Vynlarion sat very still before the hearth, the once great
fire now a small flickering flame. His normally intense verdant gaze was dulled
with fatigue, and his great form was slumped into the high backed chair he sat
in. Knee high tan leather boots creaked as he shifted slightly, adjusting his
tunic. He drummed his fingers on the armrest of the chair, various rings
clacking on the worn, wooden surface.
How long had it been since she would be in the seat next to
him? How long since they enjoyed each other’s silent company? Vynlarion canted
his gaze to the right at the long unused chair, sighing. She would never come
back to him, she could not. She was gone. Gripping the armrests, the old lord
pushed himself to a stand, and strode out of the room. They would be reunited
soon, something told Vynlarion his time in this plane of existence was soon to
run out.
Chapter One: Warring Factions
“If there is one thing he knows, it would be war.” Lathinal
commented passively to the magister before her. Crimson hair trailed down her
back, framing slim shoulders which were covered by regal looking pauldrons,
whereupon phoenixes in mid take off where emblazoned in gold. She wore a series
of red and gold skirts upon her robe, a high collar reaching up to her pointed
chin. The robe she wore was also of the finest quality, and a departure from
the Quel’dorei’s standard means of dress by its bright colouration. “It has
been his life, and will likely be his life until he dies.” She chuckled
lightly, “it makes you wonder how he got around to marrying me, hm?”
The woman before Lathinal, Lorynthia Highcrest, was no
stranger to the topic at hand. Vynlarion Highcrest was her elder brother, and
lord of her house. “Well Lathinal, your family and mine are still aghast that
you said yes. You could do so much better!” She laughed a sly little laugh, a
devious smirk cutting across her noble features. “Though I take it you didn’t
call for me to gossip about Vynlarion, did you?” She placed her hands on the
hilts of her elegant, curved daggers.
Lathinal shook he rhead, her crimson trusses waving from
side to side. “Can’t I just talk with my favourite sister in law? You wound me,
Lory.” Lathinal smirked a wry smirk at the younger woman. “But since you’re
offering, I could use your help… I need
you and the other shadow walkers to find your way into the enemy encampment,
and get us a rundown of their forces; numbers of berserkers, priests, voodoomen
and all that. Can you do that?” She quirked a crimson brow, awaiting a
response.
“How dull…” Lathinal sighed, drumming her narrow fingers on
the hilt of her primary blade. “But I suppose I can do it. Though if brother
finds out you’re sending me to the frontlines, he’s going to be quite pissed
with you, you know. So it’s perfect!” Lorynthia threw her head back and laughed
triumphantly. “I’ll be back in the morning with a report, bye sis.” She gave a
coy little wave of her black leather gloved hand and strode out of the tent.
“Thank you, Lory!” Lathinal called after the exiting rogue.
She couldn’t deny, though Lorynthia was young, Lathinal saw her talent and her
drive to be accepted by her militant husband. Though for all the horror stories
Lorynthia told Lathinal, she could not imagine her husband as such. To her,
Vynlarion was kind and giving, and would be at her side until the day they
died.
After a moment of silent contemplation, Lathinal exited her
tent into the fresh spring air of the night. The camp around her was bustling
with the sharpening of weapons, magisters reading tomes silently, priests
giving their nightly sermon, and rangers restringing bows and poisoning arrows.
This was a life she had readily accepted and grown accustomed to. Keeping the
Amani Trolls back from Quel’Thalas was a fulltime job, and she could not ask
for a better companion in it than her husband. Though she paused in her
thoughts, Vynlarion and his guard party should have been back by now… Where
were they?
~
Vynlarion’s greatsword crashed onto the axe of the troll
before him, the large verdant beast howling in rage, bringing his other axe
towards Vynlarion’s exposed midsection. Metal grinded on metal as Vynlarion was
bored down upon, though he pushed forth with an immense amount of arcane imbued
strength and parried the Troll’s axe, driving his broadsword through the troll.
The troll slumped over, his lanky form falling toward Vynlarion. “Dis… was…
our… land…” The troll spoke in broken Thalassian.
Vynlarion placed a plated greave on the troll’s chest, and
wrenches his blade free, flourishing it through the air. “And it is ours, now.”
He respond, his regal voice cold and detached. He eyed the narrow ebon blade in
his hand, befouled with the blood and innards of the bestial man who fell,
dead, before him. The pommel, designed as a dragon whose mouth was agape in
fury. Side stepping the fallen creature, Vynlarion’s black cloak billowed
behind him as he moved, his ebon and gold armour shimmering in the dull light.
Truly an impressive sight, Vynlarion Highcrest donned the
set of armour he was gifted when declared ‘Dragon of Quel’Thalas.’ Metalic
dragon heads roared silently on each pauldron, their crimson eyes fixed forward
with rubies. His gauntlets ended with dagger-like pointed fingers, curved
blades coming off each gauntlet and he wore a crown-like fixture upon his
golden hair, which looked much akin to a dragon’s skull, bereft of the jaw,
staring lifelessly forward. Donning matching greaves, his form was heavily
armoured and deadly.
Though Vynlarion spared no time, and swung his blade outward
and to the right, “have at me, you vile cretin! Your kind has no right to
encroach upon the lands of the Quel’dorei!” Another troll approached him, this
one donning tribal robes and a staff. “Withcraft and vile sorcery, your kind is
beyond hope…” Vynlarion bellowed angrily, his regal voice bold and triumphant.
The troll spoke in her own tongue as she approached, staff
raised into the sky. Ice burst into being around Vynlarion, encasing his gilded
greaves and holding him in place. The troll enchantress extended her free hand
and sent a bolt of ice at him. Vynlarion shifted his blade into both hands,
raising it into the air. Holding true as the icebolt encroached on Vynlarion,
he only moved when it was a few feet away. Blade glowing an intense arcane hue,
he swung it forward, slicing through the ice bolt. The spell seemed to falter
midair, losing altitude and finally splitting into two just before his face,
and flying harmlessly beside him, his golden hair billowing in the breeze the
errant ice bolts made.
The troll growled angrily, dropping her staff and unsheathed
a ritualistic knife from her waist and ran at Vynlarion, shouting in Thalassian
“you die, mon! You die!” Her knife was raised to be driven through his azure
eye, though Vynlarion had nothing but a smirk on his face. Allowing himself to
remain in one place, his spun his blade in his right hand, bringing it to the
side.
“You idiotic savage, you would have been wiser keeping to
your magicks!” He challenged as the Troll advanced. As the troll rushed
forward, and at the very last moment, he swung his blade, slicing through the
Troll’s midsection. She tripped forward, blood oozing from her midsection and
she coughed violently, blood spurting onto Vynlarion’s face. As her life left
her, the spell on his feet fell apart, ice shards tumbling harmlessly.
Canting his azure gaze to the
side, Vynlarion nodded approvingly as his contingent of soldiers finished off
their own foes. Wiping his blade off, he strode toward his soldiers, coming to
their aid. This night had hardly begun, and by the looks of it, it was long
from over as more Trolls rushed forward.
Chapter Two: Reports Not Given
When the morning came, Vynlarion found himself weary and
glad to be back at camp. The night had been long and hard fought, and much to
his ire, Vynlarion returned with fifteen fewer soldiers than he had set out
with. Worse yet, the situation at hand did not bode well. Striding into camp,
flanked by his contingent of soldiers, he was greeted by a worried, though
composed Lathinal Highcrest. She strode forward, though her azure eyes showed
the worry she carried.
“Ah, my beloved.” Vynlarion greeted her, offering a small
smile. “Apologies for not returning when we had planned to; we had encountered a
larger-than-expected force of Amani. I think we should send out a few shadow
walkers to check on their numbers, we may have a more difficult situation on
our hands.” He explained, nodding to his soldiers who left silently, yearning
for rest and relaxation.
Lathinal’s gaze flickered off to the side for a moment. “I
sent Lorynthia and her fellows to check on just that.” She remained composed,
though she could see the anger growing behind his intense azure gaze. He would
never admit it, but he doted on her secretly, and wished for Lorynthia to stay
as far away from battle as possible. Though, much to his ire, she would never
agree to simply being a ‘proper’ lady.
“Why would you send her? She’s still a girl! She has little
battle experience. If she was caught, I’d never forgive myself.” Vynlarion barked
angrily, drawing the attention of those around him. However he seemed to calm
after a moment. “She is another one of that bastard’s casualties. Throwing her
into war will not help her regain a proper personality.”
Lathinal shook her head, frowning. “Her life is not ours to
command, Vyn. She is her own woman, and would run off to battle whether you or
I wish it or not. She’s always been like that.” Lathinal explained, though she
knew quite well that Vynlarion was aware of this. He sighed, nodding.
“Then we’ll wait for her report.” He said, resigning to the
truth of the situation.
~
Lorynthia crept through the darkness of southern
Quel’Thalas. Shrubbery and the like brushed silently by her as she crept. The
White Lady hung dully over her, casting peculiar streams of light through the
trees around her. The rogue could not deny it, she adored times like these.
Free of her wretched father and a brother who seemed all too familiar to that
same father of theirs.
How was it that she had become the child abhorred by her
family so? What had she done? How had she failed? Lorynthia had pondered this
for many years, now and was still bereft of an answer. Did blame lay with her
wretched father? Possible, the man saw her as nothing more than a political
tool to expand his sphere of influence and otherwise totally ignored her.
Perhaps her mother? Though, she seemed to loathe all her
children; Xanlor, Vynlarion and herself. All she seemed to do was simply sit in
her study, staring into a filthy old mirror. The woman was nothing more than a
shadow in her life, flitting about their manor in the night and disappearing
for weeks at a time.
Though perhaps blame lay with her own brother who had so
expertly taken his father’s place as lord of their house, for it was he who had
married her off like a commoner girl and didn’t even bat an eye when she killed
him. He didn’t care, after all. He was too busy climbing the political ladder
for his own good.
However, her brooding was interrupted by the sound of a
muffled grunt. Looking left, she saw one of her fellow rogues fall to the
ground, a dirk embedded in his chest, blood oozing from the wound. Moving to
his body, a putrid green substance covered the tip of the dirk. Cautiously
leaning forth, she ran a gloved finger over the substance, to ascertain what it
was.
The leather of her glove instantly began to burn and sizzle.
Her azure eyes opened wide in shock as she pulled the glove off, a glob of the
substance landing on her cheek. The small spot of skin began to feel as though
a candle was being held to her face, then a hearth, and finally as if that one
tiny spot was held in a furnace. Biting down on her now uncovered finger, she
stifled her scream of agony into a quiet mumble.
The other rogues she travelled with approached her cautiously,
eyeing the ever-growing hole in her cheek, though the two closest to her simply
fell forward silently, dirks embedded in their backs. They were surrounded.
Lorynthia knew what had to be done. She looked to Lal’tel, one of her closest
friends in her syndicate, and nodded. The woman nodded back, and darted off
into the blackness. Vynlarion had to be informed. Meanwhile she would have to
hold them back. Alone.
She unsheathed her daggers, emblazoned with the sigil of her
house on the pommels and the words ‘guile of a Highcrest’ inscribed on one
blade and ‘wrath of a Highborne’ on the other. She slid behind a tree and
steadied her breath, listening for the footfalls of Trolls. Seconds passed as
though they were hours as she waited, blades drawn before her bosom.
After what seemed like an eternity, footfalls sounded on the
other side of the tree. Lorynthia smirked, this was almost too easy. Looking down to the ground, she kicked a pebble into a
nearby tree, and three hulking figures rushed toward the tree, expecting her
there. Lorynthia pressed herself to the ground and sped into the last troll
arriving on the distraction and jumped onto its back, burying her blades into
its neck, severing its spine and splitting its throat open in the process. The
Troll gurgled out a strangled cry as it fell, though Lorynthia was well beyond
him. Hefting her left blade into a different position, she hurled it at the
next Troll who turned to charge at her.
This troll simply fell to the ground, her dagger buried in
its face. The third troll, seemingly more prepared, hurled three dirks in her
direction. Dodging two with ease, the third scraped against her arm, and she
cried out in pain as the same green ichor burned through her flesh mercilessly.
Though she fought on through the pain, dancing about the larger figure and
lacerated his ankles, bringing him down to the ground and finally buried her
main dagger in his skull, which was followed by the sickening sound of bone
snapping and brain matter being ruined utterly.
Releasing her blade from the last troll and collecting her
other, she found a searing blunt force applied to her back and she flew into
the far tree. Pain wracked her body as the spots cleared from her eyes. Though
she was given no reprieve as another, even larger, troll assaulted her,
slamming her into the bulk of the tree once more, pressing his club into her
stomach and slowly pushed it in with excruciating slowness.
Pain exploded through her midsection as her organs were
compacted into one another. A shaky hand fell to her side, trying to reach a
knife hidden in her belt. Her sight began to fail as she could feel her kidneys
being impacted heavily.
However, without warning, the Troll’s excruciating torture
let up, and the hulking figure fell backward, an arrow, buried to the
fletching, sticking in its eye-socket. Lorynthia fell to the ground, gasping
and coughing violently as she sought to regain her composure. Though, her
efforts seemed for naught as she collapsed forward. Though two sturdy, gloved
hands caught her, and a cowled figure was the last she saw.
Chapter Three: Magnanimous Strangers
Lal’tel hurried through the night, bushes and bramble
cutting at her narrow face as she sped through the shrubbery. Her lungs burned
intensely as she moved, and her muscles called out for reprieve. However, she
knew her mission could not be failed from fatigue. She had to reach Lorynthia’s brother. She had to. Vynlarion had to know
that the Trolls knew they were coming.
Though dread began to creep at the back of Lal’tel’s mind as
she looked around. She did not know this part of the forest well, and she was
losing track of her bearings quickly. Seeking to regain her sense of direction,
she paused, looking up to find the moon’s position. Though this endeavour was a
doomed one, as the White Lady was obscured by heavy foliage.
She knelt down to a crouch to begin running once more,
though the feeling of cold steel pressed against her neck, and a strong voice
spoke. “You’re a long ways from town, rogue.” A blade pressed further into her
neck. “Come to steal from my lady? I should have your head!” He growled
angrily, though spoke once more, “Stand, thief.” Lal’tel slowly stood, turning
to see who held her at blade point. An honour guard of an unknown house, at
least to her it was unknown, stood before her silently, eyeing her up and down,
before lowering his blade. “Hm. No. You’re no pickpocket. Who are you?” He kept
his blade drawn, though removed it from her neck.
Lal’tel studied the man. He was well armoured and seemed to
be quite adept at being quiet on his feet. After all, he had gotten the jump on
her. She kept her calm and spoke calmly, “My name is Lal’tel, my commanding
officer, Knight-Lord Vynlarion Highcrest, sent myself and my fellows out to
track the movements of the Trolls.” The man seemed rather disinterested in this
news, seemingly uncaring that trolls were encroaching upon his lady’s lands.
“Unimportant, trivial affairs. Mi’lady has no interest in
these affairs. Go-“ The man was interrupted by a slim, regal looking figure
emerging from the foliage next to the two. She donned elegant crimson robes,
and held an imperious looking staff in her right hand. Fiery red trusses of
hair fell down her back and chest, obscuring her already somewhat exposed
bosom. The armoured man fell to a knee abruptly. “My lady! It is not safe for
you to be out in these woods at such a late hour.”
The elven woman remained quiet for quite some time, eyeing
Lal’tel up and down. “Am I not the Flame
of Quel’Thalas? Am I no longer Erythis
Alexia Firestorm?” Her voice was refined and feminine, though a tone of
authority was annunciated in every word she spoke. Lal’tel smirked slightly as
the man before this lady, Erythis Firestorm, seemed to almost tremble.
“My sincerest apologies, my lady! I was only concerned for
your wellbeing.” The man kept to a low kneel, staring quite intently at the
ground. Erythis Firestorm stared at him for a long moment, seemingly lost in
thought, before turning her focus to Lal’tel.
Erythis approached Lal’tel, and it was then that the waves
of arcane assaulted the rogue. This woman was a magister of a rare calibre. Her
form, obviously perfected with the arcane as many great magisters do, radiated
a sort of golden glow. Erythis extended a slender hand to Lal’tel, which was
bejeweled with rings and bracelets. “My dear, come with me.”
Lal’tel hesitantly took the hand, further shockwaves of
arcane pouring into her system as she placed her hand in the taller woman’s. Standing
once more, Erythis turned and walked silently away, before speaking once more.
“Come.” She repeated, and both honour guard and rogue followed quickly.
After about a half hour walk in silence, the three appeared
in what Lal’tel instantly recognised as the Province of Felo’danil. Rolling
hills dotted with crimson and golden trees sat silently before her in the
night. Small, furry animals skittered from tree to tree, and the occasional
croak of a frog could be heard in the distance. About a kilometer away, Lal’tel
took sight of an impressive elven structure. Evidently the manor of a great
house, it was incredibly secluded from the main borders of Quel’Thalas, much
akin to how the Sin’adal Province of her friend Lorynthia was found in a
mountain valley. Though there was much more beauty to be found in the lands
before her.
Erythis turned, a small smile on magicked woman’s lips.
“Welcome to my home, rogue.” She flourished her hands outward, staff glowing
with arcane fire. Lal’tel bowed deeply, understanding that she was now a guest
here. However, once more, Erythis turned and continued on the now cobblestoned
path toward the mansion in the distance.
The three continued their trek, and Lal’tel found her
curiosity circumventing her normally sound judgement. ”Lady Firestorm, are you
really, well… the Lady Firestorm? The
one that’s supposedly as old as the king? If not older?” She inquired, and
winced inwardly for the brusque nature of her question.
Erythis chuckled a light laugh. “I was raised to know that
to ask a lady’s age was rude. But yes, that would be me, my dear. Though you
have me at a disadvantage. You know me, but I do not know you.” Lal’tel
blinked, suddenly realising that she had not introduced herself.
“My sincerest apologies, mi’lady! My name is Lal’tel. I am a
soldier of Vynlarion Highcrest the sixth, Knight-Lord of the Knights of the
Realm. I am a good friend of his young sister, Lorynthia. She sent me to inform
him of the trolls’ presence before his column. Though I lost my way and, well,
your honour guard put a blade to my neck and here we are.” Lal’tel spoke
quickly, trying to make the mission out to be less than it was, all too aware
that she had failed her friend and her lord by agreeing to this detour.
“Is that so? We’ll have to send you on your way after you
eat something, then.” Erythis mused to herself.
The three arrived at a stately patio some distance from the
actual manor, and Erythis motioned for Lal’tel to sit, which she took gladly,
finding the highbacked chair incredibly comfortable. Food silently appeared before
her, and Erythis nodded. Lal’tel quickly raised her newly appeared fork to a
succulent steak and dug in, finding her hunger greater than she had expected.
Erythis nodded to the honour guard, who bowed and took his
leave before taking a seat herself, and eyeing the rogue. “So you say you’re
under orders from a Vynlarion Highcrest the sixth? I didn’t know Vornelius the
second had kids…” She hummed and hawed to herself.
“Actually, mi’lady, Vornelius the second would be my lord’s
grandfather.” This statement from Lal’tel caused the magister’s eyes to open
widely in surprise. The regal woman seemingly generally shocked by the news.
“Really? The last time I saw little Vorn he was still a boy!
How time flies… As you can tell, I don’t much care for the goings on of the
capital and the various families. I leave such things to my daughters to
tackle.” Erythis raised a teacup to her mouth, sipping lightly.
Having finished her meal already, Lal’tel smiled at the
comment. “I cannot blame you, mi’lady. It’s all quite silly. Though I thank you
deeply for your hospitality, I must be going. I must report in to the
Knight-Lord.” She explained, receiving a frown from Erythis.
“When does he expect you back?” The ancient magister
inquired.
Lal’tel thought to herself for a moment, before speaking
once more, “tomorrow morning at the earliest.” This answer seemed to please
Erythis, who stood, placing her hands together.
“Wonderful. You’ll stay the night and upon the new dawn
you’ll be teleported to your lord.” Erythis, with that, snapped her fingers,
and a handmaiden came to her side. The two exchanged hushed words and the
magister returned her attention to Lal’tel. “Your room will be on the second
floor, fifth door on the right in the east wing. Though I must say, I am quite
tired myself. Please, call for me when you are ready to go tomorrow morning.”
Without another word, the magical woman disappeared, and
left Lal’tel to her thoughts.
~
Lorynthia awoke to the sun shining in her eyes. Thick
bandages and a foreign smell assaulted the side of her face and her injured
arm. Finding herself in nothing but her undergarments, she was tucked into a
soft bed. Her eyesight slowly returned to her and she took in her surroundings.
She was in a cottage of sorts, that was for sure. Somewhere
in the southern woods, by the looks of the foliage outside the window from
which the sun assaulted her. Simple wooden walls and ceiling protected her from
the relatively tepid elements of Quel’Thalas, and the smell of freshly cooked
eggs wafted through the small room from the door which was left ajar.
Pain shot through her body as she forced herself to a sit.
It felt as though she had fought a great battle for days straight and then laid
upon a steel bed. She was not restrained to the bed, though was still worried.
Why was she here? Who took her here?
Slipping her bare feet onto the wooden planks below, she
stood wearily, every muscle in her body aching. Across on the wall, sitting
upon a hook, was a wool robe, which she slowly made her way to and slipped on
over her injured figure.
Making her way to the door as silently as possible, she
could hear an elven man whistling a foreign tune. Quirking her brow, she looked
around the room, looking for some sort of weapon instinctively. Finding none,
she crept out of the room, and into the hall adjacent to a small living space
consisting of no more than a great hearth and a few fur backed benches.
An elven man stood before the hearth, still whistling. In
his hands he had a skillet, and was in the process of flipping eggs. The man
did not look her way, though he spoke nonetheless. “You should still be in bed.
That poison is quite deadly. You’re lucky to be alive.” His voice was calm and
quiet, and he seemed quite inoffensive altogether.
Lorynthia frowned, and spoke. “Who are you? Where am I?” The
man continued to cook the eggs, seemingly ignorant or uncaring of her anger. He
was a slim figure with simple autumn brown hair falling down his back and
chest. Donning trousers and a loose fitting gentlemen’s blouse, he looked to be
the spitting image of a typical ranger.
“Who I am varies, depending on who is asking, my dear. And
you are safe within my home in the southern forests. I happened upon the trolls
who killed your friends and killed the one that almost got you. I couldn’t save
your friends, but I gave them a good funeral; a pyre for each of them, and
scattered the ashes. Granted, that was a day ago.” He spoke lightly, sliding
the eggs onto a plate before offering a seat to Lorynthia. “Come, sit. You must
be starving.”
Lorynthia eyed the man and grudgingly took a seat, too weary
and sore to argue the fact. Accepting the eggs after the man took a test bite,
she hungrily dug in and consumed a large slice of ham and a glass of orange
juice. “How long was I out for?”
“Two days. I imagine your friends are quite worried. But it
wouldn’t have been safe to move you with how you were. With a few treatments
today, you should be good.” He motioned to a peculiar cooling cauldron, filled
with a thick yellow substance.
Lorynthia took great notice of the substance, before
returning her attention to the man. “What is that?” The ranger leaned back in
his own chair, drumming a little melody on his knees.
“This and that. It’s an old remedy for Trollish poisons from
my younger years.” He said vaguely. Evidently, Lorynthia wasn’t going to get
many answers out of him. “You were quite poorly off when I found you. The
poison had eaten through a gold coin’s width in your cheek and your arm was
much worse. The poison did quite a number on your whole body, too. To see you
up in two days is quite a feat, you know. You’re made of strong stuff.”
Lorynthia shrugged, “my brother would say it is because I am
Highcrest. And don’t bother trying to use me as ransom for gold, he wouldn’t
care.” She spouted out bitterly, causing a bit of a chuckle from the man.
“Something funny?”
“Yes. Family feuds are adorable. It makes me miss my family.
But this is a good life, too. And they’re safe. Now, sit still.” He said as he
stood, moving toward her with the cauldron in hand. Unfurling her bandages from
her arm, Lorynthia saw the true extent of the poison. The actual cut wound from
the dirk was relatively small, no more than an inch long, though the corrosive
poison had eaten away at her skin for about another three inches up and down
her upper arm.
The fresh air assaulted the wound and she winced inwardly.
The man pressed two fingers into the cauldron, and placed the a thick yellow
globule of the mystery solvent on her arm, which instantly calmed the pain and
seemed to slowly spread through her system. Nodding to him as he approached her
face to remove the bandages on the one side of her face, and applied the
solvent once more.
Replacing new bandaging over the two injuries, Lorynthia
already began to feel much better. “Thank you ranger, but I must get back to my
brother. He needs to know of the trolls encroachment on the column.” Though the
mystery man shook his head.
“I’m afraid he already knows. Another, teleported in by a
magister, informed the column. Thoiugh it was too late and they battled for an
entire day. However, it would appear your brother’s forces won. But if you wish
to go so soon…” The man trailed off, shrugging.
“I do, yes. Thank you for all the help you’ve given me.
Though I still didn’t get a name.” She turned around as she stood, eyeing the
man.
He smiled, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t, did you?” He
too stood and walked to the door, opening it to the early morning before them.
“Good luck, my dear. We’ll meet again, I’m sure of it.” With that, Lorynthia
gathered her armour and rearmed before exiting the cabin.
Chapter Four: Battle Begun
Vynlarion exited his tent, looking around the camp warily.
War was coming once more, and from the information he had been sent by the
rogue who was mysteriously teleported in, he simply did not have the numbers to
stand against such a force. With his broadsword strapped to his back and armour
donned, he decided that, though he was worried, he could not allow the poison
of anxiety spread through the camp.
Motioning for a few of his house guards to come to him, he
spoke quietly, “gather the officers for debriefing in the field.” The two
guards nodded and turned on their heels, walking off silently. Vynlarion canted
his azure gaze upward, the sun shining high overhead. It looked to be high noon
now, and come the evening, death would come for many of his soldiers. There
could be no escape, the Amani would simply cut them off.
Pacing to the main field in the camp, he found the majority
of his officers assembled in neat lines. Vynlarion walked parallel to the line,
inspecting them closely. Many of them were no older than he himself, though
there was no doubt the apprehension he saw in their eyes was reflected in his
own. They knew the intelligence as well as he.
Clearing his throat, Vynlarion spoke, his tones
authoritative and stern, voice measured for the greatest impact. For him,
giving speeches was an art, carefully calculated for any given situation, to
sway the masses to his side. However, those before him would not require
persuading, but convincing. “The enemy that marches on us outnumbers us three
to one, ladies and gentlemen. Intelligence failed us in getting us the
information we needed in time. So we are at a tactical disadvantage. However,
this does not mean they have the strategical advantage!”
The officers before him quirked brows or simply looked at
him warily. Many of them were newly transferred to his command and did not seem
to understand that Vynlarion Highcrest the sixth did not retreat. Ever. “No! We
are the greatest people on Azeroth! We will use our superior minds to best the
Trolls. We will meet them out in battle with –half- our forces.” This statement
drew one of the officers newly assigned to him to step forward.
“My lord commander, this is madness! They’ll be slaughtered
from the sheer force of the Trolls.” The man wore his ebon hair short and
spiked, an eyepatch covering his left eye, barely hiding a wicked scar underneath.
Vynlarion knew of this man from the transfer report; he was bold and audacious,
and did not stay quiet when he thought something was wrong.
Vynlarion turned on his heel, cloak flipping behind him and
he stood before the man. Looking upon him, Vynlarion nodded. “Quite true,
captain. If we were to rush out and meet them in open combat, we’d be crushed.
But we’ll do no such thing. No, we’ll ambush them and take them out in groups.
Cut their attacking groups and annihilate them. Not with numbers, but by using
the terrain to our advantage.” The captain before him considered his words for
a long moment, before stepping back.
“I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me for speaking out.” The captain
bowed his head. Vynlarion nodded, and continued on. “The second half of our
forces will be led by Ambassador Lathinal Highcrest. Their group will act as
the crushing blow to incinerate the enemy.” Vynlarion canted his gaze across
the field. Many soldiers had amassed at a distance, whose sharp elven ears
caught his words. Vynlarion’s visage grew determined, and he reached for his
broadsword.
Unsheathing the massive ebon blade, whose hilt was akin to a
dragon’s mouth agape in fury, he raised it into the air, voice bellowing. “For
Quel’Thalas! Selama ashal’anore!” The officers before him raised their
respective weapons, repeating the slogan, followed by the soldiers amassed,
cheers raising through the camp. With that, Vynlarion turned to return to his
tent to say goodbye to Lathinal.
~
Lathinal sat at the small desk in their tent, quill floating
across the parchment before her. Her slender arms were crossed under her bust
as she controlled the quill as it scribbled away. Still writing however,
Lathinal turned her attention to Vynlarion as he walked in, broad frame casting
a large shadow over the tent. He smiled a sincere smile at the woman, “hello my
beloved. I am sure you are quite cross with me, aren’t you?”
Lathinal rose, robes flittering about her angrily, small
licks of magicked flames peeling off her hands. “You’re damned right I am! This
plan is suicide, Vynlarion. I didn’t save you years ago just to see you throw
yourself at the Trolls out of hurt pride! I swear, some days you’re as thick as
that father of yours.” She grumbled, pacing. “Really, they already outnumber
us, and you want to split up the forces to pick them off and then smash them
like the humans or Dwarves or—“
Vynlarion laughed broadly, placing two now unarmoured hands
on her shoulders. “My dearest beloved, you have so little faith in yourself.
The first stage will be fine, it’s how elves fight. I have faith you can lead
the forces in. You spend so much time with the humans and Dwarves, that you
should know their strategies better than I. Besides, I need to be on the front
lines; it’s good for morale.” His words caused her to frown angrily.
“Damnit, Vyn…” She smacked his shoulder. “FINE. I’ll do it,
but you owe me BIG for this.” She scoffed, sitting back down at the desk. “But
if I’m leading the second force, I’m doing it -my- way.” Vynlarion took a seat
on the edge of their bed, chuckling a little.
“As you say, -my lady-.” He jeered playfully, causing
Lathinal to roll her eyes.
~
That evening
Lorynthia arrived, however, much to Vynlarion’s ire, she would not explain how
she returned, healed no less. Regardless, Vynlarion moved half of his forces;
mainly pathstalkers and farstriders into place. Within the forests now darkened
by the twilight hour, the soldiers sat behind and in trees patiently waiting
for the signal of the arrival of Amani Trolls.
Vynlarion himself stood behind a particularly thick tree,
whose girth could just barely obscure his pauldrons. The occasional cricket
would sound in the cool spring night as he waited patiently. It was times like
these that he both adored and hated. It was battle that he had shaped his life
around warring with the Trolls. But at the same time, he could not leave
Lathinal, nor any children they would have, alone. But to do so he had to risk his life in these battles.
And there was no one else he would rather have commanding his reinforcements
than Lathinal herself.
However, his musings were interrupted by the appearance of a
rogue before him. The man bowed once, and spoke. “My lord commander, the Amani
are falling into position.” Vynlarion nodded, and looked to his left and right
quickly, before snapping his fingers, an arcane spark flying into the air,
giving a single noticeable popping sound before falling silent.
The guttural sounds of Trollish grunts could be heard as the
release of arrows was heard all around, followed by the thunk of large corpses.
Vynlarion placed a hand on the hilt of his greatsword, unsheathing it smoothly
as he spun about the tree, calling out. “Cowardly wretches! Face the dragon!”
Three trolls stormed the small clearing upon his provocation and he charged
forward, dragon blade gleaming with imbued magicks.
Blade already slicing through the air with a wicked low
screech, it met the neck of the first Troll, the larger creature merely falling
backward, blood squirting from his throat. The first troll writhed on the
ground as Vynlarion moved on, blade swinging high to mete the next foe. However
the second and third trolls met him at once, and he dropped his left hand from
his greatsword, taking a shortsword from his belt and burying it in the chest
of the third troll before impaling the second smoothly.
Time passed as he charged forward through the trees, making
as much noise as he possibly could. Poisoned arrows flew by, scraping at his
thick armour and denting it in places. One grazed his ear, leaving a small nick
in the narrow appendage. Vynlarion turned sharply, golden hair and ebon cloak
billowing to his side in the gust of wind. Removing a dirk from behind his
cloak, he hurled it in the direction of the arrow, and heard the resounding
sound of a Troll being killed on contact through its crumpling out of the tree
before him, the dirk buried in her neck.
Vynlarion wasted no time as he continued into a larger
clearing, and was met by five trolls, two of which were garbed in tribal robes
and chanted furiously. The ground below him shook and rumbled and he was thrown
off his feet, crashing to the ground. The three trolls armed with spears
charged him. The first spear met his blade and was parried to the side, however
the second slammed into his breastplate, knocking the wind out of the
Knight-Lord and causing him to see stars for a moment.
The brief repose from momentary asphyxiation gave the last
troll time enough to bury his spear in Vynlarion’s right hip in the soft joint
within the armour. The knight cried out in pain as the spear’s entire head was
lodged into his leg. Adrenaline surged through his system as the pain coursed
through him. Dropping his heavy broadsword, he unsheathed the same shortsword
from before, and hurled it nearly point blank at the troll who was already
coming down to finish what he started. The shorter blade buried itself in the
troll’s chest, its hilt pressed against the base of her breast. The spearwoman
fell forwarded next to him, and he retrieve his blade, sheathing it, before
rolling sharply to the right, barely avoiding the searing lightning that was
shot at him.
Singed on the side of his head by the spell which followed
the first, he grabbed a spear from one of the first fallen troll and hurled it
at one of the assaulting troll, who moved to the side, dodging it swiftly.
Glaring, Vynlarion grabbed his broadsword and lurched to a stand and into a
charge. However, a sickening and blindingly painful crunch emanated from his
shattered right hip, and he crashed downward, another spell flying over his
head, unintendedingly missing him due to his collapse.
Immobilized by the pain that coursed through his body, he
readied himself to take the full brunt of the next blast as it rocketed towards
him. However, all around them, the air became thick with dread and misery as
the sky quite abruptly darkened.
A swirling mass of shadows began to form before him,
deflecting the lightning bolt created by the troll shaman, and the phenomenon
grew larger and darker. Shadowy tendrils, laced with jagged spikes exploded
outward from the swirling mass and eviscerated the first shaman, who screamed
in agony as she crumpled downward, dead before she hit the ground.
The second wasted no time in attacking the new phenomenon as
the swirling shadows dissipated to reveal an ebon robed figure, much akin to
Vynlarion’s height. The figure bore on his right hand a silver, clawed gauntlet
of sorts, and lunged forward with the speed of a wraith. Arriving at the last
troll with ungodly speed, the cloaked and cowled figure buried the gauntlet’s
tips in the shaman’s face, whose head subsequently exploded violently with
shadowy tendrils which licked outward from the missing appendage.
Vynlarion forced himself to a stand, using his broadsword as
a means of supporting his ruined hip, and eyed the figure. “Who are you?” The
knight demanded angrily, fearing it was an even more nefarious force come to
end him. However, the cloaked man turned, face still shadowed in the now all
but black night about them.
Voice whispering in his mind and all around him, the man
before Vynlarion held a composed and cold tone; “I am you…” For a moment, the
two stood, facing off silently, before finally the cowled figure was engulfed
in the same shadowy wisps that took him there in the first place, and Vynlarion
was left alone. He collapsed onto his back, clutching at the deep wound in his
hip. He was all too aware this serious of a wound would see him permanently
injured, and dreaded the thought.
However, much to his dismay, more trolls appeared from the
trees around them as the darkness faded, likely goaded to the location by the
display of dark magic. Seeing only an injured Vynlarion, the rushed forward.
However the knight was not defenseless. Pushing himself to a crouch on his
useable leg, he removed two dirks from behind his cloak and hurled them with deadly
speed. The small knives embedded themselves in the first two trolls, who
crumpled haphazardly , tripping the following troll in the process.
Vynlarion wasted no time and unsheathed his shortsword,
hurling it at the tripped troll. The blade tumbled end over end through the air
before impaling the felled troll’s skull, piercing him to the ground. Though
the onslaught did not stop. Three trolls rushed his location from the foliage
to his side, however arrows pierced their chests and they fell to the ground,
still. From his right, a figure cloaked in verdant and black chainmail
appeared, launching himself into the fray.
A bow on his back and swords now in his hands, he slashed at
the oncoming trolls with the precision of an ancient veteran of many wars. He
danced around the lanky figures, slashing them without mercy, before nodding to
the fallen Vynlarion, who was now hurling all his dirks and knives at the
encroaching enemies. The newest figure, as the trolls stopped appearing, jumped
into the opposite side of the clearing and into the bushes, disappearing from
sight with silent foosteps, his face obscured due to the chainmail cowl
adorning his head.
Chapter Five: Dragon’s Breath
Vynlarion was given momentary respite for a few minutes as
an elven cleric arrived, giving his shattered hip some spot healing, and much
to the man’s anger, allowing Vynlarion to return to the fray. However he would
be unable to charge his foes, as his right leg was unable to bend at the hip,
having been locked in place to prevent further damage in the interim.
The Knight-Lord could hear the sounds of more trolls
arriving and readied himself for battle. However, the sound of a dragonhawk
screeching emanated overhead. It was the signal that Lathinal and the second
wave were here, and they were into the final phase of the battle. Vynlarion
hurried to the sound of rushing water to the east, whereupon a large river
crossed through the southern forests, just south of Windrunner Village where he
saw the mounted elves charging the encampment of the Trolls. Vynlarion raised
his blade into the sky and let his voice boom; “Children of Noble Birth!
Attack!”
Upon his words, a regally dressed woman strolled by him.
Crimson trusses of hair bounced back and forth. Her gown, barely covering her
beauteous person, trailed after her. Powerful magic radiated off the woman as
she strolled forward before stopping altogether, and raising her hands into the
sky, speaking quickly; “great and powerful Sunwell, aid me in this!” Her voice
was commanding yet feminine, and Vynlarion found the woman to be quite similar
to Lathinal.
Veins of firey runes crisscrossed the large field before him
and burst into an orange inferno. The fire incinerated all trolls within its
confines in an instant, and left all elves unharmed. The woman looked to
Vynlarion, nodding. “Do what you must, young man.” The knight nodded, and
hurried into the fray.
Arriving in the troll encampment, he found Lathinal, along
with four other mages, surrounded by troll peons. Vynlarion bellowed a warcry
in fury and charged forward, slaying six of them in two fell swoops of his
blade before they could even react. His beloved took the advantage and sent out
her own spells, fiery magicks encompassing the peons in a pillar of flames and
removed them entirely from existence.
“Magister! Move on! My dear husband and I have to bond…”
Lathinal offered a wicked grin, and the mages retreated deeper into the town.
Lathinal nodded to Vynlarion, who raised his blade into the air. Lathinal
unsheathed her rarely used staff and pressed it to his blade, and spoke in a
foreign tongue, though Vynlarion knew it as a draconic spell. The blade
exploded into intense golden flames, imbued with the power of the Sunwell.
The flames grew larger as the seconds went by, and Vynlarion
gripped the blade tightly as it sought to wrench itself free from his grip and
take on a life of its own, as it were. From the tips of the flames a fiery
dragon’s head appeared and roared furiously, coiling through the air around
Vynlarion and Lathinal. The fiery dragon grew larger as it expanded further off
the blade, which, along with its owner and the creator of the spell, were lost
to the observing eye.
After a moment, the fiery dragon released from its coiling
and flew outward, its lengthy ephemeral body incinerating buildings as it went,
utterly flattening the camp and the surrounding Trollish town. Screams of trollish warriors and the like echoed
through the night as the spell lit up the large field. Vynlarion, now revealed
once more, shouted, his voice augmented by Lathinal’s magic; “Soldiers!
Withdraw and take cover!”
Scores of elves retreated from the town and camp at the
command, retreating into the forests, and with a deafening explosion, the camp
and town were removed from Quel’Thalas utterly as the fireborne dragon exploded
with intense magicks. Vynlarion and Lathinal stood as one, his arm wrapped
protectively about her as he shielded her from the spell, fully aware that it would
not harm them.
~
As the smoke settled, Lathinal and Vynlarion both collapsed
in unison, breathing and panting heavily from the exertion of the spell.
Lathinal looked to her husband and spoke breathlessly, “I’ve never seen it… so
powerful!”
Vynlarion nodded, clutching his hip and chest at once.
“Indeed… how did we do that?” He looked deeply into her eyes; this amount of
power was beyond the both of them, and they both knew it. However, from the
smoke emerged that same regal looking figure from when Vynlarion arrived.
The magistrix stood before Lathinal and Vynlarion, offering
a slight curtsey. “I hope you don’t mind, but I augmented your spell. That was
very impressive, you know. Few elves can bond their magical forces like that.”
She continued on her way for a moment, though paused. “It was… fun. Good
evening, you two.”
Vynlarion nodded, and Lathinal just stared in awe.
~
Roughly a week later, Vynlarion, fully garbed in his
ceremonial armour and accompanied by Lathinal in her official robes, knelt
before the High King, Anestarian Sunstrider. The king, greatly aged already,
rose from his throne with some difficulty, and spoke; “glory to those who have
returned to our fair city of Silvermoon. Their triumph has secured our lands
for generations to come.” He nodded to the wed couple, and continued to speak.
“And condolences to the fallen’s family. Their memory shall live on within us,
for they gave the ultimate sacrifice.” He raised Felo’melourne into the air,
which had previously sat beside him in its own holder astride the throne.
“Glory to Quel’Thalas!”
Vynlarion and Lathinal rose, echoing the king, “Glory to
Quel’Thalas!” With that, they exited the throne room and spoke calmly.
The knight smiled at his magister wife, who returned the
gesture gladly, placing a gloved hand on his pauldron. “My dearest Vynlarion,
we really did perform a miracle. And soon, we’ll have another, you know…” Her
smile turned into a sly smirk as Vynlarion realised what she had implied.
“Oh gods, you are…?” Vynlarion stuttered once, and with
Lathinal’s single nod, he fell backward, having fainted from sheer shock and
exhaustion from the news. They were going to have their first child.
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