The sun shined high in the sky, bearing down an intense heat
which was all but defused completely by the magicks of their people. A vague
pink hue drifted through the sky high above, drifting lazily like thin clouds
overhead. It was a peculiar thing to Lor’thun. Magic and their people were
synonymous, but the intricacies of magic were lost to him. For he and the rest
of the remaining elves, it was like the air they breathed and the water they
drank. It protected them from the wintry climate of the northernmost Eastern
Kingdoms, it empowered them, and it gave them a unique identity.
The rustling of the long grasses around Lor’thun distracted
him from his sky watching. “You know, someone might step on you; you’re
practically hidden in the grass like this.” A familiar voice said Lor’thun
pushed himself upward, hoisting his torso up with his arms. Pushing light brown
hair out of his verdant eyes, he peered at the elf before him; an acquaintance
from the academy he had studied at; Vitarilon Thalo’danis.
Vitarilon wore a tight fitting black tunic which covered a
loose navy blue shirt along with black leather knee high boots and grey trousers.
Being so young for an elf, he was still very slim, light muscle framing his
bones. Vitarilon’s hair was a brilliant bright crimson, cropped short and
spiked backward, sticking up at the crown of his head.
“If someone tried to step on me, they would find a fist in
their groin from a rather displeased hidden
elf.” Lor’thun smirked wryly, and received a cheeky grin from Vitarilon.
Vitarilon fell to a seat next to him, looking up at the sky boredly. “What’s so
interesting about the sky, Lor’thun?”
The red haired elf looked upward as he spoke, “I see the sun. Some clouds. And oh look, the magical boundary that keeps
Quel’Thalas all warm and toasty, since gods forbid we bundle up and have a winter.” Vitarilon jeered, a grin
plastered on his face.
“You know, when you stay stupid things like that, it’s hard
to believe you’re a noble.” Lor’thun said, eyeing the cocky Vitarilon out of
the corner of his eyes. “The oh so mighty
grand-bastard of the oh so mighty
highlord –“ Lor’thun was cut off by Vitarilon groaning in annoyance.
“Oh gods, shut up, Lor. Please don’t remind me of that rigid
shit. “We don’t act as you do, Vitarilon,”
he says. “We don’t keep such queer
company as you,” he says. Eugh, he never shuts up about that shit.”
Vitarilon whined like a child. To some, he really was just a child, even though
he had lived longer than any living human. It was a luxury their people had,
that none other than their violet hued cousins had been gifted with. “Anyways,
you joy-killing stick in the mud, I didn’t come here to talk about magical
clouds and my boring-as-hells biological family. There’s an opportunity I knew
you just couldn’t pass up.”
Lor’thun quirked an auburn brow, “Oh really? Do tell. I
always just love hearing the
opportunities you and your friends have.” Vitarilon frowned, and gave a light
shrug, before speaking, “you know just as well as I that no one has more fun in
life than the lowborne. They make for good company, even if some of them are
about as bright as Kaldorei lampposts. Anyways, if you want, you can join the
Durotar front as a forward soldier.” Lor’thun’s eyes widened. He had always
wanted to join the Thalassian army, and something felt so just about fighting
in the rebellion; to fight against the barbaric Orcs who were trying to bend
the world to their will, just as the mad queen Azshara had millennia ago.
“… Where do I go and when do we
leave?”
~
~
Aesera shifted uncomfortably in the high backed chair. She hated this. With every fibre of her
being, she hated it. Sending these children to war, it was simply horrid. Worse
yet, these children wanted to go to
war. They wanted to fight. The elves
of Quel’Thalas were a reclusive people, they didn’t fight other people’s wars,
let alone the Trolls’ war! Huffing out an irritated sigh. “Next.” Aesera barked
out.
A young man clad in silver mail stepped forward. Two
scimitars were strapped to her waist; one on each hip. An ebon cloak was
affixed to his back by clips under his pauldrons. He looked no older than a
hundred, and yet here he was, willing to give his life up for some savages with
wooden masks and spears, slumped like Pandaren monkeys. Speaking more calmly,
she spoke one word: “Name?”
“Lor’thun Fe Tel’andal.” The young man spoke, running a hand
through cropped auburn hair. Aesera eyed him for a moment. “Never heard of you…” She glanced down at the
parchment displayed before her. Rosters were written out before her, though one
man came to mind. A small smirk came to her face. “You’ll be assigned to the 31st
Durotar Batallion, codenamed the Sunfury Advance. It’s led by Highlord
Vynlarion Highcrest the sixth. Enjoy your stay.” She said coolly, writing his
name down on the 31st roster. Pulling out another piece of
parchment, titled with the words ‘31st Durotar Regiment.’ Handing it
to him, she waved him away wordlessly.
Lor’thun offered a quick salute and spoke; “Thank you
Captain Firestorm. For the Regent, for Quel’Thalas.” Though the rather brisk
Ranger Captain had already moved on, and he spared a glance at her. She was
quite pretty, even if her attitude was rather cool; blonde hair was held in a
tight ponytail that fell down her back, and she wore a rather revealing black
leather tunic, her bosom exposed. Paired with black leather trousers and knee
high boots, her cloak was drawn about her shoulders, and spilled out onto the
highbacked chair she sat in. Lor’thun frowned somewhat, she looked so
uncomfortable in that chair. Perhaps it was why she was so moody.
Vitarilon stepped forward after
him, and Lor’thun waited off to the side. Once more she asked him his name, and
he responded with a wry grin, “Vitarilon Thalo’danis, m’dear. I would
absolutely love to join the Dragon of Quel’Thalas’ regiment.” He
kept that same cocky grin on his face, and Aesera frowned at him. Vitarilon did have a knack for angering rangers
with his outrageous personality. Lor’thun could see Aesera think it through.
Should she allow him to join Vynlarion? He seemed so eager, and that was just
intolerable. On the other hand, sticking such a runt of a boy with the
notoriously rigid Vynlarion Highcrest might put him in his place. “Done.” She
spoke firmly, and passed him his confirmation papers. Vitarilon shot a grin at
Lor’thun as he walked out of the building, a rather confused Lor’thun trailing
behind.
~
~
Vitarilon was poised like a gargoyle on top a streetlamp as
she exited the recruitment office. Dark blonde hair felt in loose curls about
her shoulders, resting on spiked crimson pauldrons. A formfitting Sin’dorei
robe framed her slender person, and a fiery staff sat on her back, peaking over
her shoulder. She eyed the red haired man atop the streetlamp, “what in the
seven hells are you doing up there?” The man canted his gaze from the silver
armoured man and he smirked. “Well, I’m not judging someone atop a lamp, that’s
for sure,” Vitarilon spoke boredly, still balanced upon the spike that ended
the light fixture that glowed with a bright golden glow. It seemed to make the
young man, who was no more than a teenager as an elf, seem larger than life.
Val’thera Bel’don focused her magicks on him. Who was he?
What was he? There was something amiss… something terribly wrong. Invisible
tendrils of magic so secreted that it would take a magister minutes to notice
them began to reach into him, inspecting him. Her eyes widened as she saw it. She cut her magicks asunder, and to
her trained eyes, they dissipated and floated into the air, returning to the
streams of magic through the air. Val’thera often spent hours looking at them
through her mind’s eye. The tendrils of magic… If you focused, you could follow
them for kilometers, across kingdoms and peoples, and find yourself somewhere
else.
Her musings were interrupted as the other spoke, the one who
had introduced himself to the Ranger Captain as Lor’thun. “Magister…?” He spoke
hesitantly, evidently seeing her become distracted. “Right. Well then,
gentlemen, don’t let me stop… whatever it is you’re doing.” She offered a
rather forced smile and began walking away, her back turned to the two. Though
she kept her person composed, her mind was racing. There were dark magicks in
that boy, magicks that did not belong to him.
She was stopped as the perched man spoke again, “Hey,
blondie. What’s your name?” Vitarilon called after her. Turning, she eyed him
once more. He looked on.” to be in his first century of life and had an
inquisitive look in his eye that never seemed to leave, though it was polluted
with a perpetual mischievous smirk plastered on his tanned face. “Val’thera
Bel’don. I was assigned to the 31st as well.” She had seen the two
been assigned to the 31st before her.
“Why don’t you join us? We were
just about to head off to the docks.” Vitarilon offered. Val’thera shruggd and
nodded, “Oh, why not?”
~
Much to Lor’thun’s dismay, their transport was a Trollish
one. The bulky ship was sharply angled and crudely constructed. The command
staff had gone ahead to secure the camp, so there was no one to deny this crude
transport. Rough, split wood made of the decking and sagging cots were their
bed. All around him, elves were pitched over leaky buckets and the sides of the
ship, vomiting violently from the surging of the open seas.
Lor’thun could not deny, the ship was making him a little
queasy, though there was one thing that turned his stomach all the more. The
trolls who ran the ship had a great cauldron on top of the wheel house,
something wherein what Trolls considered food was being cooked. It gave off a
putrid odour, filled with smells of curdled milk, sour cheese and the
distinctive smell of feces.
However, to Lor’thun’s right, perched on one of the
railings, Vitarilon seemed to be blissfully unaware of the putrid smell and the
bobbing of the ship. His eyes were closed and his back rested against the wheel
house which the railing connected to. “How in the seven hells can you just sit there while everyone is hurling and
the Trolls are cooking everything inedible into some sort of evil stew?!”
Lor’thun demanded. Though Vitarilon only grinned, eyes still closed. “It’s
called meditating,” Vitarilon spoke, “Something the Pandaren taught me when I
was sent to Pandaria a few months ago. Helps keep your stomach contents in your
stomach. Or you could just float like Val over there.” He jerked a thumb to where
Val’thera floated above the poor decking, eyes trained on the choppy seas
before them. However, rather abruptly, Vitarilon’s eyes snapped open and he
hopped down. “There’s a storm ahead.” He spoke sullenly.
“How can you tell?” Lor’thun inquired. Vitarilon, though an
elf, had no professional training with magic and surely couldn’t sense the
elements like a shaman. Vitarilon looked back to Lor’thun, and then onto the
choppy seas before them. The air was thick with the smell of rain and a sharp
wind was picking up. Thankfully, as the wind picked up, it blew the foul stench
of the Trollish meal behind them away. Val’thera had also come back down and
treaded slowly toward them. Having been on the ship for two days, now, the
three of them had become friends, united by their shared hatred of the food,
the ship, and the choppy open seas.
“There’s a storm coming. It’s quite intense. I saw it.”
Val’thera said, somewhat worried. She looked up and shouted in Trollish, “There’s a storm coming! Batten down the
hatches!” The trolls above nodded and began strapping things down above the
wheel house. The sails were raised to their full height and the boxy ship
lurched in the sudden gust of wind now carried. The Trollish transport lurched
into the air and crashed down as it crested wave after wave. Vitarilon
stumbled, though caught himself and placed a hand on the weathered wood that
made up the railing. Val’thera did the same and the ship continued. “These
trolls are insane!” Lor’thun called over the roar of the wind and the crash of
the ship as it slapped onto the choppy seas over and over.
Rain began to fall and hard, the skies now a dark and
ominous grey-black. The rain was frigid and hard as it struck them, and the
soldiers on the lower decks began to pool into the lower decks. The ship
groaned as it picked up speed, the sails overhead slapping as the wind ebbed
and flow abruptly. Trolls shouted guttural commands at one another, raising
sails and lowering others. The ship continued on, barrelling through the storm
almost recklessly. “I guess we’re going to fight our way through the storm!”
Val’thera called out.
“Maybe we should-“ Vitarilon was cut off as a Troll shouted
in Orcish: “Pirate ship! Portside!”
Vitarilon cursed, though it was lost in the roar. The three of them looked to
the port side of the ship, and saw a silhouette of a large, sleek ship.
Lor’thun recognised the make; it was a Bloodsail ship, and it was heading right
for them, hammering its way through the waves much more smoothly than their own
bulky Trollish freighter. Val’thera spared no time and ran down the steps,
stumbling as she did so. After a few moments, she returned, followed by a slew
of rangers and magisters, who took positions on the port side of the ship.
Val’thera left the two of them and took up place on the port side of the ship
as well, leaving Vitarilon and Lor’thun feeling woefully useless.
The pirate ship came into view, a Bloodsail flag whipping
viciously in the wind. Two levels of belowdecks were littered with ten evenly
spaced cannons per level. Pirates were taking up post as the ship veered
sharply, its starboard side now facing their own ship, travelling parallel. A
solitary figure appeared in the centre of the deck; Lieutenant Skylance. “Ready
the wards! Slow the cannon fire as much as you can! Rangers! Kill the
cannoneers!” Skylance was a middle aged elf with dull rust coloured hair, and a
set of verdant and brown hunting leathers. Rather unimpressive, he was little
better than a middle level career military man.
Magisters raised their hands, some their staves, and the hum
of magic took the air, slowing the rain to a steady pour as their wards covered
the ship. The sound of shattering wood and magic groaning against physical
force filled the already wind filled air about them as the cannon fire smashed
into the wards they had erected. Three magisters, two near the stern and one at
the bow were thrown into the centre of the undulating ship as their wards
failed, coughing violently and struggling to stand. Their defeat also saw the cacophony
of cannons making their targets. Trollish shouts could be heard below as the
heavy smell of fire joined the feeling of magic around them.
Lieutenant Skylance raised a hand, “Men-at-arms! Knights!
The pirates are preparing to board! Beat them to it!” Lor’thun blinked in
confusion at the absurdity, but anything was better than waiting to die at the
hands of brigands and sell-swords. Nodding to Vitarilon, the two rushed down
the rickedy steps onto the bow of the ship and stopped before the port side of
the ship. Having no readily made means of boarding
a pirate ship, they and twenty of their comrades simply hurled themselves at
the opposing ship, the gap between the two only six feet as the pirates readied
to board.
Lor’thun launched himself off of the Trollish vessel, and
hung in the air for what felt like an eternity, rain slamming into him.
Unsheathing his swords midair, he landed and tumbled onto the pirate ship,
whereon he rolled into a crouch and shouted; “For Quel’Thalas!” He hurled
himself at those closest to him; three pirates armed with scimitars. Blades
whipping through the air, he hurled one at the farthest pirate, the chain affixing
it to his wrist pulling taught as it embedded itself in his face, the sound of
bone shattering and flesh being pierced giving off a sickening crunch and
skewering noise. With one blade stuck in a now falling corpse, he ran toward
it, creating slack in the chain, which he used to wrap around the oncoming
second pirate’s neck, dragging him down to his feet and snapping his neck with
a swift flick of his hands.
However the third took this opportunity of both his hands
being occupied and slashed hard at his right arm, which held his main sword.
Chainmail split and his arm was cut deeply. He cried out in pain, though as he
spun his now gore covered sword at the man’s neck, he was thrown off his feet
by a blue and black blur of leather. Lor’thun allowed himself a quick grin as
he saw Vitarilon land on the man, having hurled himself from on high, and sent
an open palm into the man’s chest, directly over the man’s heart. The pirate
simply slumped back and was dead.
Vitarilon grinned wickedly at Lor’thun and the two continued
on. With an arm bleeding heavily, he favoured his left side as he hacked his
way to the entry to the belowdecks. Vitarilon spun through the air as he landed
a leather booted foot against a pirate armed with a blunderbuss, throwing him
clear off his ship and into the frigid waters below. Lor’thun raised his blades
and spun around the side of the entry, and as he expected, was met by a
cannoneer armed with what appeared to be a stolen longsword. The man was clumsy
and unbalanced as he swung the slender blade, and Lor’thun took the advantage
as the cannoneer left himself open and buried his blades in the man’s throat,
before removing them smoothly and kicking him down the stairs.
Vitarilon sprinted ahead, all but a blur and rounded a corner.
However out of sight, Lor’thun heard the distinctive crunch of a head against
wood planks. Closely followed by a few of his fellow men-at-arms, including Tel’noss
and Varon, the former lady raising a flintlock pistol she had purchased from a
Goblin trader and shot dead a cannoneer where he stood at his post. Varon
unsheathed his bastard sword and swung it smoothly as another cannoneer rushed
him, throwing axe in hand. Varon buried the large blade in the man’s shoulder
and beheaded him smoothly.
Lor’thun’s stomach roiled at the gore, but he ignored it and
pressed on. These pirates had attacked them! They were securing safe passage
and that was what mattered. The fighting pressed on as Vitarilon jumped from
cannon to cannon, kicking off the loading mechanism on each one, rendering it
useless, while Lor’thun and Varon removed the cannoneers from the equation and
Tel’noss provided cover fire with now two pistols, the second of which neither
Lor’thun nor Vitarilon seemed to know where it came from.
Bloodied with muscles trembling with fatigue, blades covered
in blood and gore, Lor’thun stood in a now emptied deck of ruined cannons and
dead men who once manned them. Vitarilon stood next to him, right hand gripping
his left wrist, which was clearly sprained by how gingerly he held it. Varon was
blowing soot out from her pistols and Varon had torn a shirt off a dead cannoneer
to clean his large blade. The four of them exchanged weary, but victorious
grins and smiles, though their victory was interrupted as the sound of a
screeching dragonhawk was heard; it was the signal to withdraw. Following the
screech was the panicked voice of Skylance; “get off their ship! They’ve rigged
it to blow! Get off now!”
Vitarilon blinked and grabbed Lor’thun by the pauldron and
dragged Lor’thun behind himself, and called back to their fellow men-at-arms; “guys!
Get off the damn ship or you’ll die remember the smell of the shit stew!” Varon
and Tel’noss hurried up the stairs behind them, and were quickly followed by
others who had gone to the lowest deck of cannoneers. Arriving on the main deck
of the ship, the four of them saw that the boarding planks had been dropped and
their fellow soldiers were hurrying back onto the Trollish transport. Vitarilon
grinned at the Lor’thun, Varon and Tel’noss; “Almost wanna die here and spare
myself the shit stew…” Regardless, they lept back onto their own ship.
Val’thera greeted them with a shove and push as they got
onto their own ship and subsequently called to the Trolls manning the ship; “We’re
all on! Get us away from that floating bomb now!” At her shout, the Trollish
vessel lurched hard to starboard and the boarding planks fell into the open
sea. The bow’s decking angle steepened further as the sails caught the wind and
pulled the vessel away from the pirate ship. Lor’thun slipped and crashed into
the ground, bloodied greaves failing to keep grip. He felt his person slide
toward the open starboard side of the ship before a firm hand grabbed his own
and he ceased his slide into a watery grave.
Looking up, he saw the panicked
gaze of Vitarilon, whose face was contorted in pain as he held Lor’thun up with
a badly sprained wrist. “Get your grip, man, you’re killing my wrist!” He said
through a clenched jaw. Lor’thun quickly grabbed the railing that lead up to
the wheelhouse and Vitarilon relaxed somewhat. The two exchanged a brief
exchange of embarrassment and relief respectively. However, a deafening
explosion threw the ship into a steeper angle. In the sky above, which was all
they could see now, debris from the now exploded pirate ship rained down on the
open sea. Their own vessel righted itself and the Sin’dorei soldiers of the 31st
regiment fell into a relief filled silence.
~
~
Relatively eventful since the pirates’ attack, the once
intemperate weather had turned from rainy and windy to scorchingly hot and with
still, heavy desert air. Vitarilon was slumped against the wheelhouse, leather
chestguard open, narrow chest gleaming with sweat. Even the ever proper Val’thera
wore her robe loose and opened to just above her bosom, hair damp with sweat.
Lor’thun had completely disregarded his chainmail in favour for loose fitting
grey trousers and burgundy blouse, the latter open to his navel.
Val’thera held a periscope to her right eye, still scanning
for any sign of the Durotar coast, desperate to be out of the cramped company
of so many others. “Gods, can we arrive already? If I have to use the washroom
in a bucket once more, I’m going to dump it on that trollish bucktoothed excuse
of a captain…” She spoke in an exasperated tone, only to have Vitarilon laugh
lazily, and Lor’thun chuckle quietly. “Well that was disgustingly vivid for
such a proper lady like you, Val.” Vitarilon jeered.
“There is nothing proper about shitting in a bucket,
Vitarilon!” Val’thera snapped, though slumped to a seat against the wheelhouse,
collapsing the periscope and returning it to one of her many satchels. Closing
her eyes, she rested there for a long moment before speaking once more. “Skylance
was very impressed by you two, along with Varon and Tel’noss. He says he’s
going to put in a good word with the Captain when we arrive.” Lor’thun blinked,
and he replied curiously, “the captain? The one who’s the Highlord’s son? That
captain?”
Val’thera nodded wearily. “Yes, that one. So you two may be
on your way up. But knowing you, Vitarilon, you’ll be busted down to stable boy
in a few days.” She smirked wryly, evidently merely joking. Tel’noss wandered
out of the wheelhouse and looked at the three of them, slumped about like
sell-swords in a filthy inn.
“Well, you two certainly look the part of layabout soldiers.
That twit of a captain says we should see land any minute now, providing there’s no fog on the horizon.” Tel’noss
spoke passively, eyeing one of her pistols admirably, picking a piece of debris
of the long barrel. Aiming it forward, she squinted, looking through its finely
crafted scope and blinked. “Wait, the hells? Val, give me your periscope.” She
extended her hand, and Val’thera placed the item in question there. Holding the
device to her left eye, Tel’noss lowered it and shouted, “Land ho!” The shout
was followed by the cheering of the soldiers above decks, all scampering to a
stand to see the land that they had both looked forward to and dreaded so
fiercely.
Their ship veered to the port once, and they headed for the
southeastern shore, heading for battle.
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