#dawnspiration

[agonydearest]

What outfit is your female Tav wearing? I love it and don't think I recognize it.

You mean Kateryn in the BG3 post I did?

She's wearing a variant of the Selune Robes that I got from a mod. I'll list that and the dye I used below. Here's a slightly blurry picture of the whole outfit thanks to the Magic Mirror (my laptop is older so screenshots aren't that great)

This is the mod to get the armor. It's called Selune Paladin and there's boots that go with it. I think I used the Death Mage dye that's included but I can't remember for sure. The cape came from the deluxe upgrade pack and was simply dyed light blue.

[hit-record-repeat]

Ashes Beneath the Moon and Sun: Child of Dusk Part 27 Series 1

Rumors churned the city like stormwaters breaking into forgotten cisterns.

“He speaks to ghosts,” someone said.

“He’s not Grigorievich at all,” whispered another. “He’s the Phoenix, returned in flesh.”

“He doesn’t blink,” said a servant, “not when he says your house has no honor left.”

Draeis’s influence spread like moss along forgotten stones—slow, persistent, quietly suffocating. His private guards wore no house sigils, only dark cloaks with a single stitched flame. They spoke no orders aloud. They needed none.

One by one, the oldest noble houses—those untouched even by Quemar’s rage—found themselves summoned, questioned, broken. The court called it a purge.

Draeis called it balance.

But not all bent the knee.

Lord Valthorien, whose family once scribed treaties with kings now buried under Eversong, stood in protest one evening with twelve swordarms at his back.

“You are not my blood,” he said before the court, “and you are not my prince.”

Draeis had stepped forward. No cloak. No weapons. Only his gaze, cold and unflinching.

“You’re right,” he replied. “And that’s why you’ll kneel.”

They found Valthorien the next morning in the garden of broken idols, kneeling in stone. No magic could lift him.

In the shadowed alcove where Talanni once stood, a single figure watched—Grigorievich, cloaked and silent, bearing the weight of a name he never asked to carry. And still, Draeis ruled in his place. Brilliant. Terrible. Just.

“He wears my face better than I ever could,” Grigorievich whispered to himself.

And above them both, the Sunwell pulsed with uneasy light. As if it, too, recognized the lie… and wondered which flame would burn truest in the end.

The wind over the Dawnspire carried a sour scent—rain mingled with incense, the perfume of unease. A raven, blacker than pitch and bearing no sigil, circled thrice above Silvermoon’s spires before vanishing into the low-hanging clouds.

Inside the antechamber of the Ember Throne, Draeis read the names written in red ink. One by one, they vanished—defectors, dissenters, and worse: surviving loyalists of Quemar’s old guard, once thought purged, now regrouping in the shaded halls beneath Farstrider Square. One name remained:

Vaeronth Duskwither.

A name thick with ancient power. Older than the Sunstriders. Older than the war.

A power Draeis could not break alone.

Grigorievich’s boots were scuffed with dust, his cloak marked with salt from the Ghostlands wind. A goblin-built skiff waited beyond the trees, moored on a stream that would carry him all the way to Bilgewater Port. He did not turn as Draeis approached.

“You found me quickly,” Grigorievich said without facing him. “I must be losing my knack.”

“You’re running,” Draeis replied. “Even a shadow leaves tracks.”

Grigorievich chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. He turned then, his face pale from travel, yet resolved.

“I’m leaving, yes. Because I am done with bloodlines and banners. I wore the name long enough. Now you wear it better than I ever could. But you ask too much.”

“I need your help,” Draeis said. “Vaeronth moves in the dark. His faction gains ground in the Council. They call me a usurper. A ghost wrapped in stolen skin.”

“Because you are.” Grigorievich’s tone was not cruel, but factual. “And I let you be. But I didn’t give you the court. I gave you a mask. What you do with it is your burden.”

Draeis stepped closer, the weight of his stolen legacy heavy on his shoulders.

“You don’t understand—if I fall now, all of it unravels. Silvermoon will be handed back to the wolves. The weak will be prey again.”

“Then find another wolf,” Grigorievich said softly. “Or better yet… find someone who’s never tasted blood and teach them how to rule.”

A pause.

“You’re leaving me to this alone?” Draeis asked.

Grigorievich turned back toward the boat.

“You were always alone. I was just the shadow behind the name. My life is not Silvermoon’s. My life begins where no one knows me, where I can be Grigorievich—not a weapon, not a relic.”

He stepped into the boat. The goblin captain grunted.

“Bilgewater Port. No baggage, no name.”

As the boat drifted away, Draeis stood unmoving, the river glinting like a blade beneath the gray sky. He did not call him back.

Because Grigorievich was right.

The throne was no longer his to ask help for.

It was his to defend.

Alone.

The sky over Silvermoon had turned a sickle-sharp grey, heavy with the promise of judgment. The great domes of the Court shimmered in uneasy hues, the magic within them pulsing—erratic, uncertain, as if the city itself held its breath.

Draeis stood alone beneath the stained-glass ceiling of the Echo Chamber, where the eldest laws of the sin’dorei had once been etched into song and crystal. Now, it was where secrets were whispered and masks were polished into permanence.

At the center of the chamber rose the Mirror Throne, forged of suncut glass and woven arcane filigree—a seat no ruler ever truly sat upon, for it was built to reflect, not to support. It was symbolic of the Council’s dominion. And it was cracking.

He had watched it fracture every day since Vaeronth’s name had returned from the depths of exile.

Vaeronth Duskwither—the last highborn of the Duskwither line, an arcanist whose name had once been struck from the records for attempting to bind the ley-lines of Eversong to a blooded oath. They had called it heresy. Now they called it genius. In dark corners, his followers gathered. They wore crimson cuffs and no insignia. They whispered of the "Unburnt Crown." They whispered of Draeis.

A usurper. A pretender. A ghost beneath a borrowed face.

And Draeis had heard enough.

Not a formal summons—no, too dangerous for that. But the invitation was clear. The court’s younger scions, restless and hungry, had gathered for spectacle.

Vaeronth arrived veiled in glamours that flickered with illusory youth, though his bones groaned under golden robes. His staff, carved from obsidian wrapped in bloodvine, clacked sharply with each step.

Draeis waited on the arena floor, hood lowered, tunic stitched with goldleaf threads. He did not draw a blade. His weapon was reputation.

“You have no blood claim,” Vaeronth said, voice echoing unnaturally. “No title. No rite. You bear a ghost’s name and expect us to bow?”

Draeis did not flinch. Instead, he removed a scroll from his belt—sealed with the ancient sigil of the Convocation of Silvermoon.

“I hold the last surviving will of Talanni Sunwhisper. She named her successor. She bled for this throne. You bled for ambition.”

Murmurs ran through the gallery. Some faces turned away. Others narrowed.

“A forged document,” Vaeronth hissed. “A lie wrapped in memory.”

Draeis stepped forward, unfurling the scroll with a crack. His voice rang like bells:

“Let the court know: my line continues not in name, but in choice. Let Silvermoon be ruled not by the flame of heritage, but by the one who carries its burden without burning.”

And then the real blow—Draeis extended his hand, palm open, revealing a shard of the Phoenix Stone: the last piece of the relic destroyed in the Siege of Sunwell Plateau. It pulsed with an old light. And the Court knew.

“She entrusted this to no council. No bloodline. She entrusted it to me.”

Silence reigned.

Until Vaeronth snarled.

“Then let the Phoenix burn us both!”

In a surge of crimson magic, he struck.

And Draeis, ever the forger of steel and story, was ready.

Their duel was not a matter of swords—it was spellfire, willpower, and vision colliding. The arena’s edge warped. The watching nobles shielded their eyes. When the light finally dimmed, Vaeronth lay collapsed, his staff shattered, his glamours peeled away.

And Draeis stood with one hand outstretched, the shard of the Phoenix Stone burning in his palm like judgment incarnate. No one claimed the Mirror Throne that night.

But all who passed through the golden corridor bowed their heads as Draeis walked by.

[daemonya]

Aethoria Kingdom

From the Resistance Chronicler's Hidden Records

GEOGRAPHY & TERRITORIES

NATURAL FEATURES

Coastal plains + rolling hills

Ancient elemental springs

Crystalline formations

Seasonal aurora displays

Floating stone formations

Ley line convergences

Ethereal forests

Hidden resistance caves

Mystical whirlpools

Weather anomaly zones

NOTABLE TERRITORIES

Luminous Vale (magic nexus)

Whispering Coast (smuggler haven)

Shattered Spires (ruined towers)

Phoenix Gate (burnt capital district)

Ember Woods (resistance hideout)

Storm's Eye Isle (naval base)

Forgotten Academy (sealed ruins)

Moonweaver's Path (secret route)

Crimson Quarter (occupation zone)

Shadowmarket (underground city)

SETTLEMENTS

LUMINARK (Capital)

Coastal fortress-city

Occupied palace complex

Hidden resistance tunnels

Element temples (repurposed)

Grand Archive (restricted)

Market District (controlled)

Spymaster's Web (safe houses)

Horde Barracks (former academy)

Smuggler's Harbor

Resistance safehouses

KEY SETTLEMENTS

Ashenport (naval hub)

Elementhaven (magic study)

Dawnspire (resistance base)

Stormwatch (coastal fort)

Mysthaven (refugee camp)

Emberkeep (former library)

Skyreach (airship dock)

Twilight's Rest (memorial)

Resistance Camp Echo

The Hidden Vale (sanctuary)

SOCIETY & GOVERNANCE

DEMOGRAPHICS

Humans (majority)

Elementborn (persecuted)

Sky nomads (displaced)

Resistance cells

Underground scholars

Former nobility

Occupation forces

Refugee communities

POWER DYNAMICS

Puppet government

Resistance council

Hidden noble houses

Element circles

Merchant networks

Occupation command

CURRENT STATE

Martial law

Resource exploitation

Cultural suppression

Underground economy

Resistance movement

Knowledge preservation

Elemental traditions

Secret education

Forbidden magic

Hidden archives

CULTURE & RESISTANCE

VALUES & TRADITIONS

Element worship

Knowledge preservation

Artistic expression

Magical innovation

Cultural preservation

Secret ceremonies

Underground festivals

Coded communication

Hidden libraries

Resistance training

MAGIC SYSTEM

Four element mastery

Combination techniques

Forbidden knowledge

Secret training

Hidden artifacts

Power suppression

Resistance magic

Element detection

Magic camouflage

Emergency protocols

KEY TENSIONS

Collaborator conflicts

Resource control

Magic regulation

Resistance coordination

Cultural preservation

Information control

Supply shortages

Loyalty questions

Power struggles

Liberation plans

ECONOMY

Black markets

Hidden trade routes

Resource exploitation

Magical contraband

Underground crafts

Secret workshops

Resistance funding

Smuggling networks

RESISTANCE

Whispered Circle cells

Ashen Flame mages

Merchant spies

Noble conspirators

Element guardians

Underground scholars

Secret militias

Safe house networks

[yugiohmdx]

The Chronodrake’s Eclipse

Once upon a time, in the enchanted realm of Aeloria, a land where magic flowed like rivers and ancient forests whispered forgotten secrets, there lived a young sorcerer named Elyan. Unlike other sorcerers, Elyan was born under a rare celestial alignment known as the “Lunar Eclipse of the Four Moons,” a phenomenon that had not occurred for a thousand years. This gave him an innate ability to control time itself, a power both wondrous and perilous.

Elyan was raised in the secluded town of Verith, nestled at the foot of the towering Dawnspire Mountains. The townsfolk feared him, for they knew of the prophecy that accompanied his birth: “He who controls time will either mend the world’s fate or unravel it.” Despite this, Elyan grew up with a heart full of curiosity, his only companion a mysterious raven named Kieran who seemed to know more about Elyan’s destiny than he did.

One day, as Elyan was practicing his magic near the ancient Timewood Forest, an ominous figure appeared—a shadowy being known as the Herald of the Void. The Herald told Elyan of a dark force imprisoned in the heart of the world, an ancient entity called the Chronodrake, a dragon that once ruled time itself. The seal that held the Chronodrake was weakening, and soon, it would break free, plunging the world into eternal chaos.

The only way to stop the Chronodrake, the Herald whispered, was for Elyan to use his powers to travel to the past and find the lost Crown of Eternity, a relic said to give its wearer the ability to manipulate time with perfect mastery. But there was a catch: each use of Elyan’s time-bending abilities would bring him closer to losing his humanity, turning him into a cold, emotionless being who only existed in the folds of time.

With no other choice, Elyan embarked on a perilous journey across Aeloria, joined by Kieran and an unlikely ally—a fierce warrior named Lyra, who was the last of the Time Guardians, a secret order sworn to protect the timeline. Together, they would face treacherous landscapes, encounter magical beasts, and unravel the mysteries of Aeloria’s forgotten history.

As Elyan delved deeper into his powers and the truth of his destiny, he began to question whether the Herald of the Void could be trusted. The more he bent time to his will, the more fragmented his memories became, as though the very fabric of reality was shifting around him. Soon, Elyan would have to decide—would he risk becoming the very thing he feared to save the world, or would he allow time to unravel, embracing his own destruction?

The answer lay not just in the past, but in Elyan’s heart, where the true power of time resided.

And so, the young sorcerer journeyed onward, unsure of where the winding paths of fate and time would take him, but determined to rewrite the future, one step at a time.

[dream-reaver-shaman]

Elemental Furies D&D group Oberon, Kaun, Neera, Miki and Ten in front of the Dawnspire.

[bronzblade]

a shift

The breeze was warm as it flitted through the gardens, stirring the leaves on trees hanging overhead the courtyard and on the multitude of plants around her. Alive, vibrant, bright; a change from where she had spent so long in the cold, amidst the dead earth. The flowers were in reach where she laid across the grass, and she tangled her fingers amidst them to feel the petals under her fingertips. Laying on her back, amidst the flowers and herbs and grass, the sky bright and blue overhead - this was right, this was home.

She was supposed to be here.

But she was supposed to be there, too. Amidst the battles and the soldiers, inspiring, keeping people hopeful until the very last. She’d built a pyre for soldiers she didn’t know, she had fought for the Dawnspire twice over - once to fail and once to succeed. Getting caught up in a war had never been part of the plan of saving her. Much less anything that had happened in the Dawnspire.

A long, heavy sigh rolled out of the archer.

Never in her life had she ever considered something like that - considered that going back on your word could be better. Before now, she would have fought for keeping word, honor, everything like that. It was their way, it was what she’d been taught through her training with the other Arrows - and even before. Word is law, promises are meant to be kept, never besmirch that.

She’d never been in a situation like this, though; faced with so much death and pain. She’d thought about the knights and the way their blood spilled in the streets of the Citadel, the innocent refugees she’d seen - hungry and freezing and desperate. She’d thought about what was important to her, and how that would matter if things changed.

There was one thing that the bard cared about: making sure she survived.

If this war went on, she’d never be able to do that.

Curls stirred and flew across her face with the shifting wind, tickling over freckles on her cheeks and nose. Her flowers were gone for now - hair free, of its own accord. Her spider lilies rippled in the breeze, delicate and bright crimson against the softer colors of her garden. It reminded her of -

“Dork, come inside! Lunch’s almost ready!” Tani’s voice rang out across the garden from the door, but her sister was gone again in a few seconds. She’d asked for time to herself in the garden for a while, and so far her family had been accommodating. This was something so large and new to her, sorting through her decisions felt so strange.

The words still rang true with her though. The Alliance has invaded. Starved people, murdered innocents. First aggression did not matter to her. If they would attack, if they would show no mercy, why would they be afforded it?

She idly plucked one of the red spider lilies, turning it over in her fingers - squinting in the mid-day sun where it warmed her cheeks; pinking the skin across the bridge of her nose. How much longer she laid there, she couldn't say - her mind on the battle, the paths laid before her.

“Sunflower,” Eyes stayed on her flowers and the sky above until a head of blonde hair appeared above her. Apparently, long enough to send her mother out for her. “What’s keeping you? Food’s ready.”

Sunflower, Minn'da always called her. Always reaching for the sun even in the darkest of days.

“Sorry, Minn’da. Just thinkin’.” The young elf reached up for her mother's hand when it was offered, hauling herself out of the grass, up from the flowers and dirt and earth. These things were what would return if they won the war.

The sun, the warmth, and the flowers.

Her mother placed a kiss down against her hair as they walked back towards the estate.

Safety.

There was fire in her veins, and she had long used it as a shield to protect her family. Now, she would use it to fight back. No one would touch her family, not those here or then. They would have to go through her, and she would never allow them past.

It was what she would have done.

[caeliri]

Deadwinter

Summerglen was silent in the dismal winter daylight.

Alabaster drifts had consumed the village, swallowing any errant sound that might have manifested in the abandoned town and obscuring the abandoned equipment of the masons and the carpenters who had toiled beneath the unhindered sun just a few short months prior. Now, the bustling streets were barren, buried in drifting dunes of heavy snow, the even, orderly, repaved roads undisturbed.

The village had not reached completion, not with Caeliri’s lofty aims to capitalize on it’s utter decimation. It was morbid, but the destruction of Summerglen allowed them to alter the wild weave of the gradual, organic growth that had birthed the village into something more conducive to continued expansion and quality of life for villagers and visitors both.

With the remnant stones from the ruined homes and businesses, they had begun to reorganize and rebuild - until the Alliance invaded. Still reeling from the damage done by the last invasion of the Dawnspire’s lands, and the monumental losses that Summerglen had suffered in it’s citizens stubborn desire to remain rooted in their homes, Caeliri had not allowed the same mistake. As soon as the Alliance began to press against the eastern coast of the Dawnspire, she’d all but forced her people to the Citadel to wait out the Siege.

She wondered where they were now - had they escaped to Sunhaven when the alliance took the Citadel? Had they scattered to the winds like so many dandelion seeds? Had they found themselves lost in the endless ebb of snow and sleet that the heavens rained upon them, and been consumed in icy dunes much the same as their village had?

Her breath fogged in the air, but the hazy clouds that wafted from her lips could not compete with the blur of hot tears welling on her lash line.

All that she had accomplished lay in ruins once more - this time by her own hand.

Arbiter moved through the steep sloughs unburdened, his hoof-falls even and measured as he plowed through the knee-deep snow. The Deadwood that haloed Summerglen in a ring of ash had been more difficult to traverse, with hidden pits and overturned trees that had made the destrier stumble more than once. They were lucky they had made it through without him snapping an ankle.

As they approached the estate, Caeliri pulled Arbiter to a halt and dismounted; she lost half of her height in the snow, stiffening as it slid down into her boots.

In their haste to leave Hallowhearth, one of the stablehands had left the stall doors open, and though wind had blown a fair dusting of snow into the empty stalls, it was clear enough to lead Arbiter inside and put him up where the wind could not bite at his haunches and where his own body heat - and a horse blanket pulled down from the upper echelons of the half-attic above the stable - would keep him through the night. If she could have made it to Summerglen on foot, she might have left him in the citadel.

The cherry wood doors of Hallowhearth had been locked upon her leaving - Lyla must have been responsible, for Caeliri would have never betrayed the self-scribed adage of her House - to dissuade looters, and it seemed they had held firm in her absence. With a twist of her gilded key and the wealth of her weight pressed up against the rightmost door, the frozen hinges stubbornly gave way and allowed her enough space to slip in between the two carved goliaths. Within, Hallowhearth was freezing, the stone floors like ice beneath her boots, the thin, stained glass windows doing nothing to keep out the cold. Accompanied by the clack of her own footfalls, Caeliri made her way into the Great Hearth - Hallowhearth’s living room - and set herself down before the vast, empty fireplace.

It was an ashy abyss.

Still, it held her rapt, and hours came, and hours went, and no matter how hard or long she stared at the jagged spikes of charcoal jutting from the ash-licked rack, her frustration could not ignite their blade-like edges.

“Thank the Light, you’re actually here.”

Reflexively her hand fell on the crystalline blade that sat sheathed beside her, gloved fingers tensing over Anar’alah’s hilt until the voice registered.

Liadove stamped his feet at the threshold of the Great Hearth, sending spheres of tightly packed snow skittering across the floor like pale spiders fleeing from a giant. His clothes hung loosely off his frame, layered and vast in an attempt to hold his body heat, and as he moved into the estate’s vast living room his gait was stiff and restricted.

She released Anar’alah before he could round the couch and see, fingers slowly peeling away from the blessed blade that Telchis had gifted her upon her ascension to her station.

Caeliri had never truly seen the need for a personal guard, not in the first days of her knighthood, not now that she was, undoubtedly, a prime target for the Phoenix Guard’s unyielding suspicion, yet through her denials of his aid Liadove Winterthorn had remained steadfast in his duty.

He was not someone to fear.

“I had a feeling -- didn’t want to be riding all over the countryside in this weather though.”

“Not many other places to go.”

“You could have left Quel’thalas all together.”

That made Caeliri snort. They both knew that she would never; running from the repercussions of her actions was not something she did. “On what ships? They’ve all been conscripted by this point. For once, I think my penchant for being familiar and well-known would be a great disadvantage.”

Exhaling, Liadove looked at the empty hearth, brow creasing deeply at the dead space.

“You could have gone to Alah’danil.”

The familiar name made Caeliri flinch - she was trying hard not to think of the coastal paradise that was a second home to her, trying to quell the keening grief at the sudden, violent death of the future she was meant to build there with Lord Dawnstrider.

“Veloestian has no part in this - I would not make him suffer for my choices.”

“He will suffer all the same,” Liadove countered, “if you are deemed a traitor to the state.”

Her.

A traitor.

Anger ignited in her veins, a vicious, screaming heat that burst free from her breast and coursed through her body. At her sides, her fingers balled until her knuckles went white as the snows that enfolded them, and she spoke, her voice low and even and lacking it’s usual melodic ring.

“Do you know why we are even bound up in this moronic war?”

“Because the Alliance invaded our country.”

“No,” her voice static and stony, she continued, “It is because Sylvanas invaded Darkshore. Sylvanas began open aggressions against the Alliance unbidden, for whatever mad purpose drives her. She ordered the Horde to invade the homeland of the Kal’dorei, she ordered the Horde to set their capital ablaze, to murder their men and women and children without scrutiny, to snuff out the lives of innocents, should it further their progress towards their ultimate goal. Sound familiar?”

Liadove’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Whether we like it or not, we began aggressions against the Alliance first; the Horde struck the first blow, and it was an unholy, deplorable blow. We burned the Kal’dorei’s home to ash for the simple sake of conquest. The Alliance have every right to the rage that fuels their march across our country.”

“How can you say that?” Fury rippled through Liadove’s voice, a rare and poignant flare that made Caeliri’s ears swivel. “You, of all people - you would blame the people of Quel’thalas, the people who are boiling their boots to feed their families, who are being found frozen and blue by cold, empty hearths in their own homes?”

“The common folk of Quel’thalas have done nothing to deserve this,” Caeliri interjected, “they do not lend their aid to wars, they do not involve themselves in the politics of the ruling class. But Quel’thalas, as a nation, is not blameless.”

Hackles still high, Liadove grit his teeth and forced out, “What do you mean?”

“When the Alliance invaded the Undercity, the Archon knew they would come for us next - he said as much to me many months before they made landfall. He anticipated the coming devastation - we are the last foothold of the Horde on the Eastern Kingdom. It does not take a military mastermind to determine they would come for us in time.

And what did Lor’themar do?

Nothing.

What did the Archon do?

Nothing.

Ah, wait, no!” For a moment, Caeliri’s voice crested high and saccharine, a mockery of her common candor, ”Silly me, there was something - we placed a gag order on anyone who dared to speak against her, threatened anyone who would think to question her judgement or her reasoning or the validity of murdering thousands of innocents to further whatever veiled gains she sought to make.”

Her tone came crashing back down again, but her words had lost their measured pace, favoring a furious fervor that caused words to bleed together and her volume and cadence to pitch wildly, “We could have decried Sylvanas’ genocide, distanced ourselves from her decision, assured the world we did not stand behind her actions, and we did not. We remained silent, complicit--

“--For our own safety--”

“-- so that makes it just?” Caeliri stared at Liadove, and for the first time her question was not rhetorical. “It is the same argument I made, to myself, to others, over and over again. We held our tongues for our own safety, and what has that accomplished? Quel’thalas is paying the ultimate price - for someone else’s mistakes. Worse yet, rather than work to remedy such, the commanders of Quel’thalas’ armies have opted to further the animosity between us, to give the Alliance all the more reason to strike back harder and with greater vengeance, to draw blood for generations to come. Novastorm and Silverbrooke claim they act in the interest of their children, but their short-sighted vengeance fails to comprehend that the children of every Alliance soldier they slay will grow with hatred in their hearts, and one day return to kill their children in turn. It’s a cycle, and endless fucking cycle, of hate, of hurt, of violence, of revenge, and it does not stop until someone makes it stop.”

“And you’re going to make it stop,” there was and edge of mockery to his voice that made Caeliri’s nostrils flare.

“No. I’m not an idiot, regardless of what people may wish to think of me. I know I can not stem the tide of violence alone - I’m not a fucking martyr, or some kind of savior. I am a girl who has grown up against the backdrop of war, who has grown tired of the endless cycle of vengeance and death and it’s defendants. I will not be a part of it, not anymore. I will not remain complicit, I will not be made silent. If they wish to vilify me, to call me a fool, to imply I am a coward for standing steadfast upon my principles, let them. I have grown weary of wasting breath to try and sway the hearts and minds of those who were set on violence from the start, and of bending myself to validate every vile action of those around me. I have had enough, Liadove.”

“You would break your oath, then? Sully your own honor?”

A sharp, jarring laugh crested from Caeliri’s lips, and the unhinged melody made Liadove’s body erupt in vast mountain ranges of gooseflesh.

“The Oath-” her composure regained, Caeliri lifted a hand to wipe a welling of tears from her left eye, and if it was unclear if they was laughter-born or honest grief, “do you know what the Sunguard’s oath even is?”

Silence.

“By the light of the sun, for the glory of Quel'Thalas, I vow my life, word, and honor, to uphold the laws of my nation and the code of the Sunguard.   I promise to defend the weak from oppression and protect my kin from foes both foreign and domestic. I will conduct myself with compassion, valor and truth at all times. These duties I take up willingly, in the name of Silvermoon and the Sin'dorei.”

“Aren’t you acting in direct violation of your oath?”

“Aren’t they? Where is the compassion in their actions, the valor, the truth? We can’t choose which parts of the oath to adhere to, and which to discard, else the whole of it is meaningless.”

“But your life will be forfeit if you betray your oath,” now there was anger and desperation both bleeding into his voice, growing ever more fervent with his volume. “What of Summerglen? What of all the plans you have put in motion?”

Caeliri’s eyes shot away, “Summerglen can find a new steward - I’m hardly irreplaceable. You may be lucky enough to have someone with greater experience appointed to the station in my absence.”

Now, Liadove was shouting, his voice echoing through the empty halls of Hallowhearth like thunder, “What of Lord Dawnstrider,--”

“Don’t.”

 “--and your plans to start a family? You would abandon him for the sake of your principles?”

“DON’T.”

“You would let yourself be taken from Firestorm, after all that he as lost as well?”

His words struck her heart, a series of blows fatal to the flames that had been stoked in her breast, and Caeliri began to deflate, her slight form caving in on itself beneath the weight of her own choices, and the ripple of hurt she had cast out into the cosmos. Her jaw, set in stone seconds before, began to quiver violently.

When she spoke again, she was cowed and quiet, words barely above a whisper, “It would be selfish to invalidate the just for my own self-gain--”

“Bullshit!” Liadove slapped a hand on the arm of the couch, “Is your sense of self-worth really so fundamentally damaged that you would not allow yourself the future you have earned?”

Caeliri flinched.

“I can not stand here and denounce those who act without honor or compassion, and then proceed to do the same--”

“You’re being stubborn. These ideals you are so desperate to cling to are a farce! By your own account, even the Archon, a man you idolize, is vulnerable to abandoning his principles when it suits him. Everyone will if the opposite outcome is advantageous to them! I do not want to see you executed or sentenced to incarceration for the rest of your life because you will yield on this ideal! Ideals are not reality--”

“--nor will they ever be, if we do not actively act towards upholding them. They are not reality, but they are the pinnacle we wish to strive for, and they are pointless if we do not struggle. They are not meant to be easy to act upon--”

“Fuck the philosophy, Caeliri, that’s not the point.”

“Then what the FUCK is?” She leapt to her feet, arms cast wide, bloodless fingers splayed to beseech the air around them, and the reborn anger in her voice was only strengthened by the hot tears that rushed down her cheeks. “What is the point in having morals if you do not uphold them when they are tested? What is the point in striving to survive if you only feed into an endless cycle of misery and hatred? What is the point in saving Quel’thalas today if it will be destroyed tomorrow by the mistakes we have made? What. Is. The. Point?”

“The point is I don’t want you to go to prison!” Liadove slammed his hand down on the couch again, this time hard enough send the whole thing scooting towards him, the sound of wood on marble ugly and loud. 

“The point is, you made promises, to Veloestian, to Vaelrin, to your friends, to your family, and you will break them all in one fel swoop if you break your Oath! The point is, we need you when the war is done, to do what the others will not - do you think they will give a moment’s pause once they are given their accolades to aid those still left suffering? From all that you had said of them, they will, all of them, ride off to their estates or to their places of comfort and assure their lives are stable and good and happy and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces of a country in ruins!”

“The point is, you are my friend, and I do not want to see your life ruined because of a fantasy you refuse to relent on. Caeliri, you deserve the happiness you sought for yourself, and you will ruin everything you have worked to accomplish if you continue on this path.”

Now, the room was filled with nothing but their labored breaths, their points exhausted even if their anguish was not. There was nothing more to say, not without folding back on their own words, without chasing each other ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round until one or both of them grew weary of words.

Silence and their slowing breathing reigned between them for several painful, pregnant moments, moments where their eyes were unwavering from one another’s.

“Why did you come here, Liadove?”

He rolled his shoulders - once, twice, thrice - and cracked his neck to release the tension that had built through his upper torso. “Originally, I came to tell you that the other Kin’tari have abandoned their posts. They have disavowed themselves of the Sunguard, and of Lord Truefeather, it seems, and set out across the countryside to serve the common folk, and aid in dissuading and dispersing the bandits emboldened by Morningstar’s offer of clemency.”

Victory roared through Caeliri’s sea-green eyes, and a smile began to creep up her face at the latent validation in Liadove’s news, but he continued, “and to tell you that the Archon calls for you.”

That killed the smile blooming on her features. “What?”

“He has put out a public statement denouncing your actions in the battle for the Dawnspire, and summoned you to appear before him before weeks end.”

Any glimmer of satisfaction that had been worming its way into her features drained away then, and she gawked, jaw slack and eyes wide.

“If you do not go…” He didn’t need to tell her. It was the fate she had already assumed would befall her. “Caeliri, I beg of you -- return to the Archon, bite your tongue, accept his judgement. You may yet walk away from this with your future in tact.” His plea was met with silence, and he slammed his hand again on the plush surface of the couch, the sound dull but loud. “Are you listening to me?!”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Liadove’s desperation ebbed towards anger again. “You said yourself that you can not make this right. It is beyond you. It is beyond any one person to turn the hearts and minds of mortals for more than a fraction of a moment, and even then…” He let his hands fall away from the couch at last, palms stinging slightly from the intensity of his repeated strikes. ”You can not undo what has been done, and you can not atone for the sins of others. Don’t ruin your life to try and teach the world a lesson - you are the only one who will suffer for that.”

Liadove turned on his heel, the move graceless and awkward and stiff, and headed for the door, a miasma of fear and frustration propagating in his wake.

Outside, the pale dunes were disturbed by burst of wind that sent a mournful moan through the village, scattering the snow like so many motes of ash against a grey and gloomy sky. Arbiter brayed in his stable, the sound a muted, distant call of distress, and then Summerglen was silent once more.

brief mentions; @thenaaru, @quelfabulous, @felthier

@thesunguardmg

[myopicstudios]

FACTIONS: RUNECUTTERS

The workshops of the Evergreen were magical and storied places where Master Runecutters shaped the most exquisite and complicated magics. Learn more about Runecutters in today's Factions update!

FACTIONS: RUNECUTTERS The Creation Game I hate component magic. By design, spellcraft is not science. Yet somehow, most settings present it as an alternate, often competing school of thought. It’s infuriating. Magic is magic. It shouldn’t need midichlorians or eye of newt to run properly. But, as soon as you remove the components, people start asking where magic comes from. That’s fair. Arcane…

[felthier]

Moving to break the siege of Sundial Anchorage, the Sunguard positioned itself to liberate the city entirely. Holding onto the streets bitterly, the Legion attempted to bleed the city as much as possible, knowing the beleaguered elves could do little replace the soldiers that died in the mayhem. Ultimately, the Sunguard was able to sever the tethers the Legion had over the city itself and allowed relief forces to land in the Dawnspire. 

This was an awesome return to events after a short hiatus! This map was perhaps one of the most detailed and challenging ones I have ever vreated and it was a blast to have nearly 30 players enjoy it with me! Awesome event!

[agonydearest]

I've got a BG3 obsession now so let me introduce you to my band of weirdos:

Velkan Vernistel - the noble Paladin of Vengeance

Jaxson "Jack" Vernistel - a mercenary / thief (and Velkan's brother)

Kateryn Dawnspire - the Eldritch Knight

Lorsen Shyr - an elven ranger and bard

Damakos Arkill - the Dark Urge sorcerer

Koryel Olonrae - a half-drow warlock with an Archfey patron

And everyone's Guardian, the wood-elf druid Talitha Lockheart

Most of the armor seen here comes from this mod.

Koryel's hair came from here.

[curiouslich]

Aftermath: The Weak Die

The front being held by the Phoenix Guard was a bloody mess to be put lightly. A felscape hell of retreat and terror. The Legion crashed in with their demons before proper defenses could be established. Cleaving through the ranks all they could do was fall back with each demonic advance.

Zanarian’s Green eyes darted over the field. As their front line crumbled the Crushers moved on clearing room for their war machines. Praetorians and Faithbreakers took command of the assault shouting out orders and delighting in the havoc.

“Those shields won’t last much longer, they are going to charge up this hill, and if they don’t that cannon fire will” Running his hand over his face he shook his head. Against his better judgement he had stayed back to defend the healers. Two of his favored among the cabal and a contingent of Light users.

“Enough of this, If someone doesn’t help they’ll be over run. I am not waiting for them to upon us. I think it’s time for a snack.” Sliding off the rock he was perched on he walked over to Mara. A warm smile on his face. “The price is paid my Seer, so long as your heart beats I will keep going.” Leaning down he slid his thumb over her ear before giving her a kiss. First her lips then her forehead. Moving on he marched over the other illidari.

Claws wrapping around the back of Vilesun’s neck Zanarian knit his fingers into his friends hair. Holding his forehead against the ink binder he nodded. Felseared eyes boring into the other man. “Whatever happens, you know my orders.”

“I won’t disappoint Overseer.”

Releasing the man Zanarain nodded a second time. “See that you don’t, when this over gather who you can, we’ll have a party like we’ve never seen.” The joke never seemed to let him down and he smiled at his humour.

Turning to the field he charged down the hill his foot fall became heavy. Each step wider, each landing with more force. Blackened scales spread across his arms as spikes began to reach out from under his armor. By the time he slammed into the first demon he had finished the transformation.

Biting into his first target his draconic jaw clamped down hard on the fel lord. Closing on its neck he wrenched the flesh from the demon and with a spray of blood they hit the ground. Where one now struggled to breath the other was looking for his next meal.

In a battle he never had to wait long. The infernal let out a shriek as the construct greeted him. The lumbering machines were slow. Zanarian had more than enough time to dodge its ‘arm’ and capitalize on the strike. Claws aimed forward he pierced its vulnerable spot. The armor was weak below the chest. It was all too easy to grab onto its core. Pulling back he dislodged the molten center of the beast. With a second shriek it came undone and fell to pieces on the ground. He always liked the taste of Infernal, and with a delightful crunch he devoured the treat.

With the way open his real target was in sight. The Fel Cannons. Each war machine was pointed at a different location. Some near the healers, some at the front, and another at the casters.

The battalion of magi rained spells of all schools on the demons. This of course gathered their ire and as the cannons all changed to put an end to that threat.

With the force of the freshly consumed infernal Zanarian crashed into one of the cannons shattering it in his wrath. Tail flinging out he choked the operator before throwing him like a rag doll at the second cannon. He lived for this, and lept at the next one. In the midst of his wholesale slaughter he barely noticed the darkening of the sky, but the searing smell of fel-ionized air was a give away.

In a battle against the forces of the Legion the unexpected had to be prepared for, and when Baal’s forces marched on the Dawnspire there would be no difference. What was the point of a stable front line when facing aerial superiority.

The cry to look above rang out almost too late. In a rain of fire the green meteors shattered the clouds  With a cataclysmic slam the sphere of stone and fel crashed into the ground. The final moments were here and Baal’s elite guard had arrived. Just as soon as the craft had obliterated the earth beneath it the behemoth inside surged outwards. Double edged spear swinging in wild arcs melting away the lines of casters.

Runes on the monster’s glave shimmered as he sent frost, flames, and lightning back at their casters. Sweeping the spells from the sky he advanced further into their back line.

Giving off a deeply satisfied roar the demon pierced another magi. Hefting their body up on the tip of his halberd he smiled as the weakened mage squirmed. “Your magic won't save you now wurm.” Plated hands clamping down on his target he dragged him forward on the spear until the reddened spike erupted from his back. “Pathetic”

Tossing the corpse aside the Praetorian was only able to react just quick enough. Slicing through a bolt of frozen fel flame he turned on his next targets. A pair of Suncasters one with hair like flowing honey, the other a raven’s quill. “Is that the best the Dawnspire can muster!” To end the sentence he sliced the second volley. Clearly the Dawnwards weren’t keen on talking. Eager to meet the Felravens the demon lept at them.

Glave held high in the air he was on them in an instant. With a cackling howl the Praetorian slashed at the pair. His spear stopped short and he was furious that instead of a clean cut and tattered cloth his blow was halted.

It wasn’t in Zanarian’s nature to protect people. There were only two types of people, the strong and the weak. If you couldn’t protect yourself you were weak, if you were weak you died…

At least that's what he always told himself, but he broke that rule often. Curling his arm he did the best he could to met the slash with his shoulder. Metal met demonic armor with a loud ring.

Dirt ground up over his feet as Zanarian was punished back with the blow. The sound of cracking scales filled the air followed by a wet thud the Praetorian was stopped in his tracks.

Blood flooding his mouth Zanarian coughed up the red fluid. His trio if eyes fell down on the fel steal of the spear.

It was strange to see a weapon sticking out of your stomach. The blazing hot sensation of split skin, the piercing ache of cracked bones, and the sense of what felt like frozen metal drinking in your blood. Though, to his surprise it didn’t hurt. Stumbling in shock Zanarian struggled to keep standing.

The Praetorian recovered far more quickly and went to free his blade from the lizard that clung to it. With a grunt he yanked his hand back, but to his dismay the Illidari insect refused to let go.

Biting down on his inner jaw Zanarian dug his feet further into the dirt. Wrapping his tail around the Praetorian’s arm his white knuckles held fast to the blade. Blood flowing from his mouth he gave a toothy smile. “The~ fuck you think your going~”

Dragging the spear deeper into his gut he knew the plan already. The taste of frozen air was one he had become well acquainted with, even missed it. As the ice began to race along the blade's edge it froze his tail in place around the Praetorian’s arm. The thought that neither would escape what came next was his only solace.

The worst of the ice didn’t touch him. Lovete’s magic merely helped to cement them in place. She was always kind to him, but for the praetorian there was a more sinister result of the freezing. His armor, his flesh, and no doubt his blood all ran cold.

From his dealings with her Zanarian knew that Melanei wasn’t exactly one for mercy… or restraint. With a score to settle with them both the heat of fel was only inevitable.  

Sure enough the air began to crack as it was suddenly sparked ablaze.The bright green was a welcome sign, maybe she would calm down after venting this out.

An Inferno that could probably rival the core of Argus met the iced surface of an instant glacier. The result was a shattering blast that shredded the pair caught in the attack. Thrown to the ground in the violent reaction Zanarian had no idea what happened to his rival demon. No doubt he was in worse shape. As his armor was replaced with burnt skin he would have laughed at the situation if he could manage anything but ragged breaths. Darkness creeping into the edges of his vision his charred head slid to his left. Where he expected to see his arm he found the singed look of what appeared to be his legs.

Before the black took him he pursed his dry lips. “Fffff….”

….if you were weak you died…

@stormandozone @captainswingbeard @sakialyn @jessipalooza

[artsyarcane]

In a DnD session we had a while back, you mentioned that Erasmus had 1 or 2 swords/blades that (I think) had magical properties. Can you tell me more about them and how he got them?

He has 2 swords. Dawnspire (his main weapon) is a +2 rapier (logistically it’s actually a longsword but let’s stick with rapier for simplicity) that does an extra 1d8 radiant damage to undead and is capable of emitting sunlight out to a radius of up to 30ft. It’s basically a sun blade.

His offhand weapon is a silver shortsword. Other than the silver, it has no special properties.

As for how he obtained them, he woke from his resurrection to see that they were lain neatly beside him. He has no idea where they came from. Dawnspire actually became enchanted during his time in Barovia. It was just a unique looking sword before that.

[vigilantezra]

Chapter One: The Song of The City

Who woulda guessed that taking a job as a janitor for Poseidon Industries would end up with me stuck smack-dab in the center of a mafia war between three ancient gods, fighting a spider-themed bounty hunter, and asking a gun for advice.

Alright, listen up, 'cause we got a labyrinthine twisted task of a tale to tell, and if you don't keep up, ya might get lost. First, to understand how this all goes down, you've got to know a little bit about the world we're talking about.

The world was once full of magic and wonder. Breathtaking dream-like landscapes rolled across the realm and mystical creatures soared through the sky. Blazing their way through this primal world of gods and monsters, there were heroes. The chosen few that could lead the way, cut through the darkness, and give their people hope. But as time passed, humanity did learn to tame this untamable earth. Slowly, but surely, heroes became legends, and legends became only myth. Civilizations discovered science, industry, technology, and the past eroded under the rushing current of the future. We built, and forgot.

It's a sunny Saturday afternoon in Sigil City. Thin, white clouds are stretched like cotton across the sky, split only by the Dawnspires, a union of interconnected, elegant, golden skyscrapers that twirl upwards towards the heavens. The sun beats down on the streets of the city, which are overflowing with thousands of people, all pushing against the tide of the foot traffic. A woman in the crowd reaches towards her purse, and her phone gently floats out into her hand as she takes a call. A delivery biker passes by towering bronze buildings and archways, as well as some glowing runes on a decrepit wall before cycling up a hill, past a rounded skyscraper of steel and glass parting a group of pigeons.

The sounds of construction, car horns, and music thrum together into a symphony that reverberates through the streets into the deeper layers of this megalopolis. We follow this sound through traffic, weaving around citizens, past the storefronts, and into a tucked away, gray cobblestone alleyway. We move through a gap in the lose stones, and as the sounds of the city become muddier and fade away, we see in the darkness a sickly green light, faintly illuminating the inside of an ancient tomb. A hand reaches out, and grabs the light, plunging the room into darkness.

Suddenly, the lights flash on and all that can be heard is the sound of a low, humming fluorescent light. Below it, the interior of the janitor's closet at Poseidon Stadium. I grab my mop, and begrudgingly walk out. I'm immediately met with the stench of cigarette smoke. Standing adjacent to the closet is a barrel-chested man with a bushy mustache and a pair of permanently furrowed eyebrows, accompanied by wiry, charcoal-colored hair and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He claps his hands, then speaks.

"Hurry it up, rookie. We gotta get the stadium clean before tomorrow's show, and I don't think you wanna piss off an Olympian."

"Yeah, yeah", I groan. We start walking down the hallway, a light at the end marking the double doors that lead out into the spectator area of the stadium. As we walk out, we're greeted with the heat of the sun. I look down. We've got a lot of work to do.

"Let's get to it, then", I say, as I walk down the stairs to complete yet another day in the wonderous life of a janitor.

[END]

[dawnspiration-blog]

Teach your Children, to Follow their Joy

Oh. Did someone call for a Lois Lane/Hot-For-Teacher over here? The script for this series certainly does. Today’s work entails me being a sassy stenographer named Macy.

And, as I slid on her glasses, I recalled how much I loved playing dress up as a child. How much I STILL love dressing up. And, how deliciously lucky I am to be able to do it almost daily in a variety of incarnations.

Parents, trust where your children’s joy lies. That’s the joy they will drive from - and, thrive on - for the rest of their lives. Even if it’s not where you find your joy. Or, if it makes you nervous... Or, if it makes you uncomfortable... Or, if it even scares you to death... You can’t change a person’s joy reservoir. So, take notice of what river they go to draw from. Help them fill it up as much as you can when they are young. And, then teach them to seek it when they need it most. That’s where their joy will be found long after their youth is gone.

#Dawnspiration

[thepilgrimofwar]

Liminal

[Follow up to: The Door for Him Backstory for Context: The Curious Case of Apartment 547 Musical Embellishment: Go Tomorrow]

1.

Two and a half years. Two and a half, long, bloody years. Through war, famine, and the chaos that proceeded in their aftermath, Zharia had looked for her father. The Sunguard had said that he was deserter--that the final lead they had of his whereabouts was the ship that had smuggled him out of Quel’thalas at the very height of the Phoenix Wars.

But she knew Arrenir better than that. Her father did not run. When backed into a corner with nothing to lose, he’d have thrown himself into the fire over and over again until he or his enemies were dead. He must have taken that ship for a good reason, she just needed to figure out why.

For two and a half years, she had searched. Now, at last, her leads had finally brought her to Apartment 547.

Technically no one owned it anymore. All three co-owners were dead or presumed dead. Even so, getting the keys from the City Council of Dalaran was no issue, seeing that she was a blood relative to one of them. But when she slotted the key into the front door, she realized that it had not been locked.

Zharia swallowed hard, both excited and afraid of what she might find here. She prayed, Light upon Light, she prayed that she would not find her father’s corpse upstairs. Not after everything they had been through together, not after she had brought him back, and not after almost losing him to misery during The Fall. 

But Apartment 547 seemed normal. A layer of dust had taken residence upon the sheet covered furniture. The pots that Lirelle had left in their conservatory had become soil beds for new life. The kitchen and dining table, where there had been so much laughter and joy in the past, stood still with a contented silence. There was no death to be found here. No blackened stains of old blood, no smells of rot.

Zharia made her way up the stairs as rays of sunlight pierced the frosted windows of the apartment. It highlighted the dust that she was disturbing, coiling and floating upwards as she slid her palms over the guard rails. She had never visited personally but from the way Arrenir used to laugh at the time, she knew that the best years of his life were spent here. The rooms on the second floor were empty, save for the smell of sunbaked linen. Excitement had begun to fade as the fear that this was yet another pointless lead filled her heart.

But her fear quickly turned to dread when she made it to the top floor and saw the door at the end of the hallway. It was ajar.

No you fool. No, no, no.

Arrenir had told her about the doors long ago. He had wanted to get her opinion on their nature, seeing that she was a woman of logic and reason. Zharia had told him that they were the workings of a man who could not let go of a past--much like he used to be. She had warned him to be careful with them, lest they tempt him with their empty promises.

She was immune to the alluring claims that they could take you back in time, because unlike many others--often the ones who were time obsessed--she was not as naive. Zharia knew that in order to get where she was today, many things needed to have fallen in place exactly as they did. 

Even so, she could not deny that the thought of going back and fixing past mistakes was attractive, but the idea also opened up the possibility of so many other things going wrong. So in the end, she was glad to leave the past behind. It meant that the mistakes she could have made could no longer touch her. It was as Arrenir had told her, once upon a time, ‘that to fix one’s mistakes, it needed to be done in the present, not within the reach of the past.’

The man who had left the door ajar, the door at the end of the hallway, was not the man who she thought her father was. The Arrenir she knew would have never run--not from war--never from life. In a way, this revelation was so much worse than finding his body. It was suicide, only of a different kind.

Zharia stormed towards the door and pushed it wide open. The walls of the hallway seemed to narrow around her, but she ignored it. Dead, alive or something in between, she was not going to let the apartment stop her from tracking down her father.

As if sensing her intent and picking up on her desires, the hallway beyond the door warped and changed. Space seemed to compress until there was but a singular door for her. One that looked exactly as the one that had been left ajar.

“Much obliged,” she muttered as she opened it up to a hallway that led back into Apartment 547. Another Apartment 547.

2.

Everything was wrong. Because everything was right.

She could tell by hopeful chatter in Silvermoon’s streets, and by the way that eternal spring clung to the air of Eversong woods. It was as if the winter, born from the Phoenix Wars, had been nothing more fleeting nuisance instead of the catastrophe her people had suffered. Heading to the Dawnspire, Zharia passed Goldsea where its fields remained unblemished by the ravages of war, and through Autumnvale whose residents had raised a monument to the heroes who had so courageously given their lives for it.

As she gazed upon the alabaster towers of the Dawnspire Citadel, it was clear that the years had been kind to the Sunguard, this Sunguard. Here, following the war, they seemed to have the gratitude of the entire Thalassian nation in their debt. Here, they had been the Honor Guard of a new era of peace. But as abundant as it had been for the guild, the talk of passersby made it clear that it wasn’t nearly as bountiful as it had been for its leader, who apparently was expecting his third child in two years.

The old Guard had retired. Zharia gathered that from the bored receptionist who had been staring at the gates that were never breached, in the courtyard that had never seen blood. According to the girl that manned her uneventful station, the officers had all stepped away for a new generation of leaders. Officers Shadowsunder and Stormsummer had married and now looked to mend the House of Sunders of Shimmervale. The Sunfires had turned their duties to their children once more. Sunshard received a lordly commission of her own: a fleet from the crown itself. And as for Firestorm, the old man had finally settled to administer his realm of Shallowbrook. 

When it finally came to the topic of her father, after much gossipping, the receptionist was all too happy to inform her that he had too settled away from the Guard. Marrying one Lirelle Dawnbrook.

3.

Zharia paused at a lovingly crafted door to a cottage by the sea. A part of her didn’t want to knock. It would be so easy to turn around now, head back through the door at the end of the hallway and consider her father dead. But she needed to know if it was him. Really him. The man she had sought for so long.

Is where you went, you old fool?

The door swung open, revealing a war-scarred man with tied crimson hair. “Oh, Zharia? I didn’t realize you were visiting your father today,” he said with a smile.

“Sederis?” Zharia cocked her head involuntarily.

“We’re having a little reunion dinner tonight, but I suppose it wouldn’t be too much trouble if you joined us,” Sederis said, looking back into the cottage where a woman toiled away in the kitchen. “Right dear?”

“We’ll have more than enough food for her if you just leave her some!” she replied with a laugh before joining Sederis at the door. The woman wrapped an arm around her husband’s growing waistline and extended the other to shake Zharia’s hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met dear,” she said. “Ny Dawnbrook, Lirelle’s sister.”

Zharia stood still for a moment, stunned by the sight of the man who had long been dead. She hadn’t known him personally but Arrenir had spoken fondly of him, once upon a time. “Zharia,” she croaked, before shaking the offered hand. “Arrenir’s daughter.”

“Well come in,” Sederis said, welcoming her inside her father’s cottage. “He’s at the beach with Lirelle, probably catching crabs or some other nonsense!” The crimson haired man chuckled. Zharia had never seen him so happy. The times she had seen him in her own time, Sederis had always seemed to carry a weight about him. A burden that he no longer carried in either world.

She made her way inside as the couple returned to the kitchen, aiming to fill the house with the aromatic smells of roast meat and baked garlic before the sun set. It was a quaint place, with exotic plants around every corner, each of them flanked by display cases filled with beetles and bugs. 

You never put anything you loved on display. You never wore anything on your sleeve. Why now? Why here?

Her thoughts were cut short when she reached the back door to the cottage, one that opened up to a pristine beach. There, amongst white sands and gentle waves, she saw him. Arrenir Silversun, treading lightly upon rocky tidepools and pointing things out for Lirelle who followed in his wake.

He waved at her.

She waved back.

4.

“Your father will be along shortly,” said Lirelle as she arrived back at the cottage, thrusting her thumb behind her. “He got caught up wrestling a mudskipper for an aquatic crustacean he wanted.”

“Hasn’t changed a bit,” Zharia replied. “How are things?”

“Things are good, The Crows are having a well deserved break after putting down a rebellion against Lord Dumbass’ vassals over there.” Lirelle gestured in Sederis’ general direction before adding, “I told you so!”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Sederis waved her off like a bad smell as he continued grilling dinner.

Zharia shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve...I’ve been away. Expedition overseas. A rebellion?”

Lirelle sighed as she leaned against the doorway. “You met my sister? I assume she failed to mention that she’s next in line to Dawnveil after my father eventually croaks it. Anyway, the only way she’d marry was matrilineally, and Sederis decided that he wanted to marry her.”

Sederis cleared his throat, carrying two skewers of meat in each hand. “Long story short. A few nobles got uppity because the Emberglades could end up with the Dawnbrooks in a generation. So we crushed them. End of story.” The Lord of the Emberglades leaned in to kiss his wife who batted him away, already preoccupied with a pan of paella. Seeing that he wasn’t wanted, he shifted over to Lirelle offering a peace kebab. “Thanks by the way.”

“Your gold was most welcome,” Lirelle replied with a smirk. She took a bite of her peace offering as she joined her sister in the kitchen when Arrenir finally appeared at the doorway to the cottage.

“Zharia, I didn’t know you were coming!” Arrenir bellowed as he wiped his boots on the welcome mat before taking them off.

“Neither did I,” Zharia responded.

A long silence followed, filled only by the chatter of the other guests in the kitchen as it slowly dawned upon Arrenir that something there was something amiss. She watched as the realization spread across him like fire.

“Zharia?” he said at last.

“Hello father,” she couldn’t bring herself to smile. A storm of emotions circled within her as she tried her best to speak.

“Dinner is served!” Sederis called out to them, interrupting the moment as he set a spread of food on the table.

“We’ll talk later?” Arrenir asked, as if to confirm that she would be staying long enough for them to speak.

Zharia nodded.

5.

“We visited Thandiel’s grave,” Sederis said somberly as the evening began to wind down, and drinks became uncorked. “Esheyn came with a bouquet of flowers. Biggest and brightest she’s ever grown. Personally I think the old Bloodknight would’ve much preferred a good bourbon, but I’m sure she’d appreciate the gesture nonetheless.”

“We’ll be sure to leave her some the next time we go,” Lirelle replied. “Have something decent in one of your stashes we could borrow?”

“Stashes?” Ny raised an eyebrow at her husband who merely shrugged.

“Look, I committed to drink less, not banish every hidden cache of alcohol I have,” he said.

Lirelle snorted. “He probably doesn’t even remember where half of them are. And I can tell you where the other half is hidden.” She started ticking locations off on her fingers, “Way behind in the back of the cabinet in your bathroom, under the huge pot in the kitchen that Elan never uses, in the corner of my shed…the usual.”

“Well,” Arrenir interjected. “Highdawn’s death anniversary is coming up, so that’d be the best time for us to visit. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a second visit from the two of you,” he said with a smile.

“Will do,” Sederis said with a nod, and as the dinner drew to a close, the mellowed out Lord of the Emberglades rose to his feet and insisted on doing the dishes despite Arrenir’s protests. “Guest, or not guest, seeing that my brother is buried in paperwork and is not here...I’m the only one without more catching up to do.” The Pilgrim of War donned an apron, rolled up his sleeves, and with a weightless smile began to clean up.

“I’ll leave you two to it then,” said Ny, standing with her husband. “I’ve got to scold my sister here for not visiting home often enough.”

Lirelle stood up. “I visit plenty!”

“Ever since you two built your cottage, you’ve been coming back here between leading your campaigns with the Crows...” Ny trailed off as she left for the living room with Lirelle who chased after her elder sister with an incredulous look on her face.

Arrenir laughed at first, waving the both of them off until he was left at the dining table with Zharia. His Zharia.

She sat as she had throughout dinner, in a daze. Surrounded by the living dead, she wondered how differently their counterparts would’ve been if only they had lived.

“We should talk outside.”

6.

They sat upon the deck that overlooked the seaside. Stars dotted the skyline, reflecting off a dark and undulating sea below. Zharia couldn’t bring herself to speak at first, unsure if doing so would lead to catharsis or a gaping wound that would never close. But she needed to.

Arrenir broke the silence first, staring at the night sky as he did. “I--I never thought I’d see you again. It’s good to see you Zharia.”

“Is it?” she spoke at last. “You ran. Away from it all. Away from reality. Away from me.”

“I did,” Arrenir replied, staring at the night sky. “I’m sorry.”

She scoffed. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Arrenir spoke quietly as he turned towards her to look her in the eyes. “I’m sorry for abandoning you without a word. I’m sorry I left you without a body to bury and with questions, millions of questions, left unanswered.”

Zharia saw that there was genuine pain in his eyes. Her father didn’t do what he did lightly, that much she could see. And as Arrenir reached over to embrace her, she flinched at first, but quickly leaned into his shoulder and descended into tears.

“Why?” Zharia sobbed, shedding tears of grief and anger. “I never mourned you because I knew you weren’t dead. But this, this, is so much worse than that! Do you understand what you’ve done? You chose to go to a place where I can’t follow. Do I mean that little to you!?”

Arrenir held her as she yelled into his shoulder. “You mean the world to me,” he said softly. “I thought by coming here, I could do better. Be a better father. Be a better soldier. Be a better man. It was only after everything--the war, the life I built here--did I realize that you wouldn’t be a part of it.”

“And yet you never came back,” Zharia sneered as she tore away from her father’s embrace. “I guess it’s because you found what you were looking for.”

Arrenir looked back at the cottage he had built. The life that he had earned for himself through fire and blood. From each plank of its construction and each display case filled with the collections he had gathered. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I did.”

“Good for you.” Zharia said as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Because this, all of this, is wrong. It belongs in another life. To another Arrenir. A life you’ve stolen it from him by coming here.”

Arrenir shook his head. “He’d have made the same mistakes I made. Nothing would have changed.”

“Would it?” Zharia shook her head. “I’m going now, back to where you ought to have been. Where your friends are dead and where your daughter is missing a father.” She rose from the deck. “This will be the last you’ll see of me.”

Arrenir swallowed hard, trying his best to choke back his tears. “Goodbye Zharia,” he said. “It was nice seeing you again. I was hoping that you’d stay--”

“Save it,” Zharia spat and turned to leave her father behind. “You raised me well enough to know not to run from my mistakes.”

7.

After long moments spent in deep thought, Arrenir finally returned inside to find that it was quiet. The kitchen was spotless, plates and pans drying on their respective racks. The living room still bore the scent of tea, but it was clear that his guests had already gone.

“Lirelle?” he called out to his wife but received no response. After checking each room of the cottage he finally found her on the front porch that overlooked her garden.

“Who the fuck are you?” She asked.

“How much did you hear?”

“Hear? Do you think I’m blind? I figured something was up the moment she spoke to me,” Lirelle glared at him. “She came through the apartment, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Arrenir said, knowing better than to mince words with her. “And so did I.”

“I always wondered why you became less insufferable to be around all of a sudden,” Lirelle said. “I thought it was because you finally understood who I was.”

“You aren’t wrong, though the only difference is that the realization happened elsewhere.”

“So I married a dupe,” Lirelle rested her face in her hands. “You’re not even my Arrenir.”

“I am your Arrenir,” he said, folding his arms. “Your Arrenir would’ve continued to be insufferable. Trying too hard to be something he thought you wanted him to be. And failing.” “Speaking from experience?” his wife got to her feet and folded her arms. “Fail with one Lirelle, but wait, don’t worry, there’s an infinite more to choose from! All you need to do is keep crossing fucking dimensions until you succeed in pinning me down. God I’ve got to be the worst Lirelle of the lot,” Lirelle spat as rage welled up inside her. “So is that it? Is that why you came here!?”

Arrenir looked her in the eyes and held her ire-filled gaze. “No,” he said. “I came here because you died.”

“What?”

“Sunstrider Isle, fighting Dame Everleigh’s forces. But instead of crushing them together, we had parted on poor terms. You died there, with Sederis.”

Lirelle’s demeanour changed and she sat back down. “And the Crows?”

“Died with you, save for a few. Garris sent me your death letter.”

She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head, trying to wrap her head around how differently it could have all played out. “So you came here, because your Lirelle died.”

“You’re my Lirelle,” he responded without hesitation. “The Lirelle where I came from was never mine. Neither were you until you gave yourself to me.” 

“Really?” she said skeptically. “I bet if I had died on that field, like she did, you’d just have jumped ship again. Gone to another door. Tried again. Again and again until I lived.” 

“No.”

“No?”

Arrenir shook his head. “I didn’t come here because I wanted you to live. That wasn’t my regret. My regret was that I didn’t ride out with you. I came here, to this world, because I wasn’t there with my friends when everything came to an end. I should have been. I would have been, if I wasn’t so damned selfish.” He brought his hand to her cheek, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “I came here to die with you. If you had fallen, I’d have fallen with you. Because I love you. You.”

Epilogue

“Take me home,” said Zharia as she climbed the final steps to the top floor of Apartment 547. The door at the end of the hallway waited for her, already open. She took one final look at the world she was leaving behind. A better, brighter world, but not her’s. For better or for worse, this one belonged to her father now. She had hoped for catharsis--to bring her father back--but it was clear he was no longer the man she remembered. But even so, Zharia was content with closure.

I’m glad you found what you were looking for. I’m glad you finally found yourself. I just wish I could’ve been a part of that.

Goodbye, father.

She stepped through and the door to this world closed behind her, never to be opened again.

-fin-

I’ve been meaning to write this for a long long time. First, I told myself I’d do it after the Phoenix Wars. Then I told myself I’d do it after the Guild’s last day. Again, when I told myself I’d do it after The Emberglades Civil War.

I guess it took so long because I’ve always meant for this story to be a symbolic goodbye. As the last story I’ll ever write for WoW and it suppose it was hard saying goodbye to characters that I’ve role-played as for 5 years. Some even more than that. It isn’t the end of course, I’m still game to keep role-playing them from time to time. But as for the arcs that I’ve been doing since the Emberglades Saga go, this will be the last one.

I want to thank everyone who has made these last 5 years probably the best ones of my life. Guildies, raiding buddies, friends, and everyone who suffered with me through my Emberglades Civil War Campaign. Special shout out to Sean for not only for letting me use his Roll20 system to bring that story & campaign to life but for leading the Guild that has left so many fond memories for so many people over the years.

Photo Credit: Toast_91

[sonofkhaz]

Lean On Me

Previous

18 months later...

In the dark forests of Darkshore, a massive tauren stalked through its trees and vales, his hooves crushing the early spring grass as he walked.

Muroco Rockhoof sat on a fallen tree trunk, eating strips of jerky from his belt. No campfire illuminated his surroundings, save for the enchantments that glittered on the surface of his tower shield; the effects of the mystical essences he had worked for while in the service of his former elven compatriots in the Dawnspire. It had been months since the Phoenix Wars had ended and the invading Alliance forces fled from Quel’thalas’ shores. A tinge of sorrow went through the tauren’s heart; many of his former comrades were gone from this world, and he sometimes wondered if he’d ever see the rest of them ever again.

He stood up and began to walk, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a bundle of medallions strung together on a thick cord. It felt like a lifetime ago since he was back in this dying land, and many of the younger, inexperienced soldiers he had been assigned to help had never gotten the chance to see family and home again. Now honorably discharged from his oath, and with much less responsibility, Muroco had opted to come back, believing he owed it to them to make sure they weren’t totally gone and forgotten.

It had been an odious task. Muroco had left his kodo, Rahu, in Zoram’gar, believing the beast would attract too much attention and have far too much trouble navigating through the forests. He had traveled for three days, using experience to stay concealed. If it came to a fight, Muroco knew he could defend himself, but he also knew firsthand how blood-crazed and psychotic the night elves had become, the dark pits that replaced their eyes a visual aphorism of how lost they truly were. Muroco bent down, his hand clearing aside wild grass as he rescued an object from the brush. From it, he rescued an object from the brush. He pulled up another Horde medallion, its surface marred with dirt, dried blood and the early signs of rust. That finally made nine; he had remembered where his recruits had fallen when the wretched druids attempted to ambush their caravan, but it had been a pain to find their medallions of service. Hidden though the path was, he supposed it was some small miracle that they had not been pawed over by looters. The warrior let the trinket dangle from his closed fist in contemplation before adding it to the rest. They had won that fight, true, and won the first few major battles in Darkshore, but was it worth it? It had only spurred their enemies into a suicidal rage over the loss of their precious tree, and the Horde had been forced to withdraw in the end. Muroco glanced at his surroundings before crossing the road into a nearby meadow. He rounded the corner of a massive tree and saw a human and a worgen dawdling into the meadow’s clearing. He didn’t know if they spotted him, since human eyes clearly have weaker vision due to them being deeply set into their ape-like skulls. He uncoiled the flail from his belt and readjusted his weight on Mammoth, his massive height straightening into a pillar of steel and black fur as his intense blue eyes gazed at them. He was unsure if they could be easily scared off, as they didn’t appear to be the tin-man rank-and-file weaklings the Alliance loved to send into the meat grinders so very often. The human, a woman, looked familiar. The worgen, a man, looked like one of the primitive animal-worshiping Gilneans he fought on an island near their kingdom alongside the Crom’gar Warband - likely her lover, as humans were wont to rut like the monkeys they were. Still, if they were so eager to die in a land of a dying people, he would have no qualms to oblige them. The woman, who had the trappings of a druid, glanced in his direction and scuttled back, almost tripping over herself. Her head jerked to look at the worgen, who was preoccupied with a map. As she panicked to get his full attention, Muroco pulled down the visor of his helmet and marched forward. He felt the power of his flail thrum through his arm as he began to swing it vertically. As he got closer, the woman became more frantic. Muroco shook his head in disbelief as the worgen dropped the map and pulled out a spyglass to observe his advance. His momentum now in full swing, Muroco brought his weapon above his head, swinging it in place horizontally before bringing it down in full force upon the earth, striking it with all his might. The ground trembled as a shockwave erupted from the impact and hurtled itself towards the two Gilneans. The worgen was at least intelligent enough to know to dive and roll to the side, and he was lithe enough to turn and flee towards the coast. Unlike him, the druid hesitated for too long, and the shockwave flung her backwards. She angled herself well enough to not crack her skull against a tree, but the air exploded from her lungs as she dropped to the mossy forest floor. With a flick of Muroco’s wrist, the flail coiled back into itself and he set it into his belt. It was a practiced move, but since the weapon was also crafted by former compatriots, the magics of the blood elves allowed it to perform such a move. Muroco spared a glance at the worgen, then back at the druid. Before he could unsheathe his axe, the druid produced a crude-looking weapon that looked like a cross between a hammer and an axe, swung it over her head and struck it against the ground with a cry. The tauren anticipated its effects from years of experience and braced himself. He grabbed Mammoth’s handles with both hands and pressed the base of the tower shield into the earth. A thunderclap raged out in an expanding circle, a mighty blast of energy shoving Muroco back a dozen paces, his hooves and shield creating tears and grooves through the soil. His back struck an unfortunate sapling tree which bent in protest at the collision. Muroco fell to one knee, his vision blurring momentarily. Wisps of smoke rose from his armor and from Mammoth, the latter’s magical infusions protecting him from the bulk of the blast. Still, two of his ribs felt bruised, possibly broken. His whole body ached, and his shield arm felt like it was on the brink of being dislocated, but Mammoth’s enchantments were slowly wiping the pain away. The empty eye sockets of the skull grafted onto the shield flickered with blue light; it had protected him from one blast, he doubted it would do so again until the shield’s enchantments could fully recharge. He glanced up to see the druid again and noticed the odd tree-stump of a leg she had, as well as the more feral features she had around her face and ears. He felt the bundle of medallions he rescued jangling against his knee. Then, as it all clicked together in realization, anger washed over the warrior as he felt the blood pump through his heart and rush through his veins and temples. The druid called out to her companion, but he was nowhere to be seen, save for his distant voice calling back to her. Muroco stood himself on both of his hooves, hot air blowing from his bullish nostrils as his eyes became bloodshot. His body ached from the blast, but he was too enraged to care. Some who once worked with Muroco became nervous around him when he was calm, simply due to his frightening size and appearance, but in the few instances where he lost his cool they became downright terrified. Muroco let out a bellowing warcry, the basso of his voice causing small birds to flee from the grove’s tree-tops in a mass of small, black silhouettes. He charged forward, his long legs allowing him to cover ground. His mind sharpened into focus as he unsheathed his axe and pursued the druid, raising it back to strike as he closed the distance. When he caught up with her, maybe he’d tear in her half in front of her idiot friend. Or maybe he’d beat her to death with her own accursed weapon and then keep it as a trophy. The druid gasped for her air as she turned and fled, her small frame weaving through the trees. The brush and low hanging branches raked across her as she pushed through, adrenaline urging her onward as she fled for her life from the steel juggernaut prepared to rip her to shreds. She tried to shift into a bird and fly away, but her nerves prevented the transformation from completing, the shadows of feathers fluttering on her arms before disappearing. Eventually, a mists swirled around her, and in her panic she called upon the form a doe. She bounded over an overturned tree, and Muroco pursued after her. “Come back and fight, human ape,” Muroco roared in Taurahe as he bounded over logs and roots. He recalled their previous fight in Darkshore, and another time he defeated her in the Ghostlands, months later, and the memories only fueled his rage. “Do you run from all your problems when your pathetic tricks don’t work?” She was ahead of him, but Muroco was able to keep apace. It reminded him of all the times he had to fight dryads in the Stonetalon Mountains. He scanned his surroundings as he ran, keeping an eye out for her dimwitted-companion. He knew that the druid couldn’t run forever with her wounds. If her friend showed up, he might get the distinct honor of watching her die before he got to meet his weak gods as well. The druid’s movements eventually came to a trot. As he prepared to strike, a statement made in broken, hideous-sounding Taurahe caught his attention. Muroco turned his head, and something collided into his visor. He thought it was a blinding spell of some sort, but after a moment’s pause he realized it was pungent and sticky. The worgen had thrown cheese, of all things, to distract him and gum up his vision. Muroco growled in irritation and slammed the blade of his axe into a nearby stump. He grabbed his helmet by the visor with one of his massive hands and pulled the helmet clean off his head. The worgen stood there agape, perhaps in amazement, that his ‘plan’ had actually worked, which gave Muroco the opportunity to fling his helmet at him like a rock. He was too slow to react and the helmet smashed into his chest, knocking him into a nearby tree. Muroco snorted in bemusement as the worgen crumpled to the ground. He gripped his axe by its haft, ripped it from the stump with a powerful yank and stalked towards him. The druid brayed in fear and bounded back towards him, urging her friend to climb on to her back. Muroco had hoped to finish him off with a clean beheading, but the wretched druid managed to rescue him. He pursued after the two as they fled. He noticed the druid-turned-stag’s legs were beginning to tremble and shake from exhaustion, pain and fear. This was not a hunt, but a coward chase. Only a little longer and the deaths of his recruits would be avenged. Branches and leaves smacked the druid as she retreated with her friend through the undergrowth. As they entered another clearing, her form rippled again as she leapt into the air. Hooves were replaced by talons, and feathers replaced fur as she transformed into a large owl. Muroco skidded to a halt, rage still bubbling in his heart. They were managing to get away. With another bellow, he reared back and launched his axe into the air as the two began to fly away. The axe wasn’t of throwing design, but it was weighted just enough that he could throw it over worthy distances. Muroco repeatedly flexed and closed his hand as the weapon soared head-over-haft. He visualized the ‘thump’ in his mind as it struck true and slammed into the worgen now clutching to the druid’s back. He sagged with a slump as the weapon cut him from the middle of his back up to his right shoulder, a shrill cry coming from the druid as she felt the weight shift on her back. The druid screeched once more as she flew over the canopy, casting a baleful glare down upon Muroco. He knew that she wanted to swoop down upon him, to try and claw his face off, grab him by his horns and drop him onto an embankment of sharp rocks. He wanted her to swoop down as well so he could crush her feathery neck with his bare hands, but her senses urged her to retreat. She turned, wings flapping, and their silhouettes became black spots in the horizon as they retreated. Muroco turned and retrieved his axe, which had managed to dislodge itself from the worgen during their flight. He had hoped the weapon’s impact would knock the druid off-balance, hoped that her little friend’s deadweight would drag her to the earth so he could finish them both off, but clearly it was wishful thinking. Maybe the fool would die, or maybe he would live at the cost of being painfully disfigured, adding himself to a long list of pissed-off combatants that wished vengeance upon Muroco. Well, at least they would have something else to remember him by. “Get in line,” he thought to himself. He walked back to where his helmet lay in the grass. Luckily, the worgen had left behind a cloak with his belongings, and Muroco utilized it to clean the gunk off his helmet and the blood from his axe. He kicked his backpack, confections and baubles spraying in all directions as it flew over several yards. It was agitating that the Horde had essentially lost the war, especially if the Alliance was saturated with buffoons like those two, but if the Horde didn’t have a conniving witch like Sylvanas running the show, then they would not have lost. He wanted to tear that banshee limb from treacherous limb for all the damage she had wrought, but he knew the attempt would likely lead to his own death. Maybe that’s where the Horde failed. Those two were weak and clumsy, too stupid for their own good, too inexperienced. He surmised they were only a few years past the advent of their adulthood. They didn’t know the horrors of war like he did, didn’t have a taste for battle like he did. They were like children who reveled at the thoughts of glory and valor in battle but have never truly experienced its carnage. But even with all that, with all their weaknesses, they leaned on each other for support. It seemed like much of the Alliance did that; with all their weaknesses, they always rebounded, leaning on each other, dependent on each other. For as strong as the Horde was, it was always too divided, with too many people standing alone and by themselves, and it cost them time and time again. What was the point? Muroco sighed, the rage draining away from him. He was tired. His body still ached all over. He could feel Mammoth’s power slowly mending his ribs, but the healing process would take hours. Best not to think about it too much. The tauren rolled his shoulders and began the long trek back to Ashenvale. His recruits were avenged, in some small way, and now he simply felt tired

@incomingtrouble