#Motaanos

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 10)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

The twin moons of Draenor are shining in a deep blue sky. Puffy cumulus clouds rise in majestic creamy puffs of cerulean and pink. Belaar’s consciousness stands in a verdant field of blooming flowers. Birds sing and the leaves of trees rustle with the fragrant spring breeze.

Everything in the vision is represented with hyper realistic clarity to the senses, except for what isn’t, the ends of the field and the clouds blurring into oblivion.

Not far away, standing on a hill overlooking a green valley, shaded under the branches of a great, gnarled old tree, stands Pallas. He is unhurt in his vision, the emanation of his consciousness radiating a soft light. He is dressed in pristine silver robes, and carries a bouquet of flowers.

Just behind the Anchorite, sheltered underneath the tree, is a grave. There is a simple headstone, elegantly carved in a gentle geometric arc in the draenic fashion. Bouquets and clusters of flowers are placed all around, and the grandfather tree drops rust-colored leaves upon it.

Telurin heads toward the scene, not waiting for Belaar, who follows him more slowly, though without the stiffness to his gait that is present in the physical realm. As Telurin climbs the hill in his customary plate, sparkling clean without the gore that covered it still, Belaar takes his time to carefully observe the scenery of Pallas’s mental landscape, looking for insight to his mental state. The fact that it’s so clear is a good sign, though the almost painful sharpness of the edges bespoke a deep pain. Belaar set about subtly smoothing those edges, bringing the world back into a more realistic focus, something he doesn’t think Pallas will notice as Telurin reaches him and calls his name.

“Pallas…” Telurin says, reaching out to the Anchorite’s softly shining form, but not quite connecting. Compared to Pallas, Telurin was shrouded in shadows that clung to the edges of his plate.

Pallas’s back had been turned, facing the monument when the consciousness of Telurin approached. The priest turns around when he hears the death knight call him. His eyes widen in shock, the bouquet of flowers he was holding falling softly to the grass below. “Telurin?”

Pallas steps forward in disbelief, his arms widening to receive the shaded form of Telurin even as he tries to comprehend what he’s seeing. “But… how? Am I imagining this? I saw you fall with the boulders…” The sight of the death knight standing before him is a powerful one, and even in his confusion, Pallas embraces him tightly and without hesitation, his softly glowing arms bright against the black shadows like a natural yin and yang.

“Death Knights are surprisingly hard to kill.” Telurin laughs ruefully, and wraps his arms around Pallas. “I managed to convince Motaanos to heal me enough to go after you. You are safe, Pallas, and you need to wake up.”

Pallas melts into Telurin’s embrace even as he questions whether what he’s experiencing is real. “But…” His response sounds like the sort of thing Telurin would say. The Anchorite looks up into Telurin’s face, then at his pristine, clean armor. With their minds in such close rapport, the death knight would be able to tell that Pallas is studying him for dents, damage or gore, and becoming concerned when he sees none of these things.

Pallas clings harder to Telurin’s armor. “I could be imagining you,” he says shakily. “I thought I’d… I wasn’t going to do that. Make you appear.”

“And did you imagine me as well?” Belaar says, direct and to the point. “I’d be flattered, of course, but I can assure you he - and I - are real, not figments of your imagination.” He stops an arms length away from them, looking relaxed in a way he never did when he was standing.

“This is a dreamscape, Pallas.” Telurin adds, his tone careful and patient. “Out there,” He tilts his head toward the distant wall that borders the space, indicating the limits of Pallas’s mind, “You’ll find what you’re looking for. I haven’t left your side except to scrape the worst of it off, so that I didn’t scare the innkeeper too badly.”

“Master Belaar!” Pallas blinks with surprise, then briefly makes a wry smile at his mentor’s dry comments. He realizes the two of them must be here due to Belaar’s mental ability.

At Telurin’s explanation, though, his face takes on a worried cast. “If I wake up… What will I see?” He places a hand to his chest. “Was I… disfigured? I remember a cage, and a horrible orc…”

The essence of Pallas hides against Telurin’s shadowed chest. For a dark moment, he starts to recall the things that were done to him at the orcs’ hands. Around them, the Shadowmoon landscape begins to lose its color and clarity. The edges of things grow softer, more blurry, as if they were viewed through a rain-spattered pane of glass. The bright colors fade to monochromatic, starting at the furthest edge and slowly edging inward. It’s as if the scene itself is losing its tangibility and light, slowly being swallowed up by darkness. “I’m frightened.”

Pallas will feel Belaar shore up his mental landscape as it falters, and in turn, soothe some of the worry and fear Pallas is feeling. Belaar’s presence is a rock, steady and calm, unshakable, and he lends some of that to Pallas.

“You are whole, if that is what you fear. They did not treat you well, Pallas, but everything that was done can be mended, and your body will heal more quickly with you present than here.” Belaar’s tone is soothing yet professional as he reassures Pallas of his injuries. “I have yet to look over Telurin, but he’s up and walking around. The prognosis for the both of you is very good, so long as you return to yourself.”

Pallas lets himself be reassured by Belaar's solidarity, and Telurin's presence. He takes a deep breath, and nods. "Thank you for coming for me," he tells both of them earnestly, still holding onto the consciousness of Telurin, bright like the moon against the undead draenei's shadowy darkness.

"I'll just close my eyes." Pallas leans his head against Telurin's cold plate. Their differences are stark, magnified in this subconscious place, but the Anchorite looks at peace. He closes his eyes. "And rest for a while..."

Pallas appears to fall asleep in his vision. The black wall outside slowly crumbles. He rises up from underneath the black ocean he'd fallen into.

Meanwhile, in the waking world, the Anchorite stirs in the bed, his eyes cracking open. His body feels stiff as a lead weight. The bedding and blankets feel light and soft.

“There you are.” Telurin says, voice soft. His armor, as promised, was covered in dried red blood, and he looked weary with worry where he sat at the side of the bed.

A cool hand touches Pallas’s temple: Belaar, checking on his pain blocks and physical health, bolstering his previous healing. “Well done, Pallas.” The older Anchorite says, impressing the words directly into Pallas’s mind as well as speaking them. “The worst is over. You are safe here.”

Pallas murmurs through cracked lips. "Master… Belaar..." There is a connotation of gratefulness and thanks in his utterance that the elder Anchorite should be able to pick up on.

He turns his head to see Telurin. In the depths of the death knight's lichfire blue eyes, he can see the long hours of worry and uncertainty. Pallas's thin hand slowly raises towards him. "...My... guardian." The corners of his eyes crease with the barest of smiles.

Telurin catches that hand and brings it to his cheek, eyes sliding closed with relief Pallas can see as well as pick up on. “I’ll get you some water.” He says, and with a quick glance toward Belaar, helps Pallas to sit up, propped up against the pillows. He lets go just long enough to reach for the glass on the nightstand, and helps Pallas to drink from it.

Pallas’s hand is brought to Telurin’s face, his small fingers curling in the death knight’s sideburn. Seeing Telurin like this, his eyes closing with profound relief to merely touch Pallas’s hand again, causes deep emotions to swell inside Pallas’s chest. His eyes are tender as Telurin repositions him and helps him to drink.

After he had drank, finishing what was left in the glass, Pallas carefully inspects his body. His legs remain underneath the covers, but he’s able to see the marks his captors left upon his pale skin. He traces the scars with the pads of his fingers, his lips forming a small frown.

“I can smooth those, should you wish, when you are feeling more like yourself. To do so now would be the worst sort of folly, but with some sleep and a good meal, you should be able to handle the additional healing.” Belaar says when he sees Pallas looking at his scars. “You will need to take things slowly as you recover, something I’m sure Telurin will help with. I will speak with you further tomorrow, but for tonight, I will leave you in your guardian’s capable hands and seek out my own rooms for the night.”

“The room to the left is yours, Anchorite.” Telurin says in reply, and Belaar thanks him and makes his exit.

Pallas nods faintly as his mentor excuses himself, and makes his exit. "How fortunate I am," he says in a small, weak voice, looking over at Telurin. "To have the friendship of Master Belaar. And you."

The Anchorite moves his thin hand, placing it on top of Telurin's. He's aware the death knight has killed to recover him. Perhaps he had done things he would have rather he had not. Pallas knew better than to inquire. "I thought you had died," he murmurs. "I am so relieved... you are here."

“You should worry more about yourself, Pallas.” Telurin replies, “This was too close for my liking, far too close.”

Pallas had at first smiled at the beginning of Telurin's response, thinking to make a comment on the death knight's confidence, but it fades as he continues speaking. He is quiet a moment. It is true that he has traveled at Telurin's side for several months. In all that time, the death knight has steadfastly protected him from anything that lurked in the wilderness. Fel demons, Sargerei, orcs, Iron Horde loyalists, wild beasts... All of these perils, and more, were out there.

"I asked of you, so very long ago... after I had cut the blessed bullet out of your chest... If you would accompany me." Pallas smiles sadly. "Since that night... You have done so, without ever wavering."

The Anchorite turns his head on the pillow, looking off to the side. "Maybe... I should settle down?" He sounds conflicted; deep down, he knows Telurin can't settle. The death knight would always be drawn to battle. "But... I want... to be... your Anchorite."

“Sa, sa, Pallas, we’ll speak about it in the morning. You’re not going anywhere for a while, we’ll have time.” Telurin stands, still holding Pallas’s hand, leaning over him to kiss his forehead and set his hand back down at his side. “You should try and rest. I’ll be just in the next room; now that you’re safe I would prefer to be clean, and get this filth off of my armor before it rusts.”

[barnaby-wyznfarr]

Character songs

Originally based on a post by @smith-hadeon.

Blautel, the mournful Death Knight - Erben Der Schopfung - Niemand Kennt Den Tod

Grigore, the Deathspeaker - Abnocto - Simon Magus

Motaanos, the Sanctimonious Vindicator - Demon’s Souls OST - Tower Knight

Svartur, the Undead Commander - Project Morfeo - Escape from the Dragon’s Lair

Victriem, the Charioteer - Fate/Zero OST - Army of the King

Barnaby, the Warrior - Windir - Byrjing

Pallas, the Anchorite - Unwoman - Trouble

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 5)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

The vindicator dithers for several moments as he considers this quandary. Finally, he steps closer, still lit by his mace torch. “Grigore trusted you… But, I do not understand the reason you accompany that Anchorite. What is your motivation for doing so? Explain that to me first. I cannot work with a man I can’t trust, whether he be living or dead.”

Telurin laughs, a harsh sound that ends in a harsher cough. “As I was in life, so I am in death. I would not harm an Anchorite, or any servant of the Light, no more than you. As to why I am with that particular Anchorite, well, I also suspect it is similar to your reasoning for following Grigore, unless I mistake my mark.”

Motaanos's shocked scowl at Telurin's words is visible even in the low light of his torch. His facial expression morphs from horror, to revulsion, to questioning. "...Then he was your partner before you died." he queries, cautiously.

“You tread perilously close to impertinence, Commander.” Telurin says, voice flat even with the necromantic overlay. “I give you my word, on my living daughter’s life, that you and I have no argument between us. It will do neither of us good to be at cross purposes, and if you would be so kind to set the bones in my leg that have splintered, we will be able to go after them that much more quickly.”

Motaanos scowls still further, but steps closer, kneeling down on one hoof. "You call me impertinent, Creature, but I'm not the one with the audacity to pursue relations with an Anchorite from beyond the grave." He points at Telurin's cuisses and greaves. "Take those off, I refuse to touch your accursed armor."

Telurin snorts, but does as he’s asked, and removes the legguard and greave from his right leg. Where there should be a smooth curve of muscle and tendon to the death knight’s hock is instead a sharper dip, the front of the leg bowing out unnaturally. It would be extraordinarily painful for someone living. Telurin only frowns down at the injury.

Motaanos hesitates at the sight of the death knight's twisted leg. He seems terribly uncertain of the wisdom of helping Telurin at all. "It would be kinder to cover your corpse with dirt and let you rest in peace."

The vindicator makes a few aborted attempts to touch Telurin's leg, then finally outstretches a gleaming, gauntleted hand, calling the Light to Tel's broken bones.

“There are several who would disagree with you on that.” Telurin says tightly, feeling the Light like molten metal being poured onto the wound, more than he does the break itself. He feels the small snaps as the bone pulls back together from the greenstick fracture as well as when it starts to knit back together. He keeps his jaw clenched and is silent for the duration, unwilling to show more than he has to in front of Motaanos.

Motaanos also falls quiet as he heals. The silence is broken only by the tumbling water of the river, the chirping of crickets and frogs, and the sizzling crackle of the Light.

Once Telurin's leg is mended, the vindicator heaves himself up to his hooves. He steps over to a broken tree stump and settles himself down, rubbing sweat from his forehead.

"I can tell that you must have been a great warrior, in life." Motaanos nods over to the death knight. "Perhaps you were a vindicator, once. You seem to possess a greater sense of self than other death knights I have encountered. Some of them were my comrades, and friends, before their fall."

"Regardless." Motaanos shakes his head. "Even if it was by no fault of your own, you have been risen from the dead by necromancy. This necromancy, by its very nature, is vile. Those who are brought back under its power are changed. Corrupted."

The vindicator is quiet for a while. "As an Auchenai, your situation is deserving of compassion. Once I have retrieved Grigore, he may offer you the gift of a merciful rest. You may scoff at the idea now, while you have duties to fulfill. As a vindicator, I know this feeling all too well. But there may come a day when you welcome the return of your soul to the Naaru, and to the sacred life force."

Motaanos sighs, then rises. "I choose to believe those like you, who fell and were brought back, can return to the Light. It gives me peace of mind, when I think of our Commandry... Anyway. Can you stand?"

Telurin holds his tongue at the vindicator’s speech, though his tail flicks irritably. Sugarfoot, more in tune with his master’s moods, lays his ears back at Motaanos and squeals a challenge before Telurin can snap his reins and shake the undead stallion out of it. He gets to his hooves stiffly, but the mended break holds.

“When I choose my final death, it will not be your soul priest who gives it. Do not make assumptions about me when you know nothing. Go find your mount, Commander, I cannot wait for you otherwise.”

"Hmph. You're intolerable." Motaanos makes an offended snort, annoyed that he’s being ordered by Telurin yet again to do something. There's no point in arguing, however; it's plain to see that he will need a mount if they are to make any haste. The vindicator rises to his hoofs, scowling at Telurin, then marches off to find his elekk.

It at first seems like a hopeless case, as the beast could have charged anywhere, or even been wounded and slain by the orcs, who were notoriously unkind to elekks. Praying to the Light that he and Telurin were in fact alone and no enemies were near, Mot takes out an elekk drum and starts tapping it.

Motaanos had wandered off a ways into the woods, tapping his drum, when an elekk's broad face emerges from the leafy blackness in-between the trees. It appears much closer to Telurin than to Motaanos. It's an older-looking bull with tough, wrinkled hide, possessing only one tusk. The beast is still decorated in its elaborate vindicator's trappings.

The elekk snuffles. Its investigative snout reaches out towards Telurin's armor, and then his face, apparently deciding than an examination of this stranger is in order.

Motaanos, meanwhile, can be heard swearing loudly from somewhere in the opposite direction. He doesn’t appear to have noticed his elekk yet.

Telurin stays utterly still as the elekk inspects him, murmuring softly in draenei the sorts of soothing words the beast would be used to from his handlers. Sugarfoot lays his ears back and then steps back as the elekk reaches for him, and only then does Telurin reach for the beast’s reins, still talking slowly.

“Sa, sa, I think I know where your owner is, though why you came to me instead of him is anyone’s guess.”

The elekk doesn’t balk at his touch or his scent, further proof he belongs to an Auchenai, used to death. When he has a good grip on the beast’s reins, for the increasingly small chance it will startle when he calls out to Motaanos, he yells.

“Commander! You can stop beating that infernal drum, your mount is over here!”

“Blood and fury!” The vindicator returns, crashing blindly through the undergrowth in the night. He is pursued by a pack of chattering podlings, a voracious Draenor nuisance. Singly, they were not much danger towards armored draenei, being about the size of wild turkeys, but in packs, their fanged teeth and tiny spears could become a real concern.

Motaanos angrily punts one of the podlings into a group of his fellows as the creatures swarm around his legs. “Help me dispatch these things!”

Telurin’s expression tightens at the demand, but he touches Sugarfoot on the shoulder and says a harsh word to the horse, who leaps forward at the command and charges the group of podlings, trampling some and scattering the rest, giving Motaanos time to get some distance between him and the podlings and position himself so he and Telurin can provide a united front.

There’s no time for quippy replies, Telurin holds his sword at the ready in front of him. When the first couple of podlings are just in range, he twists the runeblade, the runes coming to life under the hoarfrost that permanently covers the blade. Ice crawls up the legs of the nearest three podlings, trapping them in place and making them easy targets for the edge of his sword. Once Motaanos reaches Telurin on foot, they fight back to back surrounded by the swarming nuisances. Unlike when they are arguing, in combat they are an effective team, able to coordinate their attacks in concert with one another. Motaanos blasts the podlings with explosive holy shocks, torching them from within in a grand show. Any of the creatures that approach too closely are slain with his golden mace. The vindicator's prickliness seems to enhance his mana use in combat, as his Light-based magic is lively and fierce.

After driving off at least a dozen podlings with holy and necromantic magic and attacks, the rest of the creatures suddenly lose their nerve. Their chattering turns panicky and they turn to flee, scrambling from the scene, only for Telurin to pull them back with his necromantic magics and slaughter the rest of them. In moments, it's silent, the pair of them surrounded by dead and dying podlings.

Motaanos takes a deep breath, pausing to lean on his mace. "That wasn't bad work," he remarks to Telurin, raising a brow. "You almost dispatched as many as me."

After that quip, he steps over to where his single-tusked elekk has been waiting. "We should make haste. The more we are delayed, the longer the Anchorites suffer at the hands of orcs."

The Vindicator’s continued attitude toward him makes Telurin’s tail flick in irritation, and he walks stiffly to Sugarfoot and mounts, swinging up into the saddle. “I will be able to sense when we get close to them, and a war band that size should be easy to track.” Telurin’s jaw is tense, his words are clipped, and he wheels Sugarfoot away from the creek bed and back up to the upper bank. The death of the podlings, barely sentient things, gave him some relief, and his ribs are better than they were when he woke, but Telurin wants the lifeblood of the orcs who took Pallas, and the lifeblood of their entire clan. The whole of his focus is on this outcome, and he has little time to spare for Motaanos’s jibes now that they have no other obstacles in their way.

Motaanos looks taken aback by Telurin's ruthlessness in choosing to slaughter the retreating podlings. He gives the death knight a wary sidelong glance before heaving himself into his elekk's saddle.

The vindicator trails a short distance behind Sugarfoot as the horse weaves through the woods. He takes the time to consider the death knight's apparent bloodthirst. 'Is he a danger towards the ones we are trying to save?' he wonders. 'That small priest he was with, may have never before been placed in a situation where his companion was truly in a rage. I shall have to watch him.'

[rudra-writes]

Svartur’s Departure, Part 3

Svartur, the draenei death knight, and Florin, the human priest, journey to the Vindicaar, where they must part.

An overcast, rainy day met Florin and Svartur as the pair journeyed towards the Exodar. Titan’s heavy hooves plodded against the road, wisps of ghostly blue fire left in their wake. The deathcharger’s barding clinked and jingled as they went.

Florin sat in front, watching the procession. As they traveled, more draenei joined them from across Azuremyst, creating a solemn military parade. Magnificent elekks, decked out in full regalia, strode through the fog, towering above it like hills among mist. Armored vindicators and berobed anchorites riding talbuks swelled their ranks. Carts full of supplies pulled by elekks and talbuks trundled past. It seemed to Florin that every able-bodied person from the Isles was journeying with them.

Florin looked behind himself at Svartur. The death knight seemed unmoved, a pillar of stolid duty. Florin was still very worried about him. They had not yet found a mentalist to act as his guiding star, should his bloodlust take hold again. Florin reassured himself that Svartur was aware of the danger, and would take what measures were necessary… but he would be so far away, and in such an evil place.

The Exodar looked more otherworldly than ever, its pinkish lights blurred by mist. As they approached, the ship that had been constructed with the purpose of going to Argus came into view: The Vindicaar.

Now, so close to the capital, the champions of other races could be seen: Humans and night elves, dwarves, gnomes… The Horde races were here too, for the war to protect Azeroth affected them as well. There were trolls, tauren, and even a handful of the infamous orcs, unbeloved by the draenei race, yet present in a rare display of solidarity. Everyone was here, in every cultural appearance of war imaginable.

In the shadow of the Vindicaar, families could be seen saying goodbye to their loved ones, exchanging hugs and kisses and heartfelt farewells.

From the high vantage point of Svartur’s deathcharger, Florin scanned the crowd. He pointed, “There!”

Approaching them were four draenei, the remnant of Svartur’s Commandry while he had been alive. Vindicator Motaanos rode atop his one-tusked elekk, Calamity. His expression was as annoyed as ever, as if the Legion had caused them all a great inconvenience.

At Calamity’s side, soulpriest Grigore rode serenely on his talbuk. Next to Grigore rode Blautel and Izraid, the death knight and monk, mounted upon a tamed warg and a horse, respectively. They talked animatedly between each other, comparing rumors of the horrors in store for them on Argus.

The four draenei paused before Svartur’s deathcharger, and bowed their heads in respect as a greeting.

“All have come. Good.” Svartur looked on approvingly at his small, but loyal band. Companions since time immemorable, they would follow their Commander even after he had become a death knight.

Svartur turned to Florin. “This is where we must part.”

Florin frowned worriedly, and climbed down from Titan’s back. He had to crane his neck to look up at Svartur’s face. His brows pinched together. “Please, be careful.”

The death knight acknowledged him with a small nod.

Florin looked on as his guardian continued onward with his small Commandry, climbing the steps to board the Vindicaar. He watched as the remainder of the war procession followed, and the doors of the ship slowly slid closed.

The ship began to hum, stirring the grass beneath it as it lifted. In a brilliant clap of light and sound, the Vindicaar disappeared. Svartur’s mental presence likewise could no longer be felt in Florin’s mind.

He was gone. Florin slowly stumbled away from the spot, moving around the crowds of families. Gone…

He found a shady tree in an out-of-the-way place, and sat at the foot of it, burying his head in his hands. His thin shoulders shook as he sobbed. He had a premonition of terrible things, and no matter how much he prayed and implored the Light to protect him, he feared that Svartur would not return.

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 8)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

Motaanos’s expression changes as he gleans from both Telurin’s words and closer examination that both of the priests are, in fact, alive. He regains control of his emotions, and becomes steadfast, nodding as he crouches next to the two unconscious draenei inside the cage. “I have enough energy left to provide some healing; they’ll be stabilized at the very least.”

The Vindicator gingerly places a hand on Pallas’s shoulder, and his opposite hand on Grigore’s. He begins to channel the Light. It’s a faint, quiet presence in this fel place, turning the cage floor around the three draenei a soft, calming gold. Mot looks back at Telurin with trust in his eyes for the first time.

Telurin sees it and nods, relieved Motaanos can be trusted to stay strong and do what was needed. He mounts quickly and drives Sugarfoot back to the main encampment, wasting no time hooking the horse up to the cart. The saddle wasn’t designed to be used in this way, but with the wide breast strap, a quick tightening of the girth, and some adjustments, Telurin thought it would hold enough for their purposes. Neither Anchorite weighed much. Sugarfoot kept twisting his head to look at what Telurin was doing, but otherwise stood still at Telurin’s command, and pulled the cart without incident back to the row of cages.

Telurin is greeted by a welcome sight upon his return. Although he appeared to be in the worse physical condition, Grigore has regained consciousness with the help of Motaanos's healing. He lays with his head supported in Mot's right hand, still holding Pallas in his arms gently. The Vindicator's other hand is on Pallas's chest, summoning the Light.

Grigore raises his eyes when he feels the death knight approach. The soul priest's mental speech appears in Telurin's mind.

'The Anchorite's vital signs are stabilized. However, he has yet to awaken. I fear that something is wrong.'

Grigore's eyes move towards an opened waterskin set next to them, apparently Motaanos's own.

Telurin picks up on the undercurrent of the soul priest’s words and slides off his mount to pick up the waterskin and move next to Motaanos on the other side of Pallas. The heat from the Light the vindicator is channeling is strong, Telurin realizes; he’s giving it everything he has. Without disturbing Motaanos’s work, Telurin gently catches Pallas’s chin and turns his head toward him. Not wanting to make things worse, at first he only wets Pallas’s lips and tongue with the water, waiting for a reaction before giving the Anchorite more and potentially choking him.

“Pallas.” Telurin says, soft and equally as gentle. “Wake up, Pallas. We need to leave this place.”

The face of the young Anchorite in the early morning light makes for a pitiful sight. His white skin is marred with angry dark indigo bruises, his previously pristine silvery hair matted with mud and blood. From the markings, it looks as if he was beaten or thrown roughly into the ground. Even unconscious, the expression upon his features is one of suffering and grief.

Pallas's dry mouth and tongue twitch at the cool water. Alongside Telurin, Grigore and Motaanos watch the young draenei intently.

'Pallas,' Grigore's mental voice wafts through their minds like incense smoke. 'Pallas, come back to us.'

The Anchorite manages to swallow a little water. The other draenei wait with baited breath.

'I can not reach him.' Grigore weakly admits after a while. 'His treatment was very cruel. He may be in a state of shock... Or perhaps, despair. He believed you to be destroyed in a landslide, Telurin.' The soul priest closes his eyes, then opens them again when Motaanos wavers. The Vindicator seems to be reaching the end of his physical and mental endurance, the Light from his gauntlet sputtering like a faulty gnomish bulb.

'My dear, if you push yourself any harder, you're going to wind up in the cart with the rest of us.'

"So be it," Motaanos stubbornly grumps out in a mumble, even as his eyes become unfocused. "I refuse to lose any more people under my protection..."

“Sugarfoot can’t take the extra weight.” Telurin says, voice tight, and to Grigore’s mental senses the death knight is locked down tight, keeping his emotions tightly reined. Underneath that calm is a black anger, terrible in scope, that reaches out across the distance of time and space to the frostwyrm that is forever tied to him. Come to me...

“Is he stable enough to move?” At the feeling of assurance from Grigore, and Motaanos’s nod, Telurin continues. “Then getting away from this place is our priority.” He transfers Pallas to the cart himself, the red of the blood from the orcs that he’s killed getting on Pallas’s blue-stained robes, muddying both colors. The Anchorite is limp in his arms, completely unresistant. He agrees privately with Grigore’s assessment, there’s only so much pain and mental anguish that someone can take before they retreat into themselves. Telurin knows this, has an intimate knowledge of this kind of shock, because he used to tread this line with his victims. Only his faith that Belaar would be able to reach Pallas’s mind when they were safe kept him going, kept him thinking instead of giving into the murderous rage that threatened to overspill the bonds he’d placed on it and leave a path of decimation in his wake.

But he’d felt the dragon answer, and he could be content with letting the beast wreak havoc in his stead until he could return. Pallas settled in the cart and cushioned with the pelts that were piled in the bottom of the cart, he leaves Motaanos to help Grigore and goes back to the altar of the warlock. He had seen smaller bones among the piles, and with a bit of luck he found what he needed, a freshly sacrificed crow. Surrounded by death, having freshly gorged on the deaths of the orcs from earlier, it was the work of a moment to create his messenger.

He returns to the group, passing the cart in favor of going to Sugarfoot’s saddlebags to find an empty memory crystal, the newly reanimated crow held in one hand.

Pallas’s grief-stricken expression doesn’t change as he’s carried to the cart in Telurin’s arms. The very person he thought had been slain has come to his rescue, but tragically, the priest is unaware of his presence.

When the death knight returns a short time later, Motaanos has helped Grigore into the cart as well, the older priest keeping an eye on the younger. In spite of his wounds, Grigore’s melancholy eyes are alert and clear, suggesting he is not new to this type of experience.

Motaanos swings himself onto the back of his elekk. He sees the animated crow skeleton, but decides not to press for information; he can glean that it’s a messenger, surely someone to help Pallas, even if he doesn’t know who Telurin intends to summon.

In all, it’s a solemn scene, even as the sunrise breaks upon the horizon. Motaanos’s and Telurin’s quest to rescue their companions is successful, but Pallas’s well-being remains in question.

Telurin lets the bird go, instructions pressed into its mind and memory crystal held firmly in its beak. It will fly straight to Karabor, straight to Belaar’s office or fall apart trying, using the directions taken from Telurin’s mind.

Telurin steps back into Sugarfoot’s saddle, and they start the slow journey back to Alliance-controlled lands, picking their way along to give the Anchorites in the cart the smoothest ride possible until they reach a road.

-------------------

They got to a settlement late in the afternoon, where Telurin all but demanded rooms at the inn and in his grim-faced and gore-covered state, no one disagreed with him. Motaanos had healed Pallas enough to be stable, enough that though his injuries were grievous, Telurin felt confident in waiting for the more experienced Belaar rather than trust him to an unknown healer. The death knight hovered, paced in the room Pallas had been laid in, his shod hooves leaving marks in the hardwood floors as he paced.  

The little group had settled in a cozy draenic inn in a border village on the easternmost edge of Talador. Motaanos and Grigore occupy one room, and Telurin and Pallas the room next door. The death knight is indeed terrifying in his grimness and the inn workers were sent scrambling to accommodate him and his companions.

After Calamity had been stabled and watered, Motaanos strips himself of his armor and passes out on his half of the bed within minutes, having not slept for the better part of two days. Although Grigore is in no small amount of pain, he rests quietly, contemplating the heavy hoof-falls of the death knight pacing in the next room.

Tucked into the bed by Telurin, Pallas sleeps. He looks bruised and small.

After a time, there’s a knock at Telurin’s door. An inn worker has brought water and the offer of dinner. She notices the battered Anchorite laying in the bed behind his armored form, and although the death knight is plenty scary right now, she’s able to hesitantly ask Telurin if he would like the services of a local healer.

Telurin takes the water and refuses both dinner and healer, curt and to the point. He nearly shuts the door in the poor inn worker’s face. The next few hours are spent with Telurin alternating carefully dripping water into Pallas’s mouth and pacing, wearing his worry into the floor. Did the crow make it before it decomposed? He had to believe it did, and that Belaar would see the gravity of the situation and make haste to join them.

It was late, well into the small hours of the morning when there was a knock at the door, and the presence was strong enough that Telurin knew who it was before he even opened the door.

“How long has it been?” Belaar asked, pushing past him and into the room, headed straight for Pallas. Before he even touched the other Anchorite he turned to ask, “Who else has healed him?”

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 7)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

Telurin dispatches the orc captain with brutal, even shocking efficiency. Motaanos breathes a long sigh of relief when he falls, knowing his own exhaustion could have created a dangerous situation without the tireless Ebon Blade aiding him. The battle dies down, the other orcs abandoning their fallen captain now that they have seen that the death knight is truly something to be feared.

Mot takes a moment to catch his breath, leaning on his mace, then approaches Telurin without yet seeing what the undead draenei is doing. “That was well done--”

The vindicator falls back in horror when he sees what Telurin has done to the fallen orc. “What is the meaning of this?!” Being an Auchenai, it’s even more apparent to him that the death knight has manipulated a soul into remaining inside the corpse. Granted, it’s the soul of a foe who would have killed them without hesitation, but to an Auchenai, it’s nothing short of blasphemous.

“Peace, Commander, I don’t intend to keep it. Do you want your Soulpriest back or not?” Telurin doesn’t look back at Motaanos, his attention still remains with the newly risen ghoul, and it’s to the newly undead that he directs his next words. “Speak, I have given you voice. Tell me what you have done with the draenei you captured yesterday. Your Master wills it.”

Motaanos presses his lips together and holds his peace, despite the fact that the freshly-dead orc captain is disturbing to his senses as a ghoul.

After a beat, the orc ghoul speaks in a low, quavering drone. His lips form the words slowly around his tusks. “...Braxen…Gorereaper... wanted them... Draenei blood… Summons… powerful demons… Or so he... claims.” There is a sense that the chieftain didn’t understand the specifics. Motaanos goes pale in the background. “...Weak slaves… They had… no other use...”

The orc ghoul slowly raises his left hand to point at a path in the woods that winds a short distance out of the encampment. There is a sense of dread that lingers over the path. The grasses and plants there are dead, and the trees are twisted, as if something in the soil had poisoned them.

Telurin, satisfied with the answer, pulls the necromantic magics pinning the soul of the orc to his body with a vicious twist, and the body drops as if it were a puppet with its strings cut. The tie between a death knight and their ghouls left no room for lies; the orc had divulged all he’d known, as well as the layout of the cave they’d find the hostages in and what he had known of this Braxen Gorereaper. Sugarfoot comes back around without being told and Telurin mounts in one smooth motion, already pulling the horse’s nose in the direction the orc had pointed.

“Keep up or be left behind, they are close!” He calls back to Motaanos right as he digs his heels into Sugarfoot’s side.

Sugarfoot thunders down the fel-tainted path in the early morning. From what Telurin had been able to glean from the mind of the orc chieftain, this Gorereaper is without doubt a practitioner of the warlock arts, having often been seen in the company of demonic beasts he kept under his sway. It was not a common talent for fel orcs, suggesting that the warlock himself was not tainted to the same extent they had been, or perhaps not at all.

What is apparent is that he was prolific in his studies. Sugarfoot soon reaches a terminus in the path: A grave altar carved out of dark stone, decorated with skulls, bones, and the dried stains of dark indigo draenei blood. The gruesome sight of the remains of sacrificial victims can be seen. Many appear to have been devoured by something horrible afterward, their remains nearly unrecognizable in the foul greenish light that glows from cracks in the rocky ground. The twisted trees complete the scene: Awful mockeries of themselves, scorched black.

There is no sign of the warlock himself, nor of his minions. Assuming he was one of the more intelligent orcs, he likely departed the camp as soon as there was a disturbance.

Not far from the blood-spattered altar, there is a line of iron cages trimmed with wicked metal thorns. Inside the cages, a cruel sight meets Telurin's eyes: Several draenei bodies, in varying states of nauseating violation. Some are chained, some gutted for their blood.

The air is heavy with the stench of death. But Telurin's senses would tell him that one of the cages held a glimmer of life.

Telurin had seen worse, done worse under the Lich King’s thrall, but the amount of death, comprised of solely his own people, sets his anger burning all over again. He promises to himself that when Pallas is safe, he will return and raze this place to the ground. Surrounded by death, the point of Light-touched life in the last cage is bright to his senses, and he yanks Sugarfoot’s head toward it, sliding off of the big horse nearly on top of the cage.

“Watch and guard.” He says to the still keyed up horse, one hand on Sugarfoot’s neck as he approaches the cage, the reins looped loosely onto the pommel to give the horse freedom of movement. He tries to temper some of his anger as he turns his attention to the occupants of the cage, knowing it won’t be useful here. He draws his sword and sets it to the chain holding the door shut, trusting the runed blade against the strength of whatever poor metal the orcs had used in the chain’s construction.

It gives easily, and Telurin gets his first unobstructed view of what lay inside.

Motaanos comes up quietly behind Telurin, his face ashen.  Although he had grown up surrounded by death as an Auchenai, the sense of wrongness of the corruption of fel, to him, felt a violation of the worst kind.

He turns his attention to the inside of the cage the death knight has cut the lock from, then falls to his knees with a cry of agony. Pallas is there, laying unconscious on the filthy, blood-spattered bottom of the cage, his Anchorite's robes reduced to shreds. His body is covered in bruises, whip welts and the punctures of bites. Wrapped around the smaller priest, holding him as if to protect him, is the bony body of Grigore, his skin deeply lashed and coated blue from his own blood. Even his tail is wrapped tightly around Pallas's.

Motaanos is beside himself, his eyes wide with grief. He chokes out, "Grigore..." before reaching towards the soul priest with a gauntleted hand.

Telurin’s own anguish is quiet, but the sight of the two Anchorites sets his jaw and strengthens his resolve to slaughter the rest of this clan for what they’ve done. With Motaanos in the doorway, Telurin lets the vindicator be the one to assess the damage, knowing he will be able to help in this case more than he.

“Neither of them will be able to ride.” Telurin says, and it’s blunt and harsh but it’s true, and it’s a problem Telurin can work on right now, how to get them out of the orc camp and back to the nearest Alliance settlement. “There was a cart back at the camp, it will have to do. Can you stay with them while I retrieve it? Be on your guard, stabilize them as much as you can while I am gone. I will be quick.” He almost turns back toward Sugarfoot before Motaanos answers, but he waits, needing to be sure the Commander can work through his grief, set it aside for now. They’re in unsecured enemy territory, alone, and he needs them both to stay sharp and battle ready until it’s safe to do otherwise.

Motaanos's expression changes as he gleans from both Telurin's words and closer examination that both of the priests are, in fact, alive. He regains control of his emotions, and becomes steadfast, nodding as he crouches next to the two unconscious draenei inside the cage. "I have enough energy left to provide some healing; they'll be stabilized at the very least."

The Vindicator gingerly places a hand on Pallas's shoulder, and his opposite hand on Grigore's. He begins to channel the Light. It's a faint, quiet presence in this fel place, turning the cage floor around the three draenei a soft, calming gold. Mot looks back at Telurin with trust in his eyes for the first time.

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 6)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

It's just before dawn of the next morning, when sounds of an orcish encampment can be heard, and their wolves possibly smelled, in the cold air. The two draenei have ridden with as much haste as possible the entire previous night. Motaanos curses, then rides closer to Telurin to whisper. "We are going to lose the cover of nightfall, and we are dreadfully outnumbered." He believed the wisest choice of action may be to wait until the following night, but he has a feeling this plan might not go over well.

“Best to push on then.” Telurin grins back, wide and feral. He is in no worse shape from the full night of riding, and Sugarfoot has been straining toward the smell of the orcs for some time now, enough that Telurin has kept a strong hand on his reins to keep the horse from reckless speeds through the undergrowth. He unsheathes his runeblade, still rimed with frost even in the mild climate, and the runes along its length glow the same color as his eyes, so close to a natural color for a Draenei yet unmistakably different. He lets up on the reins and touches his heels to Sugarfoot, who bolts forward in his eagerness, straight for the encampment.

Motaanos curses as Sugarfoot, and Telurin, surge ahead. Realizing there’s only one way through now, he urges Calamity forward in Telurin’s wake. Any exhaustion he might have felt is for the moment banished by adrenaline.

Sugarfoot's onrushing charge draws a dreadful chorus of alarmed wolf baying from the darkness of the trees ahead. In moments, Telurin emerges into a clearing with several orcish tents erected along its edge. In the chilly dark of the pre-dawn, he may be able to more clearly feel rather than see the fast-moving blurs of shaggy fur and slathering jaws that come barreling towards him. The orcs, meanwhile, are waking up, shouting to one another and scrambling to meet this invader.

Motaanos catches up, joining Telurin's assault in a deadly onrush. The first worg is gored on Calamity's single tusk. The elekk thrashes its head, ragdolling its body before sending it crashing into a nearby tent. The display is intimidating enough that the other worgs fall back for a moment, allowing the Vindicator to break though. Mot frantically scans the encampment for signs of hostages, slaves, or any unusual species the Shattered Hand may have picked up. Being a gladiatorial clan, it wasn’t unknown for the orcs to capture wild beasts as opponents in the ring.

There are no fresh skulls or slaves on display, and together they’ve made a mess of the camp, scattering riding wolves and orcs alike. Telurin’s long blade makes it easy for him to reach any orcs who dared to come within range, and the death knight isn’t playing around this time. Each touch of the runeblade leaves a frozen wound in its wake, which quickly spreads to the entire body. Telurin leaves a trail of frozen corpses in his wake, making him easy to follow in the confusion. Sugarfoot’s heavily shod hooves make short work of any wolf or orc that comes at them, aiming unerringly for their heads and crushing them like grapes underhoof.

Telurin is aiming, deliberately it seems, for the leader’s tent, assuming the captives, if they still lived, would be kept close by.

Even though the Shattered Hand are a clan infamous for their savagery, the death knight slices through the orcs like a disastrous force of nature. They continue to bravely engage him in direct combat, despite their fellows being reduced to frozen bodies on the ground. In the crepuscular light of the breaking dawn, Telurin is able to assault the largest orc tent, slaughtering the guards outside.

Motaanos dismounts from his elekk when the situation has quieted down, and cautiously brings up the rear, allowing the death knight to act as vanguard. Fatigue burns in Mot’s arms, and his mace feels heavy, but with their approach on the leader’s tent, it is too soon to rest.

With a few guttural shouts a massive, heavily muscled Shattered Hand orc emerges from the largest camp tent, decked out in full Iron Horde regalia. It’s not Kargath Bladefist, but he looks scary enough on his own merit, with red, fel-tinted skin and longer than average tusks, and unkempt, straggly black hair. In place of his right hand, the orc captain sports a gruesome, sharp-looking axe head. In his left hand, he carries a metal shield, with spikes jutting from the surface.

Bones and chains jingle as the captain approaches Telurin and Motaanos in heavy, steel-plated boots. Mot swallows, his eyes never leaving the orc leader’s challenging gaze, remembering that, should they surmount this obstacle, the anchorite and the soul priest can be rescued - Or at least, their fates would become known to them.

Telurin falls back, looking at Motaanos with a feral look, one warrior to another. He’d dismounted at some point earlier, left Sugarfoot’s reins wrapped around the pommel of his saddle so the horse could move if needed, and trample anything that was still moving with red skin.

“You want an honorable death? Tell me what you did with the prisoners, and I won’t take the information from your corpse!” Telurin all but growls in orcish, perhaps rougher than intended since the death knight hadn’t spoken the language in a very long time, but it should’ve been understandable.

The orc just roars another challenge and charges at the both of them, angled more toward Telurin since he was the one who spoke. Telurin snarls in response and stamps one shod hoof onto the ground along with an ugly word in Scourge, a blossom of slick ice running from his foot to the orc’s path.

The ice along the otherwise rough soil is so unexpected that it succeeds in tripping the orc up. His ungainly form lurches for a half second as he raises his wrist-mounted axe, intending to strike a brutal blow between Telurin’s neck and right shoulder.

But Telurin isn’t there anymore.

Telurin is a step to the side and half a step closer, putting the orc well within range of his runeblade, which he angles up and under the ribs of the orc. It’s a fatal blow, cutting deeply into the orc’s side and into his liver and the great arteries that feed it. The points of Telurin’s blade catch and tear the wound larger as he pulls the blade back to wait for the orc to realize he’s dead and out of reach of his axe-hand.

The orc takes a few steps toward Telurin before collapsing to his knees, and then his side, in a pool of his own blood.

“The hard way it is.” Telurin mutters, stepping on the axe blade to immobilize it as he puts the point of his runeblade against the orc’s heart. The runes under the hoarfrost glow a sickly blue, matching Telurin’s eyes. He kneels and places one gauntleted hand over the orc’s forehead, his thumb resting right between the brows, the rest of his fingers splayed out to one side. There’s a sickening shift as he catches the newly released soul and forces it back into the body, chained by his will to the corpse it had just inhabited, stripped bare of its resistance.

Telurin dispatches the orc captain with brutal, even shocking efficiency. Motaanos breathes a long sigh of relief when he falls, knowing his own exhaustion could have created a dangerous situation without the tireless Ebon Blade aiding him. The battle dies down, the other orcs abandoning their fallen captain now that they have seen that the death knight is truly something to be feared.

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 4)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

“Be on your guard, we may be attacked from the right.” Telurin unsheathes his runeblade - he’s back to his long ice-covered sword these days - taking Sugarfoot’s reins loosely in one hand. The others barely have the time to get a hand on their maces before the howl of worgs can be heard from the right, and the orcish war party crashes upon their tiny group like waves upon the shore. It’s double to one in the orcs’ favor, including the Anchorites that both Motaanos and Telurin push in front of, sharing an uneasy glance at the other when they realize their mirrored movements. After that, no further thought can be spared for such trivialities, the fighting is on them in earnest.

It’s brutal, quick work. The worgs are fast, even compared to the talbuks some of the vindicators are on, too fast for the elekks to get a grip on with their trunks. The vindicators are not accustomed to working as a group while mounted, and get in each other's way, enough to leave themselves open for the orcs and their hooked spears that they use to drag them off their mounts. Telurin will remember afterwards the feel of slicing through the elbow of an orc that was trying to do the same to Motaanos, only to turn and freeze half of the one that had come upon him while he wasn’t looking. The battle was a haze of the pain and death of the living, a desperate scramble to keep alongside Pallas who was equally desperate to keep Akos from bolting, and trying to keep the both of them from being trampled by panicked elekks.

The vindicators fought bravely, fiercely even, but they were outnumbered and caught unawares. They went down by ones and twos, those on elekks going first, the great beasts not trained for such a skirmish and panicking when they lose their rider, either to run into the woods or lash out wildly at anything that came near. It made forming any sort of cohesive counterattack impossible.

Telurin finds himself on the ground with no time to think of how he’d gotten there, Sugarfoot a ways away still fighting without him, lashing out with hooves and teeth with devastating effect. They’d been pushed off the main road and into the dense forest, herded against a steep ravine with a small creek some thirty feet below. They rallied around this meager defense, at least not having to worry about attack from the rear, when one of the orcs in a wolfskin headdress raised her arms and said a word that cracked through the air like a lightning bolt, and half of the ground beneath their hooves gave way, crumbling into the ravine. Telurin and a handful of the remaining vindicators fell along with the crumbling rocks, Telurin reaching out with his dark magics to take the shaman with him as he fell, snapping her neck with the sickly purple energies.

It’s a tragic rout for the tiny Commandry. There’s simply too many orcs to fight, and they have the element of surprise. The orcs herd the draenei with their backs to a sheer ravine, preventing them from being able to escape.

It’s by pure chance that Pallas is not caught in the crumbling cliff face along with Telurin. The Anchorite turns around on Akos at the calamitous uproar of noise. He thus sees the harrowing moment the ground falls apart under the death knight’s feet, sending his guardian into the ravine below with a dreadful crash of boulders.

Pallas screams as Akos rears and whinnys in terror. “Telurin!”

___________

The next thing Pallas can remember is hitting the ground hard, having been finally thrown from Akos’s saddle. He opens his eyes just in time to see his beloved talbuk fleeing the scene of the carnage, its shining white coat disappearing into the darkness among the trees. At the very least, Pallas thinks with grief, Akos might escape being slaughtered by the orcs.

He pushes himself up from the ground with his hands, relieved to find that although he is bruised, no bones appear to be broken. Stumbling in a near-panic, the priest then runs to the broken edge of the cliff. He falls to the ground at the cliff’s edge, staring downward at the catastrophic avalanche of boulders that have fallen into the ravine.

Although Pallas realizes Telurin is undead, and therefore not subject to many of the same kinds of hurts as the living, he feels certain that being crushed by boulders is one of the things that might feasibly destroy a death knight. The priest screams Telurin’s name into the ravine, desperate for an answering call. The only sounds he hears in response are the faint, cracking tumbles of smaller rocks, and the echo of his own voice. Urgently, Pallas casts the touch of his mind wide, seeking about for any sign of the death knight’s thoughts or emotions. Either due to the distance, or because Telurin has fallen unconscious… or worse, he is unable to find his guardian’s mind.

He is gone.

“Telurin! Telurin!! Oh Light, please!” Forgetful of the dangerous situation he’s still in, Pallas falls to the earth wailing and crying, his tears pouring out in hot rivulets. “Telurin…! No, please, no...”

A sharp cry of his name behind him snaps the Anchorite back to reality. “Pallas!”

Pallas starts, turning around. Coming towards him slowly is Grigore. The soul priest is bent nearly double, gasping for breath with the effort of moving. On instinct, Pallas scrambles to his hoofs and runs over to Grigore, helping him stand.

“You must not yell,” Grigore gasps in-between labored breaths. “We must escape before the orcs notice us.”

Even as he speaks these words, however, the dark, looming shapes of orcs can be seen approaching, forming a ring around the two priests.

Grigore straightens, pulling Pallas to his side with a thin arm protectively. His eyes become firm of resolve. -We are too late.-

___________

Hours later...

The first sensation Mot is aware of as he returns to consciousness is how much pain he’s in. Everything feels like it’s on fire. The stars twinkle overhead as he lays prone on his back. A horse’s large head partially obscures his vision, its lips muzzling all over his face.

Sugarfoot snorts air into the vindicator’s face through his nostrils, causing him to wince. He raises a hand to his face reflexively. That must mean that his arm isn’t broken. This is good. Slowly, Mot takes account of the state of his body and his injuries. He can move his head. His gauntleted hands discover a large scorch mark on his armor. His ribs underneath sear with pain. He guesses he’s been hit with a bolt of shadow magic - Shadowmoon orcs, necromancers perhaps. Still lying prone on his back, Motaanos starts to channel Light into the wound, grumping at Sugarfoot whenever the charger nuzzles his face again.

Eventually, Motaanos heals himself up enough to stand. He places an enchantment of the Light on the end of his mace, causing it to give off radiance, so he is able to survey the aftermath of the battle in the near pitch black of night. Carrying the weapon like a torch, Mot does some examining of the grounds near him. He finds two of his men, tragically cut down in battle and left for dead. Anything valuable has been stripped from their bodies. Motaanos closes their eyes, murmuring a hymn of the Auchenai that existed for this purpose.

He finds no sign of Grigore’s body. Grigore...

Sugarfoot seems to be trying to nose him somewhere.

“What do you want, beast?” Motaanos is at first irritable, sick with the thought that he may be the only survivor. The massive horse refuses to allow him to walk away, corralling him back towards the ravine.

“Your master fell down that cliff.” The vindicator replies bitterly. “With any luck he died quickly.”

Sugarfoot makes a horsey noise, and does not relent, continuing to pace around. Motaanos raises a brow, then peers down the ravine again. It yawns into impenetrable blackness.

After a few more moments of deliberation, Mot nods at the deathcharger. “We will take a look. We can get down to the river this way.”

Motaanos leads Sugarfoot down away from the cliff-face. He takes a long path around, following the sound of water tumbling over rocks. The way is slow-going with only his makeshift torch to see by, but eventually Mot arrives at the river’s edge and the pile of fallen debris.

The big undead horse follows without having to be lead as soon as Motaanos heads in the direction he wants, and when they reach the level of the creek he pushes past the vindicator, leading him now to where Telurin lies half buried in the rubble, his plate crumpled in places. Sugarfoot noses Telurin the same way he did Motaanos, until the death knight lifts his hand to the horse's nose before gripping his bridle and letting himself be pulled up, at least to sitting.

Motaanos’s eyes widen as he sees that the death knight has survived a fall that would have been deadly to most anyone else.

“You should not have survived that.” He sounds accusatory, as if Telurin’s having lived through his ordeal violates some natural order. Even though Telurin is sitting, and seems to have been injured, the vindicator seems uneasy, unwilling to get close.

Telurin knows upon waking that the recent break in his leg has splintered once more, just as his ribs on his left side complain when he takes a break to praise his stalwart steed. The quiet of the surroundings only confirms what he already senses: That of the dead, the draenei far outweigh the orcs, and the only living soul nearby is the vindicator that would rather see him dead.

“Commander.” Telurin rasps, voice sounding pained even to his own ears. “You’ve caught me at a disadvantage. Tell me you can heal, and that you saw the direction the orcs took their hostages.” Neither Anchorite was among the dead here. They must have been taken.

The question of hostages brings his focus back to the present. “I was unconscious, and did not see their flight. However their tracks are easy enough to read. And I can heal.” Mot narrows his eyes. Did he trust this death knight well enough to heal him?

The vindicator dithers for several moments as he considers this quandary. Finally, he steps closer, still lit by his mace torch. “Grigore trusted you… But, I do not understand the reason you accompany that Anchorite. What is your motivation for doing so? Explain that to me first. I cannot work with a man I can’t trust, whether he be living or dead.”

Telurin laughs, a harsh sound that ends in a harsher cough. “As I was in life, so I am in death. I would not harm an Anchorite, or any servant of the Light, no more than you. As to why I am with that particular Anchorite, well, I also suspect it is similar to your reasoning for following Grigore, unless I mistake my mark.”

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 3)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

Grigore gives Motaanos a sharp look, then gazes up at Tel. “Please forgive my companion’s lack of hospitality. We have had unfortunate experiences with death knights.” The soul priest continues to watch Telurin for a moment. Tel would become aware that Grigore is psychically looking him over - Reading his surface thoughts and emotions, if he could, the way someone might read body language or expression.

Telurin notices the scrutiny of course, being so long acquainted with Belaar who does nearly the same thing to everyone he meets. As such, Grigore is able to read that though the death knight takes a perverse pleasure in needling Motaanos, he doesn’t truly mean any of them harm. Telurin’s unease at the Soul Priest’s presence doesn’t include this mental intrusion and must stem from some other source, though he is careful not to think on it and bring it to the forefront of his mind. His whole reaction to the mental intrusion is of one who is used to this sort of thing, and as long as Grigore doesn’t press into older or more personal memories, he’s content to let the Soul Priest have a look for his peace of mind, especially as Pallas seems set on traveling with them. There’s a softening of Telurin’s thoughts when the death knight thinks of Pallas, as well as a fierce protectiveness that Telurin purposefully lets Grigore see. The Soul Priest should be warned of the consequences for harming his Anchorite.

Suddenly Telurin might feel an odd mental sensation, as the presence of Grigore is fiercely shoved out by the mental presence of Pallas. Back in the physical world, Pallas huffs at Grigore, who looks amused and not at all offended. "Oh? You are very protective of your guard."

"I didn't know what you were doing," Pallas frowns, looking vaguely annoyed.

Grigore raises his palm in a gesture of peace. "Please, forgive my lack of manners. You do not know me well enough yet to know that I mean no harm."

"Hnh." Pallas twitches his tail, but already he seems to be letting it go.

Motaanos, meanwhile, has been mostly silent, possibly biting back some sarcastic comment about Auchindoun being the kindest resting place for Telurin.

Telurin ignores Motaanos for the moment, focusing on his Anchorite.

“Peace, Pallas.” He soothes, finally stepping down from his seat in the saddle, though he leaves the reins loosely looped around the pommel rather than dropping them on the ground. he moves to stand at Pallas’s side, close enough to protect but far enough away to still be able to draw his runeblade. “Soul Priest Grigore meant no harm in it, and I am accustomed to such intrusions by Anchorites. It is rather comforting to know those of Auchindoun share similar habits.”

Telurin’s gaze flicks to Pallas. He still senses the Anchorite’s mind brushing his, so he thinks pointedly of Belaar giving those he had encountered similar tests, as well as Telurin’s pleased reaction to Pallas’s protectiveness regarding him, his amusement mirroring Grigore’s at how fiercely Pallas had reacted to the Soul Priest’s presence in his guardian's mind.

Pallas, at first, seems self-conscious that he had pushed Grigore away from Telurin's mind the way he had, when there had been no actual cause for alarm. Telurin's assurance that he is pleased by the behavior causes the little priest's embarrassment to dissipate, however, and his head perks back up.

Grigore seems satisfied, even intrigued, with what Telurin has chosen to show to him. He nods quietly in reply to the death knight's statement. "Although I have different responsibilities as a soul priest, much of my fundamental training overlaps that of an Anchorite. It is similar with Mot, here..." The priest gestures to his companion, who has been listening to the conversation but doesn't yet appear to have loosened up. "As a warden, he will have trained in techniques of pacifying restless spirits, in addition to the more traditional training of a vindicator."

Motaanos sighs and waves attention away from himself. Grigore turns to face him. The two hold one another's eyes for several seconds. Although nothing is said aloud, in the end Mot sighs again and turns to Pallas. "The orcs are an enemy to us all, and you have aided a very important person to me, Anchorite. As such, it is my honor to ask you to travel with us."

He makes a formal, neutral bow to Pallas, and then another, rather unwilling bow to Telurin, his face looking as if he's tasted something that did not agree with him in the process.

"Then it's settled. We will accompany you as far as our routes overlap." Pallas looks cheerful for the company, particularly Grigore's.

The soul priest, Motaanos, and accompanying lower-ranked vindicators return to their mounts, preparing to move out. Pallas climbs back on top of Akos. -I am sorry I am causing you to have to endure that vindicator,- he apologizes to Telurin. -We should not be in his presence long.-

Telurin swings back into his saddle after Pallas returns to his mount. -I do not mind his company,- Telurin replies, and lets Pallas see the pleasure he takes in needling that sort, in using his nature as a diversion to irritate. -Though I doubt he will rise to the bait my presence brings now that his priest is aware of the situation.-

The death knight lets Pallas pick where they are in the group, and for the most part is silent when the Anchorite chooses to ride near Grigore to converse. The rest of the Vindicators seem to be split on Telurin’s presence, and without strict instruction from their commander, choose largely to follow his example and ignore the death knight’s presence as much as they are able.

For the first hour it’s quiet and they meet no one on the road, not even another traveler or peddler. The vindicators around them relax and begin to talk amongst themselves, leaving only Telurin and Motaanos to ride in silence, on either side of the two priests.

"I wish your Commander could relax around Telurin," Pallas muttered to Grigore, as his white talbuk rode alongside the soul priest's black one through the morning mists. "Is not the fact that I choose to travel singly with him enough of a show of trust?"

Grigore did not respond at first. "Motaanos has seen first hand the terrors of Northrend. As have I.”

"What was it that was in Northrend that was so terrible? Telurin refuses to tell me anything about it."

Grigore sighed. "Something we can only wish never manifests in the world a second time. All who were turned by it, were corrupted irrevocably."

Pallas furrowed his brow. "Surely it is not so absolute as that?"

“We live in a world composed of many shades of grey. This much is true. But this is also true, Pallas: The terminus of those shades, the Light and the Dark, are indeed very much light and very much dark. Motaanos and myself witnessed the fall of one of the greatest lights into darkness." Grigore shut his eyes.

Pallas watched him, wanting to understand, but Grigore had seemed unable or unwilling to speak more about what he had seen.

Finally Grigore opened his eyes. "Although we are Auchenai, we serve the Light in our own way. To return to the Light upon death is the natural order of things. To prevent a soul from being able to rejoin the sacred life force is a profound upset against nature."

"Telurin isn't evil! He’s protected me steadfastly. Don't his actions and decisions count for something?"

Grigore looked at Pallas sympathetically. "That death knight cares very deeply for you. But you mustn't refuse to see what he is. A tiger that sheaths its claws is still a tiger. He is now both a draenei, and a monster. I do not say this to be callous, or cruel. It is an irrevocable truth for death knights. Some, like your guardian, live with the burden of this truth. Others are unable to accept it, and lose sight of themselves."

Pallas seemed to take some offense to Telurin being called a monster, for he fell back to ride sullenly alongside Tel.

Grigore turned his head to look back at the Anchorite. He offers mentally to Pallas, -It may be that his devotion towards you, in spite of what he is, causes his actions to manifest all the stronger.-

Telurin had only been half listening to the pair, and since they rode within the protective circle of the elekk-mounted vindicators, had not been paying too much attention to the road ahead as he had been when he and Pallas were alone. Not until Sugarfoot flicks an ear to the side and snorts as he senses something, that is, and then he casts his senses toward the direction of Sugarfoot’s ear and finds a bright spot of life to their right, enough for a small caravan of lost travelers, or a warband of orcs. The way Sugarfoot has gone tense underneath the saddle suggests the latter; in death, the big horse relished the chance for a fight as much as his rider. Habit born of thousands of years of command has Telurin raising a fist in an order for silence.

The company comes to an uneasy halt at Telurin’s command for silence. Talbuks stamp their hooves and shake their heads, while elekks slow to a standstill, flipping their tails. Motaanos, not surprisingly, reacts with displeasure. “Why are you stopping us?”

“Be on your guard, we may be attacked from the right.” Telurin unsheathes his runeblade - he’s back to his long ice-covered sword these days - taking Sugarfoot’s reins loosely in one hand. The others barely have the time to get a hand on their maces before the howl of worgs can be heard from the right, and the orcish war party crashes upon their tiny group like waves upon the shore. It’s double to one in the orcs’ favor, including the Anchorites that both Motaanos and Telurin push in front of, sharing an uneasy glance at the other when they realize their mirrored movements. After that, no further thought can be spared for such trivialities, the fighting is on them in earnest.

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 2)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

Hovering over the sickly Anchorite is a large, armored Vindicator, nearly matching Telurin in height and breadth. However, where Telurin is a dusky purple, this Vindicator's skin is an unusual sea-foam green. He's clearly upset, barking orders to the younger vindicators to bring the downed man more water, to make him more comfortable.

Pallas looks at Telurin and then dismounts, hurrying over to the small gathering. He kneels next to the sick Anchorite, rapidly looking him over. "What happened here?"

"Arakkoa ambush," the young Vindicator who hailed them explains. "He overextended himself -- No physical wounds, that we know of."

Telurin stays on his horse, looping the reins of Pallas’s talbuk over the pommel of his saddle and watching who must be the obvious leader of the group give frantic orders and wisely deciding to stay back out of the way. Pallas is in no danger from these Vindicators, and being in the middle of a herd of trained elekks he’s actually safer here than he was a moment ago. Telurin sits back in his saddle, keeping contact with Sugarfoot’s reins so the big undead horse stays still and doesn’t fidget when Pallas starts channeling the Light.

With the situation as tense as it is, Telurin's presence as a death knight is not noticed to nearly the same extent as it might otherwise have been. Everyone accepts him there with no questions for the time being, their attention on Pallas and the older Anchorite laying on the ground.

Pallas kneels at the other priest's head and extends a thin, small hand to his chest. The older Anchorite wheezes and coughs dreadfully, drawing concerned attention from the sea-green-skinned Vindicator in gold and teal armor.

"A Karabor Anchorite? What luck," he exclaims, his features immediately becoming lighter in his relief. The robes Pallas wears as an Anchorite denote his status as having been trained in that holy city. "You aren't familiar to me. What is your name?"

"Anchorite Pallas. Please, Sir, with all due respect to your station, I must concentrate. Your companion is very weak." Pallas calls the Light to his hands to gain more understanding of the other Anchorite's condition. As a subtle, warm glow forms around his hands, he frowns to himself. "...He is a very sick man."

"Will he be all right?" the green Vindicator presses.

Pallas looks over to him, and nods slightly. "I think so. I can stabilize him, but..."

The older Anchorite heaves another sickly, mucus-heavy cough. Pallas gently moves his hands higher on the other draenei's chest, his brows furrowing. "He seems to be having some trouble with his lungs... I don't know how to fix--"

"Don't worry about it." The Vindicator cuts him off. He fixes Pallas with a grave look. "Grigore -- Soul Priest Grigore, rather -- He's always been like that, since before I knew him. Since he was a boy."

Something sorrowful seems to flicker behind the Vindicator's eyes. He looks away from Pallas, settling his gaze on Grigore's face. Pallas watches him, then returns his attention to his patient.

After several more moments, Grigore has stopped coughing. His breathing comes more easily, without the disconcerting sound of mucus in his airways. He looks tiredly up at Pallas. The ghost of a smile forms upon his sunken features.

Pallas smiles, breathing heavily with exertion and relief. "I think he's going to be okay!"

The green Vindicator looks elated. He opens his mouth wide to say something, then by chance, looks up and directly where Telurin and Sugarfoot are standing vigil.

The change that passes over his face is swift. He moves to rise to his hoofs, and literally trips over himself in shock and alarm. "Man'ari!"

Telurin's response is to laugh. It's not a pleasant laugh by any means, the overlay of his voice making it echo eerily. He's otherwise still, making no move that could be considered threatening.

"What an observant leader you are, Commander." The death knight says, both of his hands stacked on the pommel of his saddle. "How fortunate for you that I'm not here to slay you and your men."

The sea-green face of the Vindicator flushes with embarrassment and rage at Telurin's words. He scrambles to his hooves, his hand seizing the mace carried in his belt at his side.

"Don't!" Despite being much smaller and physically nowhere near this Vindicator's match, Pallas seizes the armored-clad draenei by his right arm to restrain him.

The Vindicator turns on Pallas with fury in his eyes. He does, however, give pause to stare at the little priest, as if he's lost his mind.

"He's with me." Pallas meets the furious Vindicator's stare without flinching.

With a near imperceptible movement Telurin commands Sugarfoot forward and the big horse lunges with a squealed challenge, his ears flat against his outstretched neck, missing the teal commander by a foot or so with his teeth.  

“Easy there.” Telurin says, touching Sugarfoot’s neck as if his words were to the horse, though his eyes remained on the commander. “Best to leave the one who just saved your Anchorite alone, especially when the source of your upset is right in front of you.”

“Is he stable enough to move?” Telurin asks Pallas, indicating the other downed Anchorite with a quick glance. Pallas nods somewhat reluctantly, but before he can reply more than that Telurin cuts him off. “Then let us be gone. They can get to the nearest settlement without our assistance.”

The Vindicator recoils from Sugarfoot's lunging long teeth, looking very put-out. Pallas releases his arm to help the older priest sit up.

Pallas looks disappointed and upset at the situation in general, when unexpectedly, the man he is helping into a sitting position begins to speak. His voice is low and soporific. "You are not making a good first impression, Motaanos."

"Did you see what happened, his horse almost bit me." Motaanos protests, but he's visibly standing down. He puts his mace away to stoop and help the older priest back to his hooves.

"We owe him our thanks." The priest stands, leaning his head back to regard Telurin thoughtfully. He has a sad tilt to his eyes that loans him a persistently melancholy expression. "Please, forgive my companion's rudeness. I am Soul Priest Grigore. This is Vindicator Motaanos."

Motaanos nods stiffly to Telurin and Pallas, while Grigore sinks into an elegant bow.

Telurin gives the appropriate salaam due to a Soul Priest, curtailed only slightly since he’s still mounted, and inclines his head to Motaanos when he’s named. “The Man’ari Telurin.” The death knight says with a provoking grin, though he’d gone still at Grigore’s title and Sugarfoot had laid his ears back.

Pallas seems mollified somewhat, returning an anchorite's gesture of greeting and peace. "I'm Anchorite Pallas. I'm glad we crossed paths when we did and that I was able to help. I'm not the most experienced anchorite." He adds, blushing a little. "I was unable to do anything about your lungs."

Grigore shakes his head slowly. "Do not worry about it." He looks between Telurin and Pallas. "Our company is making a pilgrimage to Auchindoun. We're from Azeroth, as are you, I take. I wish to see Auchindoun of this Draenor. To see it how we remember, when it was peaceful and whole."

"You are Auchenai?" Pallas asks hesitantly.

“He is a Soul Priest, Anchorite.” Telurin smirks. His tone is subtly teasing, though Pallas should still be able to hear the affection there.

Grigore nods, then sighs sadly. "Motaanos and myself are Auchenai, that is correct. Two of the few that remain." He raises a thin hand, gently supporting himself by holding Motaanos's armored arm. "Please, would you consider joining us? The orcs have been known to terrorize this route, and the other races are growing bolder, preying on travelers where they can. It would be safest for all of us if we were to travel together."

Pallas looks uncertainly up at Telurin to see what the death knight will think of this suggestion. Motaanos makes a face as if he finds the idea of going anywhere with Telurin distasteful, but he doesn't contradict the soul priest.

Telurin, likewise, tries to curb his expression of distaste. “I don’t think that would be wise.” He says, “And Auchindoun is too far to the south.”

Pallas makes pitifully sad eyes up at Telurin up on his massive charger. "Please, Telurin, let's travel with them at least as long as we're going in the same direction? I agree with Grigore, I'm sure it would be safer for us." He scratches Sugarfoot’s nose. "And it's been so long since I was able to have a conversation with another in the priesthood. If that's alright with you, Sir? I've never spoken at length with an Auchenai before."

Grigore smiles warmly in response. Pallas and the soul priest seem to be fast becoming friends. Motaanos, however, looks anything but friendly as he continues to squint at Telurin.

Grigore gives Motaanos a sharp look, then gazes up at Tel. "Please forgive my companion's lack of hospitality. We have had unfortunate experiences with death knights." The soul priest continues to watch Telurin for a moment. Tel would become aware that Grigore is psychically looking him over - Reading his surface thoughts and emotions, if he could, the way someone might read body language or expression.

Telurin notices the scrutiny of course, being so long acquainted with Belaar who does nearly the same thing to everyone he meets. As such, Grigore is able to read that though the death knight takes a perverse pleasure in needling Motaanos, he doesn’t truly mean any of them harm. Telurin’s unease at the Soul Priest’s presence doesn’t include this mental intrusion and must stem from some other source, though he is careful not to think on it and bring it to the forefront of his mind. His whole reaction to the mental intrusion is of one who is used to this sort of thing, and as long as Grigore doesn’t press into older or more personal memories, he’s content to let the Soul Priest have a look for his peace of mind, especially as Pallas seems set on traveling with them. There’s a softening of Telurin’s thoughts when the death knight thinks of Pallas, as well as a fierce protectiveness that Telurin purposefully lets Grigore see. The Soul Priest should be warned of the consequences for harming his Anchorite. 

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 1)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

Pallas, now outfitted with a talbuk of his own, one who doesn’t balk at Telurin or his undead mount, had insisted on accompanying Telurin when he’d made mention of leaving for Talador. Telurin had groused and frowned, demanded that Pallas obey his every order on the road, and in the end, relented. They spend one final night in Embaari, long enough for a courier to take the letter Telurin had written to Belaar and come back with the reply of “I will not wait forever.”

The morning breaks, cool enough for a light fog to blanket the ground as they’re tacking up their mounts, refracting the golden light from the sun and giving everything a hazy softness. Telurin checks Pallas’s mount’s girth and tightens it and the flank strap to Pallas’s saddle without a word. Sugarfoot seems restive, nosing Akos who snorts at the undead horse’s intrusion into his space. Telurin curbs him with a word and the big horse shakes his head and quits bothering the talbuk. They get on the road before the sun's fully up, when the world is still waking from its slumber and the only people on the road with them are the farmers and herders.

"I must go with you to Talador, the medical condition there is critical!" Pallas had insisted when he had learned of Telurin's plans. "Injured and sick refugees have been coming in from those lands in droves. I can't stand idly by, I must help."

The Anchorite was not exaggerating. With Shattrath invaded and Aruuna put to the torch, the situation in Talador is grim indeed. Most of the native contingent of Draenei were occupied protecting Auchindoun, and there were injured and sick draenei everywhere, stretching their Anchorites and healers thin.

Their journey through western Shadowmoon Valley is peaceful, picturesque even, and Pallas is in high enough spirits to sing, his falsetto voice like a bird's. His song is about a man lost in a forest of white trees until he finds his companion.

Entry into Talador is accompanied by changes in the landscape. The grasses and trees become fall-like and rust red. Eventually, signs of war can be seen: Pillaged homesteads, once occupied by peaceful farmers, now lie abandoned. There are ruined buildings and burned trees. Pallas quiets and Akos falls back to be closer to Telurin and Sugarfoot.

The priest looks up the road. "Do you see that, up ahead?" The large silhouettes of elekks can be seen. Their arrangement and proximity to the road suggests that they are mounted and not wild animals.

Sugarfoot had pricked his ears a few minutes before, scenting the elekks, but the big warhorse doesn’t like the even bigger mounts and when the elekks come into view he slows his pace. Telurin reaches out to just above the saddle and scratches his mount’s mane.

“A group of Vindicators, most like. Those elekks are armored.” Telurin says, sitting up in his stirrups. He frowns and looks over at Pallas. “Perhaps they are merely traveling.”

Pallas slows Akos and looks up at the death knight's face. "How should we proceed? There is room to go around them." A group of Vindicators might not take kindly to a wandering Ebon Blade and his undead horse. They might be left alone, or they might be questioned.

In the distance, a rider on a violet talbuk can be seen breaking off from the group and heading up the road in Telurin's and Pallas's direction. Pallas straightens up in his saddle. "Oh. They might be sending someone to speak to us?"

“So it seems.” Telurin’s expression hardens as he watches the talbuk and its rider approach. Sugarfoot takes the advance of the talbuk much better than the elekks and lifts his head and stretches his nose to the oncoming beast. When the talbuk and its rider get within hailing distance Telurin signals Pallas to stop and edges Sugarfoot a pace ahead and in front of Akos.

“Dioniss aca.” Telurin greets the newcomer with an open palm, though there’s little warmth in his voice. “What lies ahead?”

Pallas hangs back, allowing Telurin to greet the messenger that rides up to them on his talbuk. The priest's face is cautious, watching to see how the other draenei responds to Telurin.

When he's within speaking range, it can be seen that the draenei who approached them is a young vindicator. He returns Telurin's greeting with an identical one of his own, but looks visibly distressed. "Dioniss aca. Please, we are in critical need of a healer. One of our company is in serious condition, can you or your companion help us?"

Pallas nudges Akos forward slightly when he hears of this news. "Telurin, can we go to them?"

Sugarfoot does what he’s trained to do and keeps himself between Pallas and the newcomer when Pallas nudges Akos forward. The talbuks may have height on their side, but the stocky warhorse outweighs both of them and doesn’t budge until Telurin touches the reins to his neck to turn him aside.

“You’re in luck, Vindicator.” Telurin says after a wry look at Pallas when he asks if they can go forward to help rather than rushing forward, as if he’s unused to it. “My companion is an Anchorite. He’ll see to your injured comrade.”

With that he eases up on the reins and asks the charger forward, keeping a pace ahead of Pallas as they follow the vindicator back to the group.

"What was that look about?" Pallas asks Telurin with a wry face of his own, as he and his guardian follow the young vindicator on his talbuk up the road.

Telurin just shakes his head with a snort and doesn’t reply.

In a short time, they have moved past the protective half-circle of vindicator elekks. In the shadow of these animals, there is a thin, frail draenei laying on a blanket that has been spread out for him in the grass just off the road. By his long, elegant, flowing pale blue robes and many thin rings decorating his tendrils, he looks to be another Anchorite. Like Pallas, he is snowy white in color, and has long hair, his being silvery teal and blue.

Unlike Pallas, this Anchorite's face is lined with care, and his wrists and neck are thin to the point of looking emaciated. He seems to be having trouble breathing.

Hovering over the sickly Anchorite is a large, armored Vindicator, nearly matching Telurin in height and breadth. However, where Telurin is a dusky purple, this Vindicator's skin is an unusual sea-foam green. He's clearly upset, barking orders to the younger vindicators to bring the downed man more water, to make him more comfortable.

Pallas looks at Telurin and then dismounts, hurrying over to the small gathering. He kneels next to the sick Anchorite, rapidly looking him over. "What happened here?"

"Arakkoa ambush," the young Vindicator who hailed them explains. "He overextended himself -- No physical wounds, that we know of."

Telurin stays on his horse, looping the reins of Pallas’s talbuk over the pommel of his saddle and watching who must be the obvious leader of the group give frantic orders and wisely deciding to stay back out of the way. Pallas is in no danger from these Vindicators, and being in the middle of a herd of trained elekks he’s actually safer here than he was a moment ago. Telurin sits back in his saddle, keeping contact with Sugarfoot’s reins so the big undead horse stays still and doesn’t fidget when Pallas starts channeling the Light.

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 11)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

The Anchorite turns his head on the pillow, looking off to the side. “Maybe… I should settle down?” He sounds conflicted; deep down, he knows Telurin can’t settle. The death knight would always be drawn to battle. “But… I want… to be… your Anchorite.”

“Sa, sa, Pallas, we’ll speak about it in the morning. You’re not going anywhere for a while, we’ll have time.” Telurin stands, still holding Pallas’s hand, leaning over him to kiss his forehead and set his hand back down at his side. “You should try and rest. I’ll be just in the next room; now that you’re safe I would prefer to be clean, and get this filth off of my armor before it rusts.”

There’s a small bathroom attached to their room, and Telurin leaves the door open so Pallas can see him as he begins to strip off his armor to clean it and himself.

Pallas relaxes, comforted by Telurin's easy words and sweet kiss. He turns his head to watch the death knight begin to undress himself.

"Motaanos and Grigore," he exclaims suddenly, remembering their companions out of the blue. "What happened to them? Are they alright?"

“In the opposite room.” Telurin says from the bath, leaning back to look at Pallas with only his leg plates and greaves still in place, his chest bare. “Grigore is not well, but then I suspect he never was to begin with.”

Pallas breathes a sigh of relief. "I suppose they have you to thank for their rescue, as well?" he replies with a small smile, his mood improving now that he knows they are all safe.

“Motaanos played his part well.” Telurin replies, letting that be the end of the matter. After countless years of caring for armor, he’s quickly done with its cleaning, and after a quick rinse off himself he returns to Pallas’s side with damp hair and wearing nothing more than a fresh pair of black pants pulled from his saddlebags. He refills Pallas’s glass of water and stands over him while he drinks it, to refill it yet again and set it on the nightstand within the Anchorite’s reach.

Telurin, in this moment, seems to Pallas to be the most beautiful man in existence. He's aware of the fact that he is profoundly lucky to have been taken out of the state he was in alive, fortunate to have the help of a healer who could erase at least the physical evidence of what had happened to him. 'I didn't think I could fall in love any more that I was. I suppose that was a foolish sentiment.'

The Anchorite wanted to do more, to kiss this man, to show him how dearly he is valued, but he finds that he's tired. "Sit close to me?" he asks quietly, his eyes already drooping.

“I will do more than that…” Telurin replies, and settles down next to Pallas on the bed, gathering him up in his arms and stroking his hair and horns till the Anchorite falls asleep.

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 9)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

They got to a settlement late in the afternoon, where Telurin all but demanded rooms at the inn and in his grim-faced and gore-covered state, no one disagreed with him. Motaanos had healed Pallas enough to be stable, enough that though his injuries were grievous, Telurin felt confident in waiting for the more experienced Belaar rather than trust him to an unknown healer. The death knight hovered, paced in the room Pallas had been laid in, his shod hooves leaving marks in the hardwood floors as he paced.  

The little group had settled in a cozy draenic inn in a border village on the easternmost edge of Talador. Motaanos and Grigore occupy one room, and Telurin and Pallas the room next door. The death knight is indeed terrifying in his grimness and the inn workers were sent scrambling to accommodate him and his companions.

After Calamity had been stabled and watered, Motaanos strips himself of his armor and passes out on his half of the bed within minutes, having not slept for the better part of two days. Although Grigore is in no small amount of pain, he rests quietly, contemplating the heavy hoof-falls of the death knight pacing in the next room.

Tucked into the bed by Telurin, Pallas sleeps. He looks bruised and small.

After a time, there’s a knock at Telurin’s door. An inn worker has brought water and the offer of dinner. She notices the battered Anchorite laying in the bed behind his armored form, and although the death knight is plenty scary right now, she’s able to hesitantly ask Telurin if he would like the services of a local healer.

Telurin takes the water and refuses both dinner and healer, curt and to the point. He nearly shuts the door in the poor inn worker’s face. The next few hours are spent with Telurin alternating carefully dripping water into Pallas’s mouth and pacing, wearing his worry into the floor. Did the crow make it before it decomposed? He had to believe it did, and that Belaar would see the gravity of the situation and make haste to join them.

It was late, well into the small hours of the morning when there was a knock at the door, and the presence was strong enough that Telurin knew who it was before he even opened the door.

“How long has it been?” Belaar asked, pushing past him and into the room, headed straight for Pallas. Before he even touched the other Anchorite he turned to ask, “Who else has healed him?”

“Vindicator Motaanos and Death Speaker Grigore, the latter of whom was also taken, but looked to be in much better shape.” Wasn’t catatonic, Telurin meant, but he knew Belaar would find the meaning in his memories.

Belaar wrinkles his nose and exhales a dissatisfied breath, and turns his attention to his patient. He deals with the external first, healing bruises, encouraging cuts and whip marks to close, burning away the infection that was already beginning to set in. He doesn’t push Pallas’s body to heal all of the wounds, to do so in one session of healing would put too much strain on Pallas for no reason. He heals the worst of it, applies a pain suppression to the ache of lingering bruises, now pink and blue instead of purple and black, before even touching Pallas’s mind. This way, Pallas should at some level feel someone has tended to his body, and it will give him more credence to work with when he begins to coax the other Anchorite out of the walls his mind has put up.

“I need you on his other side, Telurin.” Belaar says to the hovering death knight, who quickly moves to do as requested. Deftly Belaar reaches out to catch Telurin’s mind with his own before he sets his fingertips to Pallas’s temples and begins to feel his way around the barriers Pallas has retreated behind.

Pallas. Belaar’s mental voice is steady, projecting calm as he works over every inch of the other Anchorite’s mental shielding, preferring to exploit a weakness in them that’s already there rather than pry Pallas out with more direct means. You are safe, Pallas. He repeats this mantra as he systematically feels his way over the other man’s shields.

Belaar would be able to sense that Pallas’s consciousness is indeed behind a wall, or as it appears in the dreamlike mental space, he has drowned underneath a black sea of water.

‘Master Belaar?’ Pallas’s mind responds from somewhere underneath the water questioningly.

The mental space shifts, similarly to that of a dream. There stands now a perfectly smooth, impossibly high black fortress wall that reaches to the sky. A small, glowing crack can be seen in the wall upon closer inspection. Beyond the crack seeps a golden light. Belaar’s consciousness is invited to pass through the crack.

Belaar reaches for Telurin’s mind, pulls it in along with him, layering his own shields over Telurin’s mind as well, as he steps into Pallas’s mental landscape and escape from the world. From what he’d gleaned from Telurin’s mind, the presence of the death knight will go a long way toward convincing Pallas it is safe to venture out, so long as Belaar can convince him that they are real, and not figments of his imagination.

The twin moons of Draenor are shining in a deep blue sky. Puffy cumulus clouds rise in majestic creamy puffs of cerulean and pink. Belaar’s consciousness stands in a verdant field of blooming flowers. Birds sing and the leaves of trees rustle with the fragrant spring breeze.

Everything in the vision is represented with hyper realistic clarity to the senses, except for what isn’t, the ends of the field and the clouds blurring into oblivion.

Not far away, standing on a hill overlooking a green valley, shaded under the branches of a great, gnarled old tree, stands Pallas. He is unhurt in his vision, the emanation of his consciousness radiating a soft light. He is dressed in pristine silver robes, and carries a bouquet of flowers.

Just behind the Anchorite, sheltered underneath the tree, is a grave. There is a simple headstone, elegantly carved in a gentle geometric arc in the draenic fashion. Bouquets and clusters of flowers are placed all around, and the grandfather tree drops rust-colored leaves upon it.

Telurin heads toward the scene, not waiting for Belaar, who follows him more slowly, though without the stiffness to his gait that is present in the physical realm. As Telurin climbs the hill in his customary plate, sparkling clean without the gore that covered it still, Belaar takes his time to carefully observe the scenery of Pallas’s mental landscape, looking for insight to his mental state. The fact that it’s so clear is a good sign, though the almost painful sharpness of the edges bespoke a deep pain. Belaar set about subtly smoothing those edges, bringing the world back into a more realistic focus, something he doesn’t think Pallas will notice as Telurin reaches him and calls his name.

“Pallas…” Telurin says, reaching out to the Anchorite’s softly shining form, but not quite connecting. Compared to Pallas, Telurin was shrouded in shadows that clung to the edges of his plate.

Pallas's back had been turned, facing the monument when the consciousness of Telurin approached. The priest turns around when he hears the death knight call him. His eyes widen in shock, the bouquet of flowers he was holding falling softly to the grass below. "Telurin?"

Pallas steps forward in disbelief, his arms widening to receive the shaded form of Telurin even as he tries to comprehend what he's seeing. "But... how? Am I imagining this? I saw you fall with the boulders..." The sight of the death knight standing before him is a powerful one, and even in his confusion, Pallas embraces him tightly and without hesitation, his softly glowing arms bright against the black shadows like a natural yin and yang.

“Death Knights are surprisingly hard to kill.” Telurin laughs ruefully, and wraps his arms around Pallas. “I managed to convince Motaanos to heal me enough to go after you. You are safe, Pallas, and you need to wake up.”

Pallas melts into Telurin's embrace even as he questions whether what he's experiencing is real. "But..." His response sounds like the sort of thing Telurin would say. The Anchorite looks up into Telurin's face, then at his pristine, clean armor. With their minds in such close rapport, the death knight would be able to tell that Pallas is studying him for dents, damage or gore, and becoming concerned when he sees none of these things.

Pallas clings harder to Telurin's armor. "I could be imagining you," he says shakily. "I thought I'd... I wasn't going to do that. Make you appear."

“And did you imagine me as well?” Belaar says, direct and to the point. “I’d be flattered, of course, but I can assure you he - and I - are real, not figments of your imagination.” He stops an arms length away from them, looking relaxed in a way he never did when he was standing.

“This is a dreamscape, Pallas.” Telurin adds, his tone careful and patient. “Out there,” He tilts his head toward the distant wall that borders the space, indicating the limits of Pallas’s mind, “You’ll find what you’re looking for. I haven’t left your side except to scrape the worst of it off, so that I didn’t scare the innkeeper too badly.”

"Master Belaar!" Pallas blinks with surprise, then briefly makes a wry smile at his mentor's dry comments. He realizes the two of them must be here due to Belaar's mental ability.

At Telurin's explanation, though, his face takes on a worried cast. "If I wake up... What will I see?" He places a hand to his chest. "Was I... disfigured? I remember a cage, and a horrible orc..."

The essence of Pallas hides against Telurin's shadowed chest. For a dark moment, he starts to recall the things that were done to him at the orcs' hands. Around them, the Shadowmoon landscape begins to lose its color and clarity. The edges of things grow softer, more blurry, as if they were viewed through a rain-spattered pane of glass. The bright colors fade to monochromatic, starting at the furthest edge and slowly edging inward. It's as if the scene itself is losing its tangibility and light, slowly being swallowed up by darkness. "I'm frightened."