figure across from him noted.

The brooding elf looked up, finding the grandly garbed royal had an amused smirk on his face. He was a middle aged man with broad, strong shoulders and a strong jaw. Vynlarion had always liked this man for his martial prowess. The Kingdom of Stormwind was largely without major enemies, but when rebellion broke out in the Brightwood, this man personally led the offensive to reclaim the lands north of Elwynn Forest. His once flaxen hair had given way to greys and silver hair, and while the lines marring his face spoke of his age, they, too, bespoke his wisdom. “Lord Highcrest?” The man lofted a brow.

“Ah, apologies, your majesty,” the elf said after shaking his head of his thoughts. “Patience has never been a strength of mine,” Vynlarion let out a self-depreciating chuckle, eliciting a laugh from King Wrynn across from him. With that, he glanced down to the board. A more servile guest might consider throwing the match, but Vynlarion had no intent of purposefully losing. The opening was there: in his effort to shield his king, the King had left an opening. “Nevertheless,” he drawled before sliding his bishop across the board, putting the king in check, “The black bishop moves.”

King Wrynn let out a deep chuckle, likely finding the two of them to be very similar, despite the centuries’ age gap between them. “I never took you for a religious man, Highcrest… It seems this experiment with holy men has failed, though,” he grinned wryly before Vynlarion saw the error in his ways. He had been baited into drawing his bishop in for a check, but left the piece open by the white knight. “The white knight takes the black bishop, friend.”

Vynlarion tented his fingers, observing the board, “Well played. You saw I was eager to take the win.” His hand ghosted over the board indeterminately as he considered his next move. “But you yourself know best, majesty, if the king does not lead,” the knightly man held aloft the black king between his forefinger and thumb, “How will his people follow?” The king was moved up one spot, into the field of battle.

Clapping his hands together in amusement, King Wrynn nodded approvingly, “A move directed at my very heart, Lord Highcrest!” The man now took into his own hand the white king, “I must agree, though…” The white king advanced forward. “Your move, shall you –“

“Your Majesty!” A woman called out as she hurried up. Dressed in silver played armour with a tabard displaying the golden lion of Stormwind, she offered a crisp salute to the king and a respectful nod to the elven guest. “Word has come in from the Harbour: a man wearing a mask like the ones found on the assassins on Lord and Lady Highcrest has been. Lady Highcrest has asked that she be the one to interrogate them.”

The king looked from the messenger to Vynlarion, who offered a slight nod of personal approval for his wife being the one to scry the enemy’s mind, before turning his attention back to the newcomer: “SO be it. Lord Highcrest will accompany you.” He looked back to the elf, “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our game at a later date, sire.”

Vynlarion slid his seat back and offered the royal man a respectful bow, “Your Majesty, until then.” He took from beside the table his greatsword, Grian’deldun and hurried to the messenger, “Bring me to my wife, we will show these criminals justice…” The two moved swiftly upon gravel paths toward the city. Behind them, the gardens north of the city grew evermore distant, leaving the messenger and the elf relatively isolated on the open paths. Around them, tall trees stood sparsely, leaving room for large swaths of grass and a nearby river that cut from the north to the south, likely to join the canals in the city.

They walked in silence for some time, for one was bound by duty not to bother and the other was lost in his thoughts. As they moved closer to the city, Vynlarion found himself vaguely aware of the lack of people around him: he had not seen a single man, woman or child since he had left the gardens. Looking to his left, he found the messenger still silent, but something felt off. “Messenger,” he began, his voice measured, “Where again did you say my wife is?”

The messenger guard gave a slight pause before speaking: “She is at the docks, my lord.” She slowly looked over at the elf, who had not broken his observation of her, “Is there something the matter?” At that moment, it dawned on the elven knight.

In a blur of golden armour and white cloak, he grasped the messenger by the breastplate and threw her over his head onto her back before firmly placing a plated boot on her chest. “Move and die, cretin!” He challenged imperiously, “The design of your tabard is incorrect: there are no whiskers upon the Stormwind lion!”

The messenger’s visage changed from shock to a sneer, “Observant one, aren’t you? Well it’s too late for you to do anything!” In a quick motion, she took from her side a narrow blade no wider than a needle, and slid it between the plates of Vynlarion’s armour. At this, he instinctively drew from his side the longsword Lathinal had gifted him. The golden blade shimmered in the noonday sun before he drove it through her breastplate and into her kidney. The messenger cried aloud as blood began to ooze from the confines of her armour.

Vynlarion staggered backward as he sheathed his sword, suddenly struggling to keep his balance. “The king will die tonight,” rasped the messenger as she tried and failed to stand. She clutched her side, desperately trying to stop the flow of blood. “And nothing you or his pathetic allies can do will stop it…” She sagged forward, and pressed a strange wooden whistle to her lips and blew into it. The sound of a hawk screech permeated the air before she fell forward, dead.

The elven knight, for his part, found his vision blurry and his balance all but gone. His stomach roiled and his ankle burned where the needle had entered his body. “Lathinal,” he grumbled, “my love…” He fell forward with a crash of plate armour, “I have failed you.” Finally, he collapsed into the ground and all went dark.

When Vynlarion awoke, he could see nothing. He felt coarse fabric against his eyes and restraints against his wrists and ankles. They were leather. He slowly pushed his wrist against one, finding it to be secure, he ceased his efforts and honed his sharp ears to listen. Despite the throbbing headache that pounded in his head, the elven lord could hear something. Voices.

“Do we know where the Wrynn is?” One asked impatiently.

An awkward stammering was their response before actual words formed: “No, but we have the foreigners. I’m sure some noble will pony up the king if we leak this information…” A tense silence followed his words. All that could be heard was the drip of condensation off what he suspected was the roof of the cave onto a puddle below.

Footsteps echoed off the cave interior and grew closer. Vynlarion resisted tensing, unsure of their numbers and skills. Instead, he remained limp, pretending to be unconscious. “Listen here, you idiot. Do you think any noble is going to give a fuck about two elves we capture?!” The sound of a hand slapping flesh could be heard, followed by a cry of pain, “Do you even realise who you captured? These two are war heroes – we’re in for a shit show if they get free!”

“Exactly! They’re heroes to the elves: I bet someone will pay a pretty price for their safe return. With that kind of money we can finance our campaign to replace the king!” The first voice responded eagerly.

Vynlarion felt a familiar sensation in his mind: a magical connection had been made, a bridge between his conscious thoughts and those of another, of his beloved, Lathinal. “Vynlarion,” her voice sounded in his mind, “I can free us, but you’ll need to incapacitate them quickly. Can you do it?”

He thought on the matter for some time, trying to gauge his strength, “I believe I can. It seems the poison in that human’s blade has burned its way through me.” He paused for a moment, “When you free us, teleport yourself to safety, my love. I could not bear it upon my conscience to know you were injured trying to facilitate our escape.”

Lathinal’s light, airy laugh sounded in his mind, warming his heart. “My dear, sweet husband. Do not burden your worrisome heart with such concerns,” her words were tender and delicate, a tone she took only with those closest to her, “I may not be the Dragon of Quel’Thalas, but I am still a capable sorceress. Only a spare few can call themselves my better.” Her mind retreated for a moment before returning: “I am ready.”

Vynlarion resisted a smile growing on his lips. “My beloved wife, where would I be without you?” He slowly tested his restraints before speaking to her in his mind: “Now!” He felt a flash of fire magic singe the leather restraints holding him upright and with four sure movements of his limbs, he was free. With another, the blindfold was removed and he saw two shocked humans garbed in black leather before him. “Have at thee, foul curs!” He cried aloud, sprinting toward the first.

His left fist went out first, but was a feint, and his foe fell for it. The sandy haired man, looking to be no more than thirty, lurched away, only to grunt as Vynlarion’s right fist met his midsection. He stumbled back before falling, coughing and wheezing as his winded lungs struggled to stay down. “Ethan!” The other man called out, turning on the knightly elf.

This man had more time and thus drew from his belt a long, wicked looking dagger, whose pommel ended with a bloody gem that sucked in all light around it. “Our master’s work will not be stopped, knife ears!” He hissed as he slashed outward. Vynlarion was surprised to find the man was so fast and threw himself backward as the knife grazed his chest, splitting his undershirt and drawing a line of blood from his collarbone to his second lowest rib on the opposite side.

This, however, did not shake the elf’s confidence in his martial prowess. “Tell me, human!” He shouted as he turned sideways and kicked upward, smacking the dagger out of the man’s hand and into the air. With this done, Vynlarion heaved his large form forward and caught the man unawares with his tackle. The elf threw his opponent to the ground and did as he had done to his comrade, Ethan, and delivered a rib fracturing punch to the sternum.

At this point, they both turned at the sound of a voice: “Vynlarion!” It was Lathinal’s voice. She was hurrying toward him, now having freed herself, as Ethan moved in, the discarded dagger now in his hands. She waved her hand through the air and the incoming human abruptly buckled to the ground, letting out an anguished cry. Azure, transparent shackles appeared around his ankles and wrists which bound him to the ground. He lashed out violently, trying desperately to free himself.

“You’ll both serve!” Hissed the man piously as he tried to throw the dagger at Lathinal. Unfortunately, she had suspected such a move and raised her hand. The ominous looking weapon stopped midair and floated before her before turning in the air so that the pommel was closest to her outstretched hand. The restrained man grinned darkly as he watched her grab the blade.

When Lathinal took the dagger into her hand, she let out an anguished cry and abruptly dropped it. “Lathinal!” Vynlarion called out worriedly, though still held Ethan by the neck against the ground. Crimson hair tumbled downward as she looked down at her upwardly faced palm, her fingers trembling as she grasped her uninjured wrist. “Speak to me, my love, what has happened!” The elven knight spoke again.

“This is no mere weapon,” she explained, visibly shaken, “This is a conduit of sorts… a magical means of communication – of corruption – between the wielder and a malevolent force.” She slowly lowered herself to a kneel before the magically restricted man. Unlike Vynlarion who had had his armour removed, leaving him in just his undershirt and trousers, she was still garbed in her fine crimson robes. It was a style similar to what many highborne women wore: a robe more akin to a gown in its flowing finery which trailed after her a short distance. Fine silk was mixed with luxurious cotton to create a warm garment, but one that flowed smoothly. The different fabrics allowed for different hues of red to subtly compliment one another. The robes ended just above the bust, leaving her cleavage only barely, and tastefully, displayed, while her shoulders were laid bare. Her sleeves, which tapered widely at the wrists, rejoined the robe at the armpit. She wore around her neck a necklace on a short band. It was the sigil of her and Vynlarion’s home: a coiled phoenix stood upon a gilded shield with two swords crossed behind. 

Even in such a worrisome time, Vynlarion could not help himself but admire the majesty with which Lathinal presented herself in all aspects of her life. They had known one another for centuries, bad had only relatively recently began trying for children. His eyes wandered for a moment as concern for his son – as well as his adoptive ward – surfaced. Were they well? He did not know. “Tell me, human,” Lathinal’s voice broke his train of thought, “Why do you have this dagger? Who gave it to you? Do you know the forces which you serve?”

She was oddly calm, but her husband could tell that behind this mask of composure was a fiery tempest waiting to be unleashed. She was truly as much a dragon as he was, Vynlarion mused. “We know who we serve!” Ethan shouted from under the elven knight, “We know better than you ever could! And now our master knows you!” His eyes bored into Lathinal’s.

“Oh, Gods…” Lathinal slowly rose, “Vynlarion! We must go!” She hurried to him, her heeled boots clacking on the stone floor, “When I took the knife, for some reason I thought of Adrynar and Tal’theran… This weapon is a conduit for the Old Gods!” He raised a brow, confused as to what these two facts had to do with each other, “The Old God’s servants are coming for our boys.”

Vynlarion dragged Ethan to his feet, now also concerned, “What do we do about these two? We can’t just leave them. They’ve started a damned death cult in Stormwind!” His eyes moved between Lathinal and her own prisoner in thought. Did they abandon Stormwind when she faced a terrible foe such as this for their own children, or risk their safety for the good of a foreign city?”

“We cannot leave Stormwind to deal with this evil on their own: they’d never know what to do…” Lathinal agreed, her tone a thoughtful one. “We must send someone in whom we can place total faith to our children’s side, but whom?”  The two fell silent, and it seemed that both their prisoners seemed eager to see how the two elves would solve this problem. She slowly looked up: “Varinal.”

Vynlarion nodded, “Yes. Excellent! I would trust no one else. He’s a drunken blaggard but he’s as capable as I am. Make the connection with him, I’ll deal with these two.” Vynlarion slowly turned on the magically chained man, still hefting his counterpart by the throat. “Now then, boys, shall we be off? I believe there’s a king you’re just dying to meet…”

~*~

When Tal’theran has suggested they stop and camp for the night, it took all of Adrynar’s mental fortitude not to jump for joy. He had not wanted to appear weak, but was exhausted from all the walking they had done since their hawkstriders had run off. Now, they sat across from one another, though the young Highcrest found his attention flickering between the fire and his newly-minted friend.

He had seen Tal’theran many times, and spoken to him on occasion, when the two had been home at the same time, but such occurrences were brief and left Adrynar unsure on what to say to someone who had come into their home in such a different manner. Where he was treated like a prince, Tal’theran was at best, tolerated, and at worst, loathed. Many of his relatives, near and distant, held the crimson-haired youth in disdain for the preferential treatment he had received from Adrynar’s father, Vynlarion the Sixth.

Now, here he sat, a thick blanket drawn around his person, watching this strange youth set up his bedroll with such methodical precision. Adrynar wanted to know more about Tal’theran: he wanted to know what he was thinking and, critically, what he thought of him. Did he think they were friends? Or was he just an encumbrance on his life? A pompous youth who had ordered the mage-apprentice into the middle of nowhere for his own entertainment, only to use him as a shield when bandits attacked.

This newly found guilt was an unwelcome feeling in the knight-apprentice’s stomach that twisted his insides and left him wholly uncomfortable. In an attempt to help himself forget, he looked up at the night sky. It was a clear night and, since they were now outside of the Quel’Thalas proper, where environmental magicks might make it a pleasant night, it was cold. The open sky, however, left nothing to the imagination: a brilliant display of stars could be seen, twinkling in all their majesty.

Even still, his guilt gnawed at him, and so he looked back at Tal’theran, who had settled into a cross-legged position across from him. “Tal?” He began with an uncharacteristic meekness. The mage-apprentice looked up from the fire. His youthful features had long shadows cast on them by the fire, and he looked distinctly wiser as his azure eyes bored into Adrynar. “I’m sorry for getting you dragged into all of this… The travel, the bandits, and now the cold…” He shook his head, “It was impulsive and selfish of me to ask you to come with me, and I worry you felt you had no choice because I’m my father’s son.” As Tal’theran went to speak, Adrynar felt impelled to speak again: “But!” He started, before his voice became quieter, “I just wanted to get to know you.”

The crimson-haired teenager looked thoroughly perplexed for a moment before a smile grew on his face. Tal’theran rubbed at his jaw, and shook his head, before outright laughing. Adrynar’s face grew hot with embarrassment: he opened his heart and was being laughed at it for it! Tal’theran’s laugh was a warm, happy one, and he shook his head before wiping at his eyes. “You don’t need to laugh at me!” The golden haired elf protested almost childishly.

Tal’theran slowly composed himself once more, but the same kind smile that Adrynar had only once seen before – and that was on this outing – remained. “Adrynar,” he spoke the aristocratic youth’s name with an uncanny gentleness, “I’m not laughing at you.” The mage-apprentice rose to his feet, and his friend took notice of the fact that, unlike himself, Tal’theran did not appear to be cold in the slightest. He moved around the fire to sit next to the noble teen. “I’m laughing at how absurd it would be for me to be mad at you.”

Feeling thoroughly confused and, oddly enough, not having more social capital in a conversation, Adrynar simply blinked. “If I didn’t want to go, I wouldn’t have,” Tal’theran began, looking into the fire once more. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t feel obligated to just do what you say… It is true that you’re Lord Highcrest’s only son, but I wouldn’t just do whatever either of you asked me –“ he paused for a moment, chuckling in spite of himself, “I’m rambling. What I mean to say is that I’m here because I wanted to be.” He looked over at Adrynar, his wise eyes offering an meaningful empathy, “And I’m glad I did – Knowing you like I do now, I can’t imagine what the house would be like if those bandits had outnumbered you.”

Adrynar felt his face grow ever hotter with humiliation. He buried it in his hands, letting out a muffled groan of exasperation, “I am such a fool.” His words came out muffled as well, but he eventually looked up, finding Tal’theran patiently waiting for him to regain his composure. “Thank you for saying all of that, Tal. I really appreciated it,” his words came out earnestly, leaving the mage-apprentice momentarily wordless. Adrynar took this opportunity and abruptly wrapped his arms around the mage in a tight embrace.

Adrynar kept Tal’theran there for a long time, but found his gesture quickly returned. Releasing the mage-apprentice, he found his own face still flushed, but rose to a stand and spoke again: “Well, we had best get some sleep. It’s still a ways to Zul’Aman from here.” He moved, with blanket still hung loosely around his shoulders, to his own bedroll, which he found next to Tal’theran’s, but not nearly as cleanly set up. Shrugging, he slumped into it, drawing the blanket around him. His was closer to the fire and so he turned toward the source of warmth.

Almost immediately, he felt the events of the day and the psychological and emotional toll they had had lull him into a dozy state. He barely registered Tal’theran settling into his own bedroll behind him. However, just as Adrynar was falling into the weightless realm of sleep, he felt a warmth on his back. Looking back, he found to his surprise Tal’theran had moved toward him, and now their backs, between the layers of sheets, were lightly pressed together. “Goodnight, Tal’theran,” he said quietly.

Sleep took him quickly. A weightless sensation took over as Adrynar’s eyes fell shut. All was lost to him, save the reassuring warmth against his back. Finally, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning…

When Adrynar woke again, the sun had just begun its ascent over the horizon. The sky was painted in brilliant hues of red and orange, as well as a light dusting of violet here and there. The warmth against his back was gone, but he found Tal’theran across from him on the far side of the fire. In his hands was a small leather-bound book.

Stifling a yawn, Adrynar threw the warmth of his blanket off his form and pushed himself to a stand. His back popped once, but other than that felt no pain from sleeping on the ground – a lucky thing he realised would not last once he was his father’s age. “Good morning,” he said to Tal’theran as he moved to his rucksack and fished out a small loaf of bread wrapped in a large green leaf, “Sleep well?”

Tal’theran did not look up from his book, but nodded, “Well enough, considering my mattress was the ground.” After a pause, he let out a thoughtful hum, “Did you know your ancestor, Vynlarion the Fourth, went missing after the Troll Wars?”

It was a very random comment, but Adrynar nodded. “Yeah; he was a war hero in the Troll Wars but went missing when he was trying to grow trade relations with the humans,” he paused, tearing from the loaf a sizely chunk of bread and offering the rest to Tal’theran, “Why do you ask?”

After taking a bite from his own removed chunk of bread and returning the remainder to Adrynar’s bag, Tal’theran shrugged, “No reason, just interesting how your family has managed to have so many more patriarchs than most others. They all seem to go missing or get killed, like your grandfather, for example, who –“

Adrynar hurried to the mage-apprentice, covering his mouth his hand, “No no!” He whispered hurriedly, “Don’t speak about that! If people learned the truth, my father would be in serious trouble.” He sighed in relief as Tal’theran slowly nodded, though he smirked wryly in spite of Adryna’s concern for being heard in the middle of nowhere. “Anyway, shall we get going? We’ve got a ways to go but given how damned cold it is we’re certainly into the troll lands now.”

Tal’theran pushed himself and snapped his book closed which shortly thereafter disappeared. “Agreed,” he announced, and with a flourish of his hand, extinguished the fire, packed his bag, which also disappeared, and looked to Adrynar with a sly smirk of achievement.

“Show off,” Adrynar declared. Not to be outdone, he packed his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder and affixed his sword and its scabbard to his belt before pointing southward. “Onward!” He declared confidently. Behind, the tall mountains of Quel’Thalas’ borders stood tall, but before them, the land sloped away into the lands of the Amani Trolls. Sparse forests dotted the land and in the centre of it all was a huge body of water, Lake Abasi. It was there that they would find what they sought to find.

~*~

The king had been more than eager to enlist the help of the two aristocratic elves. After all, their people had been the ones to discover that the corpse of Kith’ix, a C’Thraxxi general who, in tandem with Zakazj, had served the Old Gods in destroying Tyr. This, however, was wholly unknown to the humans, but elven knowledge of these dark beings served Vynlarion and Lathinal well in convincing the king to let them see to this themselves.

The king, however, was less thrilled on the details of their plan. He was to be used as bait to draw in the mightiest of this death cult. “I understand your irritation at not being able to fight with us, Your Majesty, but it would be unsafe. Leave the fighting to Lathinal and I, we shan’t be overpowered by this doomsday madmen,” Vynlarion urged the man who now stood at the top of the steps of the Stormwind Cathedral. Around him was his royal guard, however they had been instructed to only defend the king and not engage the cultists. He had been there for hours, meeting his people and paying homage to the Holy Light. “Nevertheless this location works well for both of us: you get good public exposure and we can find out who these maddened brigands are.” He canted his gaze to Lathinal who stood a short distance away, “Speaking of which, my dear?”

Although she appeared to simply be standing there, observing the crowd, Vynlarion knew better. She was scrying everyone in the busy square, looking for those touched by the madness of the Old Gods. “Nothing yet, no one in the crowd seems to be touched…” She trailed off. However, Vynlarion abruptly felt a voice in his mind. “Vynlarion, the guard directly on the king’s left, his mind is touched. Stop him before he does something!”

Vynlarion resisted looking over at the man, and instead casually moved from the right of the king’s royal guard to its left. His brilliant golden armour shimmered grandly and his wide white cloak billowed in an abrupt gust of wind. His blond hair settled behind his back and swayed with his cloak as he slowly moved, pretending to watch the crowd. “A gift for His Majesty?” He inquired of a young girl holding a bouquet of flowers that had rushed up to him. She had messy black hair and wore a simple beige dress, and could be no more than six.

“No, mister elf,” she began meekly, and pointed at Lathinal, who still wore her fine robes, “It’s for the elf lady!”

Vynlarion chuckled, “Ah, of course! She is a beauty, is she not? And yet much more, too. Go, give them to her. The young girl hurried over to Lathinal and offered her the flowers and, although he could not hear their conversation, by the look on his wife’s face he could see that she was very touched. The child hurried off and the elven couple exchanged subtle smiles.

“Oh, hells!” Lathinal’s voice sounded in his mind once more, “There was something on these flowers – I can’t sense the Old God’s presence anymore…” Vynlarion looked over worriedly, but found Lathinal to be still completely composed. He let out a steadying breath and waited. The royal guard – more likely simply a spy dressed as one – had yet to move, but they could wait.

“Hey, King Wrynn!” A man shouted as he sprinted toward the group of royal guards, “This is for you!” The man had grey hair twisted and knotted, and he wore filthy fishers’ clothes and rotting brown boots. He threw a knife in the direction of the king who had only looked over.

Lathinal had not wasted any time, the knife was stopped midair and dropped harmlessly to the ground. “Get the king into the Cathedral!” The cultist royal guard shouted, and his supposed fellow complied. Vynlarion could not stop them as he lunged at the madman who had tried to kill the king. He threw the old man down the stairs and into the hands of the guards below, but by that time the king’s entourage was moving inside.

In the commotion, Vynlarion saw the man make his move. The cultist moved on the king and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him away. “What do you think –“ the king was cut off as the man drew a knife from his side and pressed it against the king’s back.

The guards moved to shut the doors as the relatively orderly crowd became more raucous and moved up the steps. Nevertheless, Vynlarion hurried forward with Lathinal in the lead. She held her hand forward and the hum of arcane emanated from the heavy doors. The guards grunted as they failed to shut the heavy doors. After the two elves were inside, the doors flew shut and left a relative quiet. “Where is the king? Where is that guard!?” Vynlarion demanded urgently, finding no sight of them.

Around them, the airy cathedral stretched high into the air. At the far end, a wall of stained glass tinted the sunlight brilliant colours. Confused priests and worshipers looked between the elves and the guards, unsure what was going on. “The catacombs!” Lathinal said, “Guards! One of your fellows was a cultist spy and he’s stolen the king! With us!” The guards looked between each other before shouting ‘ma’am!’ and following the elves down the hallway and into the catacombs below.

From the fresh openness of the cathedral, the catacombs were a stark adjustment. Steep, slippery steps curled in a spiral downward. Upon the walls were candles with long tails of wax. Vynlarion unsheathed his broadsword, Grian’deldun, and held it before him as he descended down the steps. Lathinal was close behind him, and he could feel the magic humming off her.

When they entered the main chamber of the catacombs, Vynlarion abruptly stopped as he saw the cultist, having discarded his bulky armour and instead wore black leathers and a similar theatrical mask, held a knife against the throat of the king. “No further, elf!” The man hissed, “I don’t know how you figured it out, but I don’t care! This city – this world – will burn for the master!”

“This is madness!” Vynlarion declared, “Let him go! Your god is one of pure evil.” He slowly moved forward, but stopped as the man pressed his knife deeper into the king’s throat, drawing a trickle of blood. “You have been fooled by dark magic into serving the Old Ones – do not do something that will cost you your life, for if you slit his neck, I shall take from you your head.”

The man laughed madly behind his mask, “The master tells me that you’re the one who’s twisted and wrong – the master has given me power and skills I never thought possible. You elves know magic well, maybe you know of this, too?” The man kicked the king in the back of the knee before spinning him around and knocking him upside the head and let him collapse to the ground, unconscious. He raised his hand into the air, and a sickening feeling erupted in Vynlarion’s stomach.

Lathinal looked similarly ill, but their human compatriots seemed unaware. “Vynlarion!” She called out. He felt his body lurch to the side by her magic and saw her do the same. Dark jagged spikes of violet magic erupted from the floor boards where they had once stood. Unfortunately, their royal guard allies had not caught wise and in a gruesome display of death, were all skewered, and let out choked cries before slumping over, dead.

The spikes trembled as they morphed into unholy, foul tendrils which rose further and held the bodies aloft, like a macabre display of art. “Is it not beautiful? My master’s art is a thing of beauty!” He cackled and moved ever closer, “I’m so glad you didn’t die with them, so you could see it too! Art much be shared, yes?!”

“You’re insane! The Old Gods offer nothing but death!” Lathinal shouted and flourished her hand before herself. A ripple of fire erupted from the ground and moved with a blinding speed around the tendrils. The man was engulfed in a fiery inferno and screamed in agony before she let up the spell. He sagged forward, his skin charred and his leathers fused to his body.

He chattered to himself before looking up and offering them a truly horrifying sight. His mask had melted to his face, leaving him blind and his voice sickeningly muffled. His leathers, now part of his skin, cracked and twisted as he struggled to stand. “My master won’t let me die, yet! I have work to do! I am the Shadow Artist, and I will bring my master’s art to the world!” He held forth a hand and Lathinal flew backward against the wall, crying out as her back made firm contact with it. She collapsed forward and struggled to hold herself.

“Lathinal! You bastard!” Vynlarion called out and charged forward, “For Quel’Thalas!” He shouted triumphantly before swinging his huge blade at the man.  With inhuman speed, the Shadow Artist lurched to the side like a puppet on strings and cackled once more. The elven knight was not deterred and used the momentum from his first swing and sliced through the air again, this time catching the man by the arm and cleaving it in twain in the middle of the forearm.

Black blood oozed out on the ground from his stump and the rent limb, but the madman only cackled more. “Beautiful! See how my blood paints the ground in darkness! Fantastic!” He grasped his stump arm and squeezed from it a great deal of blood before greedily lapping it up in his hand, “Oh my master, you are a truly fantastic being! Glory to the master!”

He once more moved in his strange, lurching way, and before Vynlarion could move, was upon him like a spider, crawling over his mantle before sinking his filthy teeth into the elf’s exposed neck. He grunted in pain before dropping his sword and grabbing the man with his left hand, pressing his head into his own neck before drawing a knife from his waist and stabbing the Shadow Artist in the back of the head.

The Shadow Artist howled in pain and released Vynlarion’s neck, dropping to the ground and flailed about madly, trying to remove the blade, “It hurts master! It hurts! Make them pay! Make them pay!” He skittered to and fro, blood gushing from his head and stump arm.

Lathinal was at Vynlarion’s side, blood trickling from her forehead while the same liquid oozed from Vynlarion’s neck. “You will pay for the lives you stole today, you beast!” She declared imperiously and threw her arms outward. The screech of arcane sounded as the Shadow Artist was suddenly held in the air and screamed horrifically as his limbs were pulled in opposing directions. “Where are your allies? Tell me! Now!” She demanded.

“Everywhere!” He jabbered to himself, “We are everywhere! And we will come for you! We have seen it! My master tells me so!” An unholy violet aura emanated from his form and he slowly moved forward. Lathinal grunted and braced herself, holding her spell, despite the Shadow Artist’s movements. His shoulders snapped and crackled with the sundering of sinew and muscle before his arms were simply shred from his body. He was now only inches away from the two of them.

Vynlarion moved in front of his wife and grabbed his broadsword. He stepped back before lunging forward, impaling the hideous man who now secreted black blood on everything nearby and cackled madly to himself. “Away, you foul beast! You will not harm her!”

The man cocked his head back and forth, “You will join us, Vynlarion Highcrest! You will join us! My master’s sibling shall have you someday when she has long gone!” He chittered and chattered to himself and to them, his neck beginning to lengthen as Lathinal’s spell did not let up. Vynlarion looked at the man who hovered before him, his hideous face showing through his half melted mask, “Yes! She shall die and you will be alone forever! Forever! Forever!!”

The ghastly, ruinous figure contorted itself, its spine snapping as it moved to face Lathinal, still impaled upon Grian’deldun. “You shall fall as your first did a fire will consume you, so terrible that you will not wake!” The mighty sorceress was taken aback, her face paling as she realised what ‘her first’ referred to.

“My boy…” She spoke quietly, a hand coming up to her mouth as she struggled to compose herself from the painful memory. Lathinal shook her head, fiery tousles of hair moving back and forward. “What you speak is madness, fiend! Madness!” Her words came out strong, but her expression was haunted.

Vynlarion looked back at Lathinal but did not remove his sword from the Shadow Artist’s midsection. Lathinal shook he head, “I will not be dying anytime soon, you monster. Now, begone!” She stretched her arms out to her sides as far as she could, and with a bloodcurdling scream, the Shadow Artist was shredded into pieces with such force Vynlarion’s armour was splattered with his thick, dark blood.

Behind them, the void tendrils that had held the dead guards aloft disappeared and left their charges to fall limply to the ground. Vynlarion slammed his broadsword into the floorboards, embedding it there. He looked down as he felt something bump his foot, and found the mask of the Shadow Artist and his cohorts looking up lifelessly at him. Flesh was still adhered to its back and one eyeball still poked through.

Curiosity got the better of him and he picked it up. Vynlarion clutched his head and fell to his knees, crying aloud in pain as a voice whispered agonisingly in his head. Every syllable was agony, as though his mind was being rent apart. His muscles burned as though they had been set aflame and it took all his power to not simply black out. The hateful voice whispered hatefully: “You will be next… the Twilight General…”

“Vynlarion!” Lathinal cried out and knelt at his side, throwing the mask from his hand. The elven knight took in raspy breaths as he struggled to compose himself. “What happened!?” He looked up at her and shook his head, his eyes panicked.

“I… do not know…” He tried steadying himself, “Go get the king… Let’s get out of here…”

~*~

 Adrynar and Tal’theran had found the Amani lands strangely bereft of Trolls. The sun was high in the sky by the time they had entered the lowlands around Lake Abasi, but found no signs of any intelligent life. They moved through the tall grass quietly, observing the perimeter of the large lake, their eyes searching up and down its coast. “Do you see any?” Adrynar inquired quietly.

Tal’theran shook his head, “Besides some deer and lynxes watching them? No.” To the east the lands gave way to the endless ocean, while to the west upon a rocky plateau sat the ancient city of Zul’Aman. To the north, the Sin’Redar Province and to the south, Lake Abasi and south of it, more land and then ocean. “We could move closer to Zul’Aman?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem wise, but I suppose I do have with me one of the most powerful mages when it comes to mana reserves,” Adrynar grinned wryly. The two changed directions and, instead of moving closer to the huge lake, they moved westward to Zul’Aman. Upon the plateau, small huts surrounded a huge central stone building in the likeness of a troll with great tusks sticking off its face. The details of the city were still unknown and sprawled out beyond their sight, but so great was this important building it could be made out even at this distance.

The flatlands around them stretched for miles and were covered in the tall grass through which they traversed, but was interspaced with small forests of coniferous trees. The climate was distinctly colder than that of Quel’Thalas and presented its own complications. Camping out at night, were they not able to make it out of the Amani lands by nightfall, would be a cold, unhappy affair, given that they would not be able to light a fire.

“So, Adrynar,” Tal’theran began as the two strode quietly through the enemy lands. “What do you plan to do when you finish your training at your uncle’s academy?” The question was one that Adrynar has asked himself many times but never really come up with an answer.

“It’s expected of me that I join my father’s order, the Knights of the Realm, and hone his craft there, but…” He shook his head, “That is not what I want for myself. My father will live for many centuries to come – I don’t see why I have to shackle myself to his life.” Adrynar looked up at the cloudless sky, a small smile forming on his face, “I want to do this. Travel. See exotic places and people. Visit Kalimdor, even.”

Tal’theran nodded, “I never expected to live this long as a kid, and I know that, what with the mana inside me, I’ll need to bind it someday… After that’s done I’d like to see the world, too. Quel’Thalas is a fantastic place, but there’s so much more to the world.”

“Then, why don’t we travel together? I’m sure my parents could use a break from parenting after I’m done,” Adrynar grinned in triumph over his idea.

The crimson haired elf could only chuckle, “Sure, why not? I could think of no better travelling companion.” He looked over at the noble born elf for a moment, “But where would – hold on…” He stopped, “Get down!” He pushed Adrynar into the tall grass and waved his hand, obscuring them from sight. Overhead, a hawk soared. “There’s someone using that hawk as its eyes… We’ve been found.”

“Where are they? I don’t see any trolls…” Adrynar looked around them and found no riders or anything of the sort, “Nothing.” Tal’theran closed his eyes for a moment and steadied his breath.

The mage-apprenticed remained quiet for a long time, and though he did not open his eyes, he did speak: “There’s a contingent of trolls on their way from Zul’Aman,” he paused once more, “We need to get moving. Go back to the Sin’Redar Province.”

“But if they’re mounted, won’t they run us down?” Adrynar’s tone was measured, but obviously concerned, “We can’t outrun Amani Raptors! I’ve never seen them, but the stories my father told me – they’re supposedly as fast as hawkstriders. They’ll be here by nightfall at this rate. We should go.”

Tal’theran nodded, “Yes, you’re right. Let’s move, then. The more distance we get between Zul’Aman and us, the better.” Adrynar offered a hurried nod and got up. “Let’s move north. I’ll do my best to keep us concealed, in case any patrols see us.” Following suit, the mage-apprentice pushed himself to a stand.

Later…

The sun had begun its descent in the sky toward the western horizon, over the distant city of Zul’Aman. Ahead, the mountainous rim of the Sin’Redar Province and elven civilisation loomed. Despite hope being only roughly fifty kilometers away, Tal’theran knew they would have to stop soon. They had been moving as fast as they could, and now his legs and lungs burned and cried out for respite. Adrynar, too, despite him being in better physical shape, was showing signs of wear.

Worse yet, the young mage-apprentice knew that the hunting party that they had alerted was closing in. He couldn’t physically see them, but suspected they had some sort of shaman with them, concealing their presence. “Adrynar,” he began, “We should stop. They’re almost on top of us. Better we’re not winded when they get here.”

The two of them slowed to a walk, and Adrynar considered what Tal’theran had said. “You’re not wrong… Let’s just go a bit ahead.” He motioned to the gentle slope in front of them in the land and the rocky outcroppings thereupon. “We can hide behind the landscape and jump them. If we get them off their mounts, we might have a chance.”

Tal’theran observed the landscape, “How about this: you hide behind one of the boulders midway up that ridge, and I’ll hang back at the top of the hill. I’ll dismount as many as I can with a few spells. In the process I can funnel them toward you and you can get the rest. Then we can cut them off and… well, try and stop them?”

Adrynar nodded, “Right. If you can unsettle the ground somehow – I’ll leave that to you – you might be able to trip up their raptors and get a few more down. Do you know how many are in their hunting party?”

The two ascended the small rise in the land and looked over the strange land that was the Amani homeland. It was as Quel’Thalas would look, if not for the intervention of elven magic. However, Adrynar quickly dropped low and hid behind a boulder, “There they are!” He motioned to the southwest. Tal’theran moved behind the same outcropping, “Alright, let’s get ready. I’ll be up the hill.”

As the mage-apprentice went to get up and move, Adrynar pulled him back by the shoulder, “Hey, Tal…” the golden haired elf began, “If we don’t make it out of this, I want you to know how glad I am I finally got to know you.” Tal’theran could only blink, speechless. “Alright, go, get ready,” Adrynar ushered him off.

Tal’theran took his place behind an outcropping up the hill, leaving Adrynar to his thoughts. ‘My father has faced countless dangers greater than this – he wouldn’t be afraid. Why should I be?’ He sighed irritably, shaking his head at the thought. ‘Why do I always compare myself to him?’ The thought was a ruinous one that often came to him in times of stress. It was a destructive question that left him feeling unfulfilled and pathetic. Who could compare themselves against the Dragon of Quel’Thalas and really feel that impressive?

It was then that he felt a mind touch his own. It was not invasive, and instead merely spoke in his mind: “When you measure yourself against your father, you are always doomed to fail. Such is the way of life. Find your own definition of success.” It had been Tal’theran’s voice. Was he able to communicate telepathically? It seemed absurd: such was a skill only veteran magisters could master in their society, such as his mother. Yet, it had sounded like him. “Focus, now, they’re here.”

Adrynar peaked around the rocky outcropping behind which he hid. A flurry of clawed footfalls was growing ever louder, and at the base of the small hill was a contingent of trolls atop raptors. They were barely garbed, lithe and had moss-coloured skin. He counted six in total: at their head, a troll hefting a long halberd in one hand. Behind him, two archers, behind them, two larger trolls holding battle axes and shields, and finally at the back, a female troll with a dangerous aura to her. She held no weapons, save a staff strapped to her back.

They were huge, grotesque and vicious looking. There was hatred and malevolence in such copious abundance in their leader’s eyes. They all radiated a sense of danger and of hatred for the land they were approaching. It seemed that leading them toward Quel’Thalas may have aggravated them. They spoke a guttural, sharp language before moving up the hill.

Tal’theran made his move. Hidden behind the boulder at the top of the hill, arcane power rippled outward down the hill, moving through the ground. The trollish woman at the back of their party called out and the riders panicked, moving up and down the hill in a confused fashion. Nevertheless, the elf’s magic activated. The ground underneath them abruptly broke out into a powerful wildfire, incinerating the land and leaving nothing but a foot of ash for their mounts to step through.

Raptors stumbled back and forth, failing to find balance as the ground below them seared their feet and fell around them. Three stumbled and fell while one bucked their leader off and two were able to escape the inferno.

However, much to Adrynar’s surprise, Tal’theran was not done. He appeared on top of a nearby outcropping, flanking them. “Hey, you green-skinned shits!” He shouted confidently. They turned at him, but were too late. An arcane storm formed in his hands and erupted outward, striking the dismounted archers and one berserker. Two of them simply slumped over dead, but one archer was successful in evading the attack and loosing an arrow.

Tal’theran disappeared out of sight, and Adrynar realised he had to act; they would expect the mage-apprentice next time. He drew his sword and charged in at the remaining archer. Blade outstretched, he sprinted across the hill, avoiding the ashy pitfall, and appeared behind the archer. “Sorry,” he said coolly, “But you won’t be killing either of us today!” The noble born elf brought his sword down through the troll’s neck, severing his spine and killing him instantly.

Wrenching his sword from the corpse, Adrynar turned to his next enemy, the remaining berserker. The troll seemed quite ready to fight and clashed his axe and shield together, letting out a guttural war cry. “Tal! Now!” Adrynar called and dashed to the side. The mage did as expected and appeared behind the berserker, sending out a volley of arcane bolts into his back. The troll cried aloud and swung around, but found no mage: he had since disappeared.

Adrynar took the opportunity and, as the troll had turned, slashed the berserker across the back. The troll howled in fury and turned on Adrynar with more speed than he had expected. The young knight felt a hot, stinging pain as an axe cut him from shoulder to sternum, splitting his jacket and shirt open. Stumbling backward, he clutched the new wound from which blood poured freely. “Shit!” He called out, noting that the shaman was moving toward him.

Their leader was still nowhere to be seen, but even two trolls was too much for Adryar to handle alone. “Surrender,” spoke the trollish woman, her leathery robes moving around her. Her cruel features twisted into a confident, almost pompous smirk. She spoke Thalassian, though it was awkward around her tusks, a commonality for the Amani. “Surrender, mon, and we might let ya go home. Ya be so close.”

“We are trying to leave your lands!” Adrynar implored her, “We do not want to fight!”

She stared him down, and looked to the berserker. The hulking troll moved in and forced Adrynar to his knees. Cold steel of the troll’s battle axe pressed against his neck, marking him with his own blood. “If dat were true, you wouldn’t have attacked us first…” She looked around, “Did you find him, Ven?”

From behind Adrynar, he heard the footfalls of another troll. The figure moved around him and revealed themselves to be the Amani leader. He was taller than the berserker, but thinner and held only a longsword of elven make. He dragged by the hair the unconscious form of Tal’theran, his face bloodied and his form still. “Ya witchdoctor, I found ‘im. Little fuckah burnt me black,” he gestured to his badly burnt right arm and half of his chest.

The unconscious form of Tal’theran fell limply to the ground before Adrynar and a sword was placed against his back, “Now, tell me boy, ya be a spy?” The witchdoctor asked slowly, “Tell it true or your pretty friend ‘ere gets a little poke through the back.” As if to emphasise her point, the party leader gave Tal’theran’s back a small jab with his sword.

“We are not spies!” Adrynar protested, “We came to…” He fell silent for a moment, “We came to learn about trolls – we hear all sorts of things about the Amani, but wanted to see for ourselves.” His words gave the trolls some pause, though it was the party leader who spoke again.

He walked around the berserker who held Adrynar, observing him. “So ya be spyin’? Dat’s a serious ‘ting, mon…” He slowly bent down to eye level with the golden haired elf, “Ya gon’ die, little elf, you and your gingah’ friend.”

The sound of unsheathing swords broke the eerie silence that followed the party leader’s ominous declaration. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” A familiar voice sounded confidently. From behind a nearby rocky outcropping the source of the voice emerged.

One long ear was nicked shorter than another. An eyepatch covered his right eye and partially concealed a wicked looking scar. Long black hair streaked with strands of silver was tied into a loose ponytail which hung around the small of his back. He wore a set of simple steel armour with only one superfluous adornment: a coiled phoenix was emblazoned upon his right pauldron. He had two runeblades in his hands. His right blade was tinted crimson and down its length were runes of arcane power. His left blade was tinted a deep violet and was similarly marked as the other. Over his back was a tattered black cloak.

“Ah know that mark,” the witchdoctor spoke, “’E be a Highcrest, mon!” She looked to Adrynar, next, and stooped down, pushing back the cloak he wore. On the shoulder of his coat was a similar marking: a coiled phoenix. The sigil of the House of Highcrest. “Shit, mon, dis be anotha!”

The party leader Amani looked to the berserker, “Keep ‘im still, I’ll deal wit’ dis one…” He twirled his elven sword, approaching the silver garbed knight. “I know ya – you be da one they call “Varinal,” ain’t ya?”

The newcomer grinned wickedly, “So you know me!” He stalked forward, his back stooped slightly and his knees bent, “Fantastic.” He abruptly broke into a sprint, “Then show me what you’ve got!” Runeblades clashed with the stolen elven blade as the two met midway. Varinal pushed himself back, sidestepping his enemy with deft speed. “You’re slow, Troll! Typical!”

Adrynar watched with interest as his academy headmaster and great-granduncle fought his captor. “Uncle! Watch out!” He called out to the man as the witchdoctor moved in. Varinal was once more locked in combat, blades crossed with the troll’s sword. Much to the young elf’s surprise, a fireball shot out from Tal’theran’s still form and into the trollish woman’s head. She screamed as her flesh was seared and her brain overheated before simply collapsing forward, blood trickling from her eyes and ears.

The mage-apprentice pushed himself upward, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Adrynar, but when I knew I was outmatched, I feigned unconsciousness. I scried and found Sir Varinal was nearby.” He smirked, “Now…” He threw his hand out before him, and a wave of arcane magic blew forward, sending the berserker who had Adrynar by the neck flying down the small hill.

The golden haired youth spared no second and drew his sword, jumping down the hill and burying it hilt deep in the troll’s chest. “No offense,” he said, his teeth clenched, “But you need to die, now.” Wrenching the blade from the ground below the troll’s now still form, he snapped it through the air.

Nearby, Varinal took advantage of the commotion and kicked out the party leader’s knee, shattering it with a sickening crunch. The troll cried aloud with pain before the elf cleaved his right arm off, sword and all. “Ya be a demon, mon! A demon!” He hissed at the knightly aged elf.

Varinal grinned wickedly and spoke proudly: “You’re damned right, troll!” He leaned back before shoving his other blade into the troll’s eye socket and, mimicking his great-grandnephew’s action and burying it as deep as it would go before slashing through his skull and freeing the runeblade. The troll party leader fell to the side, dead.

Adrynar looked to Tal’theran, then to Varinal. “Well, uncle… I suppose we’re in your debt.”

“You’re damned right! Now, let’s get you two home before Vynlarion shits himself.” Varinal ushered them forward, and took from a satchel on his side a flask. Taking a deep drink from it, he exhaled sharply, “Oh, first Vyn and the other Adrynar and now you two… Some things never change in this family.”

~*~

The fire crackled below the hearth as Vynlarion, Lathinal, Adrynar and Tal’theran exchanged glances. The young heir looked from parent to parent, then to his friend, and found no one willing to speak. With a quiet sigh, he broke the silence: “So,” he began, looking to his mother, “How was your trip, mother?”

Lathinal looked to her husband who gestured at their son, his eyes imploring her of something. “Oh… it was fine. Rather uneventful… How was your camping trip with Tal’theran?”

“It was fine, too. Very uneventful, too.” Adrynar coughed awkwardly.

A figure clad in black leathers walked by the door, two runeblades on his hips. He whistled a jaunty tune and took long almost silly strides. “Your parents foiled a death cult and you two almost got captured by trolls.”

Adrynar did not allow his parents to get the jump: “You foiled a death cult!?”

Vynlarion leaned forward in his chair, “YOU WERE ALMOST CAPTURED BY TROLLS!?”

“Don’t change the subject!” His son protested.

It was Tal’theran who, in a moment of uncharacteristic openness, let out a loud, good-natured laugh. “This family is absurd!” Vynlarion, Lathinal and Adrynar looked between each other, before each of them letting their facades fall and joining the crimson-haired apprentice in his laughter.