#Arrenir

[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

[caeliri]

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

There's a grief that can't be spoken, There's a pain goes on and on.

Winter did not kiss; it bit with angry, icy teeth.

Winter ravaged Quel’thalas, consumed the countryside with voracious hunger, stripped the trees of their fire-wrought canopies, and browned and buried the verdant fields in heavyset slopes of snow. Quel’thalas was not equipped for vicious frost or the screaming gales of arctic wind; there were seldom few doors in Silvermoon that could be closed against the cold, and great spans of gilded lattice work that had served well enough for walls while their climes were temperate were worthless now. Snow and sleet shot through the arabesques and archways, leaving the inside of homes as exposed as the city streets.

No where was safe from the cold.

Gossamer cloths were exchanged for once decorative fur rugs, blocking off doorways and windows, sectioning off singular chambers of once open air businesses and homes as the sole reprieve from the wailing winds.

Silvermoon City Inn was packed, all it’s patrons crowded on the bottom floor, where the wind had been successfully blocked off at either entrance. Fires burned in every brazier, bathing the bar in an orange glow that betrayed reality; there was still an ever present chill wafting down from the upper floors, which had been entirely abandoned. The room was packed with rum-blurred figures, little more than smudges of color that Caeliri could not fully fathom.

Exactly as she wanted it.

Caeliri was three deep in a tankard of rum, something cheap that tasted of clove and seared the inside of her nostrils with every sip - or had. Her ability to taste the swill had been burned away, along with any ounce of caring. She was seeking the numb oblivion of intoxication, scrambling behind it to shield herself from the slough of sorrow that crept ever closer.

They were dead.

Lirelle.

Sederis.

They were

    g            o                     n                             e.

The Archon’s words had sent her to her knees.

Her heart had been clenched for the headsman’s blow, and these loses had blindsided her.

H O W ?

How could they fall? For all of Sederis’ devotion to death, he was battle-hardened and resilient, always prepared. And Lirelle, Light above, she burned with the intensity of the Sun itself, with ten-fold the determination of any one Caeliri had ever met.

How could they be gone?

There were presents sitting in her tent for them, wrapped and ready - as they had been for months - for delivery.

An armored belt for Lirelle, with leather loops for hitching blades and pouches for plants or bugs or whatever else she might find on her journeys and desire to keep, and a handful of crude, nude sketches of the Ranger-Captain in lieu of the promised painting he’d never delivered on.  

An overflowing bag of dried meats for Sederis from every corner of Azeroth, from every kind of creature, something practical and delectable all at once. She’d never really known what to get him for Winter’s Veil.

Caeliri had been unable to unwrap them, unable to get rid of them, unable to disturb the undelivered gifts. So she’d left them where they lay, with several other gifts that would never be delivered, and committed herself to the duties demanded of her.

Once, she might have been proud of how well she’d severed her Self from her Station, how she’d faced the familiar horrors of the infirmary - the scent of blood and perforated bowels, the weeping, the death knells of those would not make it through the night, the glassy, pleading eyes of those she could not save - without a thought spared to the aching chasm in her chest, but this was no time for pleasure, no time for pride. She was only ever a step ahead of the pain, only able to keep it snapping at her heels, never gaining any real distance from it.

Across the bar laughter wrung out, loud and bright and barking, and Caeliri’s attention pulled across the dancing colors of the inn towards the sound. Across the bar, someone threw their head back, golden hair fanning freely with the motion, catching in the fire’s glow and erupting with gilded light, and Caeliri’s world was

             S                      H                               A                                      T                                              T                                                    E                                                           R                                                                 E                                                                       D      

        into a thousand, screaming points of light, a hundred, million erupting stars.

It burned.

Caeliri pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, hard, hoping to quell the whirling of her vision and the popping lights that flashed in the darkness. At last the blazing settled, the burning ebbed, and she pulled her hand from her face and creaked her eyes open.

Across the table from her sat Sederis, head half-bowed towards an overflowing plate, hastily shoveling food into his face, faster than Elleynah could dole it out.

Caeliri’s heart plummeted to the soles of her feet. When it struck ground, it erupted with such intensity that the vibrations rung out in every inch of her body, in her fingers, in her toes, in the tips of her ears. Cold crept painfully through her chest and her rum-bloated stomach began to churn.

The other mender reached out to grab a handful of scarlet hair just before he hoovered it into his mouth, tucking it behind one long, scar-dabbled ear before moving onto to the next plate with a half-hidden, wholly-fond roll of her eyes. Beside him Lirelle snapped her head back up, golden hair swishing forward over her shoulders as she pointed an accusing finger at Arrenir, across the table and one chair down. Smooth laughter was the only response, and the gentle clink of a fork brushing a plate.

Lirelle slammed an open palm on the table, sending all their silverware leaping off the polished mahogany, and it was Vaelrin’s turn to cast his head back and let loose a thundering laugh as fury creased Lirelle’s features. Elleynah’s freckled hand shot out to steady a glass that almost tipped, saving Arrenir’s plate from being doused in pale champagne, and Sederis - his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk - laughed, and gagged, and for all his war-hewn reflexes could not lift a hand fast enough to keep from spitting half-chewed food across the table on to her plate.

Oh my friends, my friends forgive me That I live and you are gone

She was supposed to squeal, supposed to reach out and shove her plate across the table, relenting her meal to Sederis now that his half-chewed food was floating in her stew, and Elleynah was supposed to rush off towards the kitchen, and Lirelle was supposed to follow her, demanding the ginger-witch sit her ass down and eat and let her get Caeliri another dish.

Arrenir was supposed to offer her his plate, safe from Sederis-spit and spilled champagne both.

Vaelrin was supposed to take a smug drag from his cigar and waft cinnamon-rich smoke over the table.

But Caeliri did not move.

She did not squeal.

She did not shove her plate away.

She sat, statuesque, and let the memory move around as the tears swelled up in her vision, until there were nothing but colorful smears shifting in her vision.

Someone was calling her name.

Someone was pulling on the tether of her attention.

Someone tried to draw her from the phantom faces, and she did not want to go. Caeliri blinked hard, letting the tears stampede down her rosy cheeks, waiting for her vision to clear and the room to right itself.

"Dawnsworn.” Her name was murky and a thousand miles away.

Lirelle was pushing Elleynah back through the doorway, shoving her towards the seat she’d not yet occupied, and Elleynah was digging her heels in, freckled face flushed at the admonishments Lirelle peppered over her.

“Dawnsworn.”

Stop it.

Vaelrin’s hand subtly snuck up on to her knee, giving the bony protrusion a secretive squeeze.

“Dawnsworn.”

Go away. Leave me be.

Arrenir was swapping plates with her, and Sederis was muttering apologies from behind his hand as he tried to choke down the last of his food.

A hand fell on her shoulder, shaking her with enough might to wobble her entire torso, and she looked up at the offending force, at the face that had torn her from her dream delusion.

Anokirin Sunstalker was hovering over her, not that she could actually see him. His face was a blur of colors bent by firelight, only identifiable by his voice. “Dawnsworn. Are you deaf, girl? How many deep are you?”

Caeliri pulled her eyes from the barely-familiar man, shrugging her slim shoulder out of his grasp, glancing back to the empty chair across from her.

“Another storm is brewing in the south. We need to leave by daybreak if we’re going to make it to the Ridges. You gonna be okay?”

No. “Yes, I’ll be okay to ride.”

The answer was sufficient. 

Anokirin haunted her no longer, the heat of his frame dying as he moved away, leaving Caeliri to her rum, to her vacant table, and to the empty chairs she’d arranged around herself in a facsimile of a family dinner.

Empty chairs at empty tables where my friends will meet no more.

[[ Hey @retributionpriest @thepilgrimofwar, I hate the both of you so much for making me feel things about RP stories again. Big dislike. I’m going to miss your characters so, so, so much. I’m going to miss the times we RPed all together out in Suramar last year like you’d miss a limb, but I can’t wait to write new stories with you both. Same for the rest of you. @forever-afk @stormandozone and @jonathan-nevermore-smith since your dude showed up for a couple seconds in this story. @thesunguardmg]]

[thanidiel]

Making Dues

From the Capitol of Silvermoon, the Veiled Courier flies from her nest. Enwrapped in her usual obscure of flowing red silks from head-to-toe and with two letters in her pack - Thanidiel’s favoured messenger makes her way to the Novastorm Residence. Then to a certain apartment of Dalaran. Lastly, she routes back and nestles at the Royal Exchange Bank. Likely turning in the gold for her work.

Perhaps it is the rareness of the Sorcerer Novastorm seeking the Lightward’s company that makes her pen response so soon, as though with urgency. Or perhaps the woman is well aware of the recent sentiments, the rage, that fuels many of the Dawnmenders and their companions towards her.

Her crisp hand lays out her equally simplistic reply.

Dawnward Felo’thore Novastorm

I will keep myself to the Dawnspire City as the week closes.

At your convenience, Lightward Thanidiel Highdawn

@quelfabulous

To Dalaran, the Courier makes way to the apartment of Lirelle, Sederis, and poor Arrenir. When the envelope addressed to the fair-haired man is opened (Why is it so bloody heavy?)... a dirk falls out. The same dirk that she fucking buried into his neck. Is this… a surrender? An apology? In that convoluted way of the Lightward’s?

A beat after, maybe a bit of a shake, and a sizeable piece of candy falls out. It is obvious that the candy was taken from Bricini somehow.

@retributionpriest @thepilgrimofwar

Lastly, there is one more quirk to the affairs of those within the Sunguard following the Veiled Courier’s movements. Namely that Bricini’s bank account has grown by three hundred gold pieces. Either she has developed a mysterious benefactor or Thanidiel is, too, quietly apologising for months of accidental mooching.

@jessipalooza

[scienceandserotonin]

Violence

Arrenir, on the receiving end of his daughter’s field mending, tried his best to stay still. He winced everytime she tightened the bandages. He knew that he had been lucky, that when the Felguard’s halberd struck him across the chest, the majority of the blow had been absorbed by his breastplate. Any deeper, even a centimeter deeper, and it would have cut into muscle and required stitching and the deft hands of a Dawnmender- none of whom were on hand this far south in Quel’thalas. He marveled at Zharia’s handiwork, fastening and securing the bandages across his chest in neat loops and bows.

“Stay still.” Zharia wrapped the gash across her father’s chest with a salve soaked bandage. The wound had been superficial at best but she still worried incessantly. What if it got infected? What if the Felguard he had slain plunged his weapon into some Lightforsaken concoction and corrupted his blood from within, just as their former Warchief had. Sure they might have come a long way in examining and creating antidotes and disinfectants from their recent war with the Legion, but she cursed her father for making her worry like this. “Why do you do this?” She asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Because I have to,” Arrenir replied stoically. “Because it’s my duty to make sure Quel’thalas stays safe and there are demons still held out in these mountains.”

Zharia shook her head. “But alone? Where are your allies? Where are the men you lead into battle?”

“I was riding up from the Ghostlands,” he explained. “A village reported sightings of a force of demons that were in the nearby mountains who had raided their neighbors and feared they might be next. They had just been sighted, and I needed to catch them before they disappeared into the Eastern mountains again.  Didn’t have time to call for reinforcements.”

“You could have died, you idiot,” his daughter hissed.

“And so could those villagers if I decided to wait.” Arrenir looked into Zharia’s eyes with a conviction that she seldom saw. “My sword and my shield can only protect the helpless if I put myself between them and harm. What sort of Knight would I be if I simply sat idle?”

“Weren’t you the one who told me that not all problems can be solved with a sword?” Zharia sighed, finishing up on her bandaging and washing her father’s blood from her hands with disinfectant.

“Yet, I also told you that there are some problems that cannot be solved without one.” Arrenir cleared his throat and threw on his shirt over his head. “It is true, violence is a great and terrible thing. It takes loved ones. It destroys families. It brings sorrow and pain for both the one receiving it, and also the ones acting with it. We must never forget how terrible violence is… Yet, violence is also used to keep order. To protect the ones we love.”

“Do you actually believe that?” Asked Zharia.

“With all my heart,” said Arrenir. “And I wish everyone else did the same.” @stormandozone @thesunguardmg

[rishnea]

Commission from @retributionpriest and @dorksworn of a lovely dinner party!

Please click on the images to see them in proper resolution

@stormandozone @forever-afk @thepilgrimofwar

[retributionpriest]

Righteous Fury

“It doesn’t matter. The Argents have already decided and I don’t know why any of us thought it would end differently. Both times that woman has failed us, and both times we will be the ones that pay.”

Arrenir frowned, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t been part of the vote during the Winter of Woe, but he had heard how she had refused to join the Sunguard beyond the mountains, and the hundreds of wounded that resulted from her inaction.

“She doesn’t have the stomach for war. She sounds like the sort of leader that’ll huddle her people up behind argent walls and starve them all to death rather than ride out and risk the lives of her soldiers… But that’s her choice. She leads the Argent forces in this campaign and if she wants her people do die, so be it.”

“She’s a hypocrite,” Lirelle seethed, pushing herself off her chair and pacing around her tent, things still in the boxes where they had been haphazardly shoved in their rush to leave the Chapel.

“Just like you said, she’s going to kill the people she claims to care so much about, and many many more than those caught in our crossfire, and their blood and ours is going to ALL be on her hands, the stupid blind bitch. If we fall, guess who’s next? Not even their ‘holy ground’ is going to save them. They were soldiers, they knew what was at stake, and from what I heard, not a single one of those they freed even tried to help. Maybe we’re better off without them, fucking liabilities.”

“Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m not fucking alright. If anything happens to Sederis because of her shit fucking decision, I’m going to rip her apart. With my bare hands if I need to. Those people were dead the second they let themselves get captured. It’s a miracle any of them even survived and she should have been fucking grateful.”

“Sederis will be fine. The defense of Greenwood pass is being overseen by Archon himself. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time Sederis has stood against unbeatable odds. The best we can do is prepare to reinforce them… Or avenge them. Either way its out of our power- But making mental plans to take it out on Reddings is not going to sit well, especially not in the Guard.”

“If anything happens to my friend, who is a better man than she could ever dream of being, it will get back to her ten times over, through my hands or another’s,” the priestess growled, whirling around to jab a finger in Arrenir’s direction.

“The only consolation here is that if we die, she’s next. And knowing the Legion, it won’t be pretty, or quick. I just hope I can come back as a ghost so I can watch.” She sighs, steps slowing, the blaze of her anger beginning to gutter out. “All this over a few useless soldiers.”

“And what if Sederis were on those walls and Reddings made the choice to incinerate him, just like we did to those few useless soldiers?” Arrenir folded his arms, not sure how exactly to take her anger. “Would you be a better person than her and continue supporting her military decisions? Sending more friends to die for her decisions?”

“That’s irrelevant. You think Sederis would let something like that happen to him? That I would or you would? Or anyone worth half a shit in the Guard? You think any of us would go meekly and allow ourselves be captured or used as bargaining chips? No. If it was reversed that wouldn’t even have happened.”

“The Guard has had it’s members captured before, what makes you so sure that this would never be the case? It’s war Lirelle, anything can and has happened in its name- And if I know Sederis he’d be more than happy to die for the sake of victory. The question is, are you willing to kill him for it? Because Reddings certainly isn’t.”

“He would and so would I. If either of us is captured you know full well we won’t be returning alive, the only question would be how many we take with us. And to answer your question, that’s not going to happen. Everyone I care about is worth a hundred, no, a thousand others, and if you think that I care about people who would let themselves get captured so easily, you’re wrong.” The fire in her eyes burned bright as she held his gaze for a few more seconds before turning on her heel, hoping he hadn’t heard the undercurrent of fear in her voice.

@thepilgrimofwar

[thepilgrimofwar]

The Door for Him

Music

Arrenir had no tears to shed for his friends. Not when he first read Garris’ letter. Not when he boarded a High Elven boat that smuggled him off Quel’thalas. Not even when he appeared at the doorstep of the apartment they had shared. Dalaran. Apartment 547.

With a quivering hand, he unlocked the front door to that abandoned place. Though he still owned it in name, it had been left empty since Sederis and Lirelle moved out. He hadn’t had the heart to rent out the old place. Afraid that the sight of new tenants might dispel his memories of this place. Sederis laying on the couch. Lirelle busy in her conservatory. Laughter round a dinner table.

He remembered he had mocked him.

“Throwing yourself from battle to battle to die? Sacrificing yourself for the greater good? The only greater good you serve is yourself and your sick attraction to warfare. Even this ‘friendship’ you and I have- What? Did you think I was blind? You’ve hated me since the moment I stepped into Lirelle’s life.”

“She sleeps with you because of what’s between your legs. She’s friends with you because she enjoys your company. But she’ll never fall in love with you because apart from that, you’re worthless to her. You’re just a dog, pining for her attention. Lirelle doesn’t want a fucking dog, she wants someone who’s worth throwing her freedom away.”

He remembered he had scoffed.

“What? Like you?”

“You still don’t get it!” Sederis threw his hands into the air. “We’re not worth it. Don’t you get it? No one is.”

“I get it now, Sederis. I get it. It took me so long to understand. But I do now. Please don’t be angry,” Arrenir mumbled into the darkness of the living room when they had last been friends. “Please.” His tears came now, disturbing the coat of dust that covered everything. Just as they had left it.

Locking the door behind him, he stumbled upstairs. Passing the room that Lirelle and him had shared together for a time. Passing the guest rooms that housed many friends during their stay. Arrenir didn’t care for them. He was here only for one door. An ivory one that lead to a black hallway filled with loneliness and fear. One that waited for him, half ajar.

He pushed it open, and crossed into nowhere.

It was as he remembered it. A dark corridor lined with countless unremarkable doors. Behind each of them where whispers of his own creation. Repeating as endlessly as the hallway.

Could’ve made Should’ve done If I had If only I had been riding with her

There were new doors now. Doors of dark wrought iron. Arrenir knew he was close now.

Need to do better Be a better soldier Win her heart Find myself

The unpainted door wasn’t waiting for him at the end this time. Instead, it was painted green, exactly like the front door to the apartment. He smiled, knowing he could open this one. Because there was laughter and the clatter of plates behind it.

He knocked.

Lirelle answered.

“You’re late,” She said, carrying a dinner tray to a table of his friends. They sat there, all of them smiling except for Vaelrin who never did. Caeliri and Grace. Elleynah and Cub. Even Sederis, who paid him no attention, stuffing his face as quickly as food appeared. Arrenir wiped his tears away, making his way inside to join his friends at the table. “Where have you been?”

Arrenir looked back at the hallway. “Nowhere,” he said, “Nowhere at all.” And shut the door behind him.

Commission by @rishnea

@retributionpriest @forever-afk @stormandozone @dorksworn

Backstory: The Curious Case of Apartment 547 

[thepilgrimofwar]

Ride and Die

"They're both gone."

That was all Arrenir received.

It had been a simple letter with a single line, hardly the size of a hawk-delivered scroll. But it had told him everything he needed to know, and penned in Garris’ handwriting. They were dead. His mentors who taught him how to become himself. His friends who had laughed with him during golden days in their apartment in the sky. They were dead.

It pained him. Even though he knew that they were soldiers, true solders, and this was a likely possibility. But it cut him deep anyway.

All at once, being chastised for his involvement with Vaelrin’s doomed crusade, and promptly demoted back to an Emberward, failed to elicit the shame it once inspired. It was trivial compared to this. Not only for of the loss, but the fact that things might have changed if he only chose differently.

Upon another road down the forking paths of destiny, he would have rode into that battle with The Crows instead of lending his skills elsewhere. Perhaps he wouldn’t have made a difference in the outcome of the battle. Perhaps he’d be dead as well, rotting in the fields with the others. But those things did not matter to him.

As long as he had been there.

Riding at her side.

Riding with her into the dark and cold.

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel @thenaaru @dorksworn @esheyn

[thepilgrimofwar]

Blood

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Arrenir, pacing round the Crow camp. He had been spending time mingling with the men and women he had served with as of late. Bonds had been made from the subjugation of rebel lords, and though they no longer rode together into battle, he still shared a mutual respect for them. “Do you have time for a word?”

“Depends on how many words it’s going to be. I still have wounded I need to see to, so if you can talk and help at the same time, then yes.” Inside the makeshift triage tent, Lirelle had Altharion and his assistants holding down the fort still. Those worse off in their clash with the dwarves had been seen to already, but there were still scores of other injured to take care of.

He followed her in, ready to put his skillset to use. Despite his recent change in his disposition towards war and his profession as a soldier, his relationship with the Light remained the same. Arrenir used it to heal and to help. The same way he’d now use his blade. “How do you deal with the guilt of killing someone else?” He asked as he worked. “I asked Sederis, but he said that it’s just something I’d have to carry with me.”

“What guilt?” She looked up at him for a moment, a moment’s concentration away from the broken arm she was in the process of setting.

“Not you too,” Arrenir sighed. “The faces of the dead? The judging eyes in the darkness? No? None of that?”

Lirelle blinked. “Me too? What? Are you trying to tell me someone’s vengeful family has sent an assassin or something?”

Arrenir watched as incomprehension washed over her face. He did his best to explain. “Both Sederis and you have absolutely no guilt when it comes to killing. None. What-so-ever. I know he relishes it, but you?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Why on earth would I feel guilty for killing someone who was already trying to kill me Arrenir? What’s the point?”

“There is no point. It’s not something you can help,” he says. “The idea that you’ve stolen them away from their loved ones- Because unlike demons or the dead, they’re people. Capable of loving and laughing just like you. That perhaps, in a juster world, you could be friends in a time of peace.”

“Arrenir,” she says, with a disgusted sigh, “This isn’t that world. If they didn’t want to die, they shouldn’t have taken up arms in the first place. I’m not going to lose sleep just because I happen to be the better- or luckier if you believe what Sederis says- soldier.”

The paladin diagnosed one of the wounded men in the tent, and proceeded to ease his pain the best he could. “The two of you share different philosophies but have come to the same outcome. Neither of you experience any sort of remorse for the terrible things you do to the soldiers on the wrong side of your blade.”

“And you seem to for some reason. Why?”

“Because it’s becoming more and more difficult to sleep. That there are ghosts waiting for me in my dreams. I can’t dispel them. I was looking for a way to do it, but it seems that neither of my friends even experience what I’m going through.”

“We aren’t murders Arrenir. We’re killers yes, but every single life I’ve taken has been that of another soldier. I did not force them to take up arms. I did not make them attack. I did not make them swing their swords. At any point they could have chosen a different path, instead of the one that led them to death at my hands. Do you know why ghosts don’t scare me Arrenir? Because I know I can kill them too.”

Photo reblogged from Enisteyjia

@retributionpriest @thanidiel @stormandozone @thenaaru @dorksworn

[thepilgrimofwar]

The Price of Function

Serving with the Crows, battle to battle, contact to contact, had taught Arrenir to see things differently. He had always been a strong believer in leaving violence as a last resort. That not all problems can or should be solved with violence. But he was beginning to understand that not all problems can be solved without it either. Academically, he knew that it was a balancing act of every ruler- of how far they’d allow themselves to be pushed before plunging the peoples of two states into war. In practice though, with sellswords, camp followers, blacksmiths, and an entire industry relying on war, Arrenir began to realize that to them, violence was a way of life. Death was not a tragedy but a occupational hazard, an everyday risk that all the Crows took in stride to put food on their tables.

It wasn’t like there was another living that could be made with the entire Kingdom of Quel’thalas being dragged into the constant wars of the Horde.

But even with his new understandings of things, and many other lessons learned about himself and of warfare, Arrenir still did not understand Lirelle. Not her motives, not her thought processes, not even the reason why- or how- she could remain so detached and uninvolved emotionally with the affairs around her. He had his theories, that this nomadic life of war had damaged her in some unspoken fundamental way. But speaking to her family had assured him that she was like that long before the fires of war had even been involved. So, like he did with nature, he observed her.

Losing her hand hadn’t fazed her, she had disappeared back to the Dawnspire and Shallowbrook for her recovery and when she had returned with a hand of bark and magic, she had gone straight back to duty. Trauma had no hold over her, no doubt, no loss, just pure focus and tenacity that seemed to be drawn from an infinite source. A source that he wanted to understand, that he hoped would bring him a step closer to understanding her.

“Do you have a moment?” Arrenir asked once the Crows had been dismissed for the day. They hadn’t spoke in a long while, not substantially, and not regarding anything that did not involve official Crows business and troop movements.

“Hm?” She looked up from the pile of contracts and troop paperwork arrayed on her desk, the deep frown on her face easing when she saw who it was. “Yeah, I do. What do you need? Garris told me you’ve been settling in well.”

“It’s been an interesting time, being a sellsword. The gold is good in this age of constant conflict.” Arrenir paused, folding his arms as he stood opposite her desk. “I wanted to ask about the hand, what is it exactly? I’m curious.”

Sighing, Lirelle pulled the glove off of her left hand, letting it fall on the table and holding out the limb for him to inspect. “It’s made of living wood, bonded to what’s left of my arm which is how it sustains itself. Taeonthrial replicated everything in an actual arm, nerves and all except made of plant material instead of meat.”

He studied her hand for a good moment before nodding. “It’s good work, lucky, if not her you wouldn’t have a hand.” Arrenir gave her a look. “Think you’d still continued as a merc if that was the case?”

“There were other options,” she states darkly. “Taeonthrial was the best, the person I trust most. That’s it.”

“I know that Bricini has her troll-blooded concoctions, and I know you could have fashioned up an arcanic prosthetic elsewhere… But I was curious what you’d do if none of these options worked- Perhaps your nerves didn’t fuse with the living wood- Perhaps you were allergic to whatever means Bricini had in mind- or that there were problems with the prosthetics- What would you have done if you were short a hand?”

“You just listed three completely separate, unrelated treatments. The chances of none of them working are next to nothing, not to mention the fact that there are numerous other options available. Why think about things that aren’t an issue?”

“Because you looked completely unaffected by the prospect that you had lost a limb. Normally people go through some sort of trauma, some sort of fear that they’ll never be able to do the things they once did. Weren’t you scared? Upset?”

“Normal people also don’t have access to people who have the means to correct something like that. Sometimes it is that simple.”

A lie, but one that she believed. All but forgotten now, the first few nights after Allamar had been sleepless, her too-small arm bound tight to her chest but seemingly heavy like a weight. Iiloridan had not said much, but the look on his face was all she needed. Taeonthrial herself was out of commission, and the idea that there was not enough left for her to work with was nearly unbearable.

“Normally,” he stressed. “I’m sure if you asked any member of the Guard who has had lost and replaced a limb, they’d tell you that there was fear- there is always fear- and I’m just… Afraid, I guess, that you’re just bottling all of yours up.” Arrenir sighed, thinking back to how war changed people. How it had traumatized and molded people like Sederis or himself. “And I’m afraid that that’s what you’ve been doing for everything. That beneath that indifferent exterior, is a deep well of everything you’ve suffered at war.”

“Look Arrenir. I’m not going to waste time on idle thought and speculation. Of course it’s not the same as having my real hand, but it’s the best possible outcome. It worked. Nothing else matters.”

Arrenir gave a serious pause. “And what of all the other things that you’ve lost over the years? What of the things that did not work out?”

Lirelle stares at him. “Then they didn’t work out. You can’t uncook an egg Arrenir. What happens, happens. It’s over. Done with.”

He takes a seat at her desk, looking at her straight in the eyes. “And you’ve never felt pain at the things that did happen? Regret? It’s been centuries and dozens of wars between them. I don’t doubt for a second that you’ve lost things along the way. People. Places. They might not affect you anymore, but I wonder where all that pain went.”

She meets his eyes, her own gaze unwavering. “What’s the point? What purpose does it serve? I have two hands now. Sure, I can’t thread a needle left handed anymore, but that’s such a small price to pay. Why waste time lamenting pointless things when I can use that time to get as much function back as possible?”

“Because loss damages you whether you recognize it or not,” Arrenir insisted. “I barely survived losing my homeland and my people to war- and you’ve been at war almost as long as my daughter has been alive. I can only imagine the sort of things that might do to a person. But you? You seem unfazed, unaffected, always moving onwards and never dwelling.” He sighed, shrugging the anxieties that he held off his chest at last. “I’m just scared that one day, it’ll all come for you all at once. All that loss, all that pain, all that fear. And unlike your hand, there won’t be an easy answer for it.”

@retributionpriest

[thepilgrimofwar]

Questions for the Divine

Arrenir cut into the mass of flesh and tendrils. Scholars of The Sunguard, warded by devices of titan design, were going to take a sample the abomination for study. It had been an experiment. A mistake turned god.

But if a god was made, can it be truly called as such?

He wiped the sweat off his brow, heaving another, mass of tissue into the waiting containment units. If Ghuun was an experiment, what were the scientists hoping to find? The question picked at him as members of Falcon company began to reassemble for the long journey back up to the surface.

So, Titans then. Surely they could be called gods. Except, based on the existence of mistakes both great and many, they were as fallible as they were.

Lifting one of the containment units onto his back, he followed them. Judging by the horrors he had seen today, perhaps he didn’t want to know the answers.

All he learned today was that even gods could die. And that was all he needed to know.

Backdated to the IC raid. Only released now because SOMEONE had to die.

@curiouslich

[thepilgrimofwar]

Why We Fight

Father,

You haven’t written me in weeks and I’d thought I’d check in on you. Somebody should. You’ve kept to yourself an awful lot following the Legion’s fall. At first, I chalked it up to you no longer sharing an apartment with your friends but after some digging it appears that you are no longer on speaking terms with them. For Light’s sake Father, you need to keep a better hold of them seeing that those are the only ones that you’ve had consistently for ages. And don’t give me this rubbish that they’re just colleagues, colleagues don’t rent an apartment together, no matter what you may say.

How have you been? My department needs more funding, as always, but I don’t think natural sciences are a big priority of the Crown now that the economy might be ramping up for war footing- again. What’s the Sunguard going to do when it breaks out? I won’t have my father dying because some foreign Queen wanted to start a resource war.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

-

Dear Zharia,

I am on a transport bound for the Alterac Mountains, which is why I need to send this physically and so by the time this letter gets to you, I’d have already started on a little bit of war tourism. I’m visiting the various fronts of the Horde that have been held in a stalemate for as long as there’s been fighting in the region. As far as I know, all that’s really left fighting there are the original owners of the contested territory and mercenaries. I’m currently on my way to Alterac Valley and I should be all settled in by the time you read this.

After the battle with the Legion, I know that the Guard is not raring for a fight. That said, I do not know what the Sunguard has planned should Horde and Alliance relations break down again, but I doubt it would involve us taking a backseat role in whatever conflicts that the Banshee Queen may get involved in. I do know that I don’t intend to die though, so rest assured that you can at least count on that.

With Love, Your Father.

-

Father, War tourism? Are you trying to get yourself killed in some conflict zone even before war breaks out? And what for? If you’re going to do something extremely stupid, could you at least let me know in person so I can attempt to talk you out of it before I lose my father?

I suppose you have been a soldier for more than year now so you’ll be able to keep yourself safe. Still, take care, don’t do anything stupid more stupid than your ‘tour’.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

-

Dear Zharia,

You worry too much. I’m received as a military attaché from Silvermoon City- Which I am not, but it’s what I’m being received as. That said, I’m just here as an observer, billeting and interacting with the Frostwolf officers. All the action that I’m seeing is at a distance. That said, I’m here trying to discern how soldiers of military divisions do battle- and more importantly- why they do battle. It has been a question that has been asked a lot in the Sunguard and my peers and I intend to find out the answer to that. Not a definitive answer mind you, but an answer for myself.

Because while I fight, I do so to help. Help the others around me, help heal the wounded, help protect those who need protecting. Sometimes fighting is necessary. If I must kill someone to protect another I will gladly do it.

Others do not seem to think that is enough. I’m here to discover why.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

-

Father,

So, you’re there to discover why some people devote their lives to being trained killers? Because they enjoy the act. You didn’t need to travel to some frozen valley to find that out. At least you’re doing it from the relative safety of the backline so you won’t expose yourself to unnecessary danger. More unnecessary than this stupid war tourism that you’re doing.

But since you seem to already have your mind made up about it, have you learned anything from your observations so far?

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

-

Dear Zharia,

It is one thing to hear about it, it is an entirely different thing to witness it in its natural environment. Watching natural born killers at work is interesting in itself.

I am currently on my way further south to the Arathi Highlands, and then moving east to the Twilight Highlands. I have learned a lot.

You can divide the combat styles observed in Alterac into variants of one of either two categories. On one hand you have the sort of combat that gave the Horde its name. You amass overwhelming numbers, either through cultural means like a warrior based society, inspiring zealous faith in the Light, or simply pressing the unwilling into service through conscription. Soldiers are treated like cattle to the slaughter unless they distinguish themselves in combat, which effectively locks them into a vicious cycle of promotions through more impressive feats or death.

On the other hand you have professionals. Less in number but a single soldier is worth three conscripts. They tend to be doing what they do by choice, either career soldiers or, in the case of the Valley, mercenaries. They are treated well by their officers and can be expected to perform out of loyalty to either their officers or the coin in their pockets. If you are missing one or both of these two things, they’ll disappear on you at a moment’s notice.

Your Loving Father, Arrenir Silversun.

-

Father,

While interesting, I was more curious if you had received an answer to your question of why they fight, not how they fight. Also, you seem to be treating this like some sort of scholar. I’m not sure if an academic approach is the best way to achieve the goal you’re looking for. The reason why people fight for a living is beyond most rational understanding. Mortals like us are emotional creatures, and many are ruled by little more than that. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for better if you talked to them rather than observing them from afar.

If you’re heading to the Twilight Highlands, please get me a souvenir. And not a soil sample this time.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

-

Dear Zharia,

Your suggestions were helpful. I suppose I’ve gotten a little closer to answering why people would choose to kill or be killed as a career move. In that regard, you were somewhat right. Everyone seems to approach the topic of killing differently.

There are those like me, who believe it is a necessary evil that needs to be done when lives are at stake. We do so in order to protect the friends around us, and if means killing another mortal being, then so be it. Some handle killing poorly, they do not last long mentally. Others have come to terms with it and have clear consciences.

Then there are those as you described, who simply enjoy the act. They relish the sights and sounds of combat and seem to reach some sort of euphoria in the midst of combat. I think it is a little bit more complicated than simply taking joy in outright murder. For some at least, the joy seems to come from the power trip that comes from the act. That in that moment, you can decide who lives and dies, that an entire universe of possibility can be decided at the end of your sword. For a moment, you are a God who can be merciful, or ruthless.

Do you want samples of the local geology this time? I hear that the elemental anomalies have done very interesting things to the rocks there.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

-

Father,

Have you come to terms with killing?

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

-

Dear Zharia,

I have never killed another man. I’ve slayed demons, slaughtered the undead, I have even fought a shadow version of myself. But I have never really killed someone who had a family waiting for them back home. Or killed someone who would much rather have stayed at home instead of being dragged out to some foreign battlefield to die.

I suppose I haven’t really had to yet. I’m not sure how I’d react when that time comes.

I’m in Arathi Basin now. Apart from the two I mentioned before, the answer still eludes me.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

-

Father,

Then this expedition wasn’t as stupid as I initially thought. I suppose it is important to find that answer of why you fight before you have to take a life away from a being that might not deserve it. I hope you find your answer. Why do you fight?

Any luck in the Twilight Highlands? I suppose I will settle for a rock as long as it’s an interesting one. Preferably with any bugs on the inside still living so I can put them underneath a microscope.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

-

Dear Zharia,

Some fight to fit in with his comrades. Others fight because it’s what they’ve done their entire lives and it’s what they’re good at. Still, others fight simply because being a farmer is boring and they couldn’t afford an education.

I suppose I have found my answer and this trip wasn’t in vain as I had originally expected it to be. The answers are as different as they are numerous, each of them personal to themselves. Like you said, you cannot categorize them rationally. They are as many variants as there are emotions.

To answer your question, I suppose I have been fighting for the wrong reasons. It was to impress.

Your Father, Arrenir Silversun.

-

Father,

For the love of the Light please don’t tell me that you joined the Sunguard for a woman. You need to stop doing things for others and start doing things for yourself. Especially so after you have spent the last two years of your life trying to find out what being yourself actually means.

Alternatively, if you are hell bent on doing things for the sake of courtship, at least pick a lonely noblewoman who would be more than impressed with your extensive history of modeling for various editions of Hunky Knights.

Your Loving Daughter, (Despite Yourself) Zharia.

-

Dear Zharia,

I joined the Sunguard to be in the service of the people of Quel’thalas. That after the destruction of the Daymeadows, to be as useful to the crown as I could possibly be even though no one quite wears it anymore.

However, I opted in for combat for a woman. I believe she is worth a dozen lonely noblewomen. More than that even. I don’t think that has impressed her or that anything I do ever will.

Your Loving Father, (Despite Himself) Arrenir Silversun.

-

Father,

IS THIS WHAT THIS ENTIRE ‘TOUR’ HAS BEEN ABOUT?

You cannot impress her because you are a fool who thinks he can. Women of worth aren’t looking to be impressed. Exceeding expectations is a bonus. Someone who tries to run before he can even walk is not exactly going to be looked upon favorably when he falls flat on his face. So not only does it make you look like a pompous ass, but somewhat pitiful that you’re trying to put on a show. And until recently, I know, that all you could do was put on a show.

So for the love of all that is holy, stop. Put some of that soul searching you’ve done to use and actually be yourself for a change and maybe she’ll respond. If not, stop obsessing over her. There are other fish in the sea. Fish that aren’t big on trying to get themselves killed in combat as an occupational hazard.

Your Loving Daughter, Zharia.

-

[thepilgrimofwar]

The Undying

He stood over Lirelle’s broken body and marveled, morbidly, that his friend was still alive. She had been mangled by an overhead slam and then doused with acid, but with her unbreakable will, Lirelle had somehow carried on the fight to rescue the Phoenix Guards from the fallen city of Allamar. It was only when the Goliath, a mass of corrupted corpses and plant matter, was slain, did she finally fall. Sederis stood silently as the menders of his strike force picked her up with caution. He could see strands of sinew and the whiteness of bone and with great bitterness, he followed them back towards the Dawnspire.

He flanked the procession of the Sunguard’s wounded, keeping a watchful eye over his fallen friend. Although anger welled within him, Sederis did not say a word. Usually, as his friends had only ever seen once or twice, his anger was explosive. Like powder and fire, his rage was often sudden and destructive. But here, as he watched Elleynah carry Lirelle’s body towards the infirmary, he smoldered and seethed like molten iron. It wasn’t nearly as fierce, but it run much, much deeper. After long moments of hateful silence, he spoke up at last, as if he had made up his mind about something.

“They caused this.” Sederis said, dropping the usual tone that he addressed Elleynah with. He was not talking to the Sunward, but rather, his friend. “We weren’t there to support Lirelle in her time of need because the Oathsworn can’t follow simple orders.” He paused again, looking at the Lifespeaker with a look that bore all the conviction of the world in it. “I may not have believed it then, but with all my heart, I believe it now. That even if not all the Oathsworn believe themselves to be soldiers- They damn well should be.”

Sederis paced back and forth, with restless energy prickling underneath his skin. Lirelle was fine, the orderlies on duty when he had finally come to visit had reassured him, but he could not help himself. Arrenir stepped out of the ward where their mutual friend was being treated and Sederis stopped his pacing.

“How is she?” He asked.

Arrenir wore a dark expression. “Alive. Dawnward Sunshard and Emberward Leafbinder saw to her wounds. She has a livingwood cast over what could not be healed, which is most of her arm where a lot of flesh was outright missing. Acid ate everything.” Arrenir then looked his friend in the eyes. “I read the reports,” he said. “Why did you let Highdawn make her overextend like that?”

Sederis growled. “The Oathsworn didn’t keep up. They were too busy bogged down fighting when they were specifically ordered to push up the street. Lirelle and Thanidiel didn’t overextend. They simply received no support.”

“No support from you either.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Sederis shot Arrenir a dangerous look.

“You were supposed to protect her. You could’ve caught up, yet you stayed with the Oathsworn.”

“Someone needed to keep them alive. We would’ve failed the mission to Allamar otherwise.”

“And you’d rather fail Lirelle!?” Arrenir began to raise his voice. “You’d put the mission before your friends?”

Sederis felt a smirk begin to grow across his face, his lips twisting into a smile, then parted as he fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“What’s funny about that!?” Arrenir yelled. “What’s so funny about you being a danger to her?”

“You don’t get it- You’ve been in battle, you’ve been in combat, but you don’t get it!” Sederis laughed. “You don’t have the slightest idea of how any of it works! I suppose if you were in my position you’d have gone off to save your dearly beloved?”

Arrenir did not speak, but both of them already knew his answer.

“Even if that means failing the mission?”

“Is that all you bloody care about? The mission?” Arrenir sneered.

“Has it not occurred to you that if we failed the mission, we’d be letting everyone, including her be at the mercy of whatever unholy magics that infested Allmar?” Sederis stopped laughing, and spoke through gritted teeth. “If you think for a moment, that running off to her rescue and leaving the unit to die was the right decision, perhaps it is you who are the real danger to her.”

“Says the man who’s the reason why she almost had every bone in her body broken.” Arrenir spat.

“Do you know why she will never love you, as you love her?” Sederis began, choosing his words that he knew would cut Arrenir to his core. “She’s a cog in the machinery of war, she understands that her purpose is to make sure it runs as smoothly as possible and if she were to die, then so be it. It doesn’t matter if she’s stabbed, mangled, or having her flesh melt off her body from acid, she’ll carry on with the mission until it is done and then she’ll allow herself to die in peace. She’s a killer! A cog! Not some lady you court. Not some damsel you come to the rescue of. She’ll never love you because you don’t even understand the very basics of who she is. She’s a soldier. More than you’ll ever be.”

Art by Russ Mills (2009) more of his amazing art can be found at: https://byroglyphics.co.uk/ Thank you @stormandozone & @curiouslich for the amazing event that lead to this delicious RP drama. @thanidiel @retributionpriest @edaigoa @thenaaru for mentions!

[thepilgrimofwar]

The Curious Case of Apartment 547 Masterpost

The Curious Case of Apartment 547 was a Halloween Special made during the start of Legion. Sederis, Arrenir and Lirelle had just bought a new apartment in Dalaran and none of them had stopped to ask Beathyn why it was so heavily discounted, or why no one else seemed interested in buying it. This was done with the help of friends: @stormandozone​ @rishnea​ and my wife @retributionpriest​ and it wouldn’t have been possible without them.

Part 1: The Usher Part 2: The Curious Case of Apartment 547 Part 3: The Other Side Part 4: Nowhere Part 5: Everend Part 6: The Guest Part 7: Doors and Eternity Part 8: The Keys to His Kingdom Part 9: Just a Door Part 10: Revenant Part 11: The End of the Hallway

[thepilgrimofwar]

Silver Sunset Masterpost

Silver Sunset is a series dedicated to characterizing Arrenir and his past. Set during the Fall, after Silvermoon’s destruction, it’s about identity, family and finding a reason to live.

Part 1: The End Part 2: Perfect Legacy Part 3: Twilight Confession Part 4: Lord Silversun Part 5: Seeking Understanding Part 6: Wedding Arrangements Part 7: Together Alone Part 8: An Invitation

[thepilgrimofwar]

Waiver

Arrenir closed his eyes and quenched his breath. He held in his hands a piece of parchment that bore the weight of incomplete promises. Promises of loyalty and honesty. Promises that should the worse happen, that he’d do right by the Kirin’Tor, the citizens of Dalaran and by the people of Quel’thalas.

I, Arrenir Silversun, last son of the Daymeadows, hereby swear that should I become infected by this disease to a point of incapacitation, I submit to any and all experiments for the purposes of finding a cure. It will be made clear that my involvement with the curing of said disease as completely voluntary and nothing shall be held against the Sunguard or the Kirin’Tor.

Upon my death, as per my will, the de jure ownership of the Daymeadows are to return to the Kingdom of Quel’thalas and any legitimate heirs to its throne. However in addition to my will, the role as care taker to the apartment of my current residence, will go to Lirelle Dawnbrook until otherwise indicated by the absent owner. Any and all surplus lab equipment from the Royal University of Natural Sciences are to also be donated to Lirelle Dawnbrook. My extensive book collection in the Daymeadows library are to go to Caeliri Dawnsworn and Elleynah Stormsummer, who will review and finalize ownership.

@retributionpriest @dorksworn @stormandozone