#Solendis

[thepilgrimofwar]

Pure of Heart

Solendis waited in the guest wing, seated by the fire in the common room. He waited, not for the usual staging of a diplomatic talk, or to speak about strategy from the war room. He waited for something more important than any of that. He waited for the boy, who seemed to be dragging his family off-track.

“Evening Mr. Bladeborn,” he said when Vissehn finally appeared. The Steward had heard him and his son laughing on the roof tops, drunk and high off Bloodthistle. Thankfully, only the House Huards had been around to bear witness to this. Lest his son’s reputation be besmirched.

The hallways seemed smeared with light; his pupils blown wide, Vissehn wondered if he touched one, if perhaps his hand might also become so brilliant and glowing. His laughter chimed through as he ambled-- staggered-- towards the guest wing. 

It had been a bloody success; he had brought down the cold and sad walls he had seen springing up around Stenden’s heart and head, crashed into them like a meteor of bawdy songs and pilfered liquor, and now the boys laughter played over in his mind, shining like a new coin. If he’d been robbed of a boyhood, well, he would lend some of that to another; find the kindred spirit beneath the stuffy layers of velvet and linen and silk, bear it and bask in finally not being alone.

Neither of them needed any more years being alone in their youth.

He careened into the common room, he wasn’t even looking to the crackling flames. Vissehn had only eyes for windows, and stars. In that candid moment, before he knew of the other man, his youth revealed like so much bare skin, he was every inch the vagabond he had espoused-- wind tousled hair, cheeks freckled and high in color, the acrid scents of liquor and thistle a cloud around his shambles of an outfit. 

When he heard the voice, he turned hard on a heel, spinning almost comically towards his chosen surname. “Oi, Steward Emberheart?” Vissehn saluted breezily, squinting a moment to make sure he had the right man. “Cor, you look like yer brother in this light, almost thought I was seein’ ghosts!” He grinned, his good mood taking even the barbs out of his jests.

Solendis folded his arms, taking measure of the man- no- the boy in front of him. He did not like what he saw. This was Stenden’s agent of choice. True, Vissehn was a capable killer, a proven agent that had served greater names than theirs in the past, but all in all, the boy in front of him was a bad influence. He made Stenden forget his station, the decorum that separated nobility from the commoners- and possibly the only thing that held the Emberglades together.

“Enjoying yourself?” He spoke firm, arms folded, ears flat against his skill and a gaze that only disapproving parents could muster. “You may have free run of the house as my son’s agent, but don’t for one second believe that you’re free to do as you please- without consequences.” Solendis rose to his feet, towering slightly over Vissehn. “I understand that you believe you are helping Stenden by…” he made an offhanded gesture at the roof. “Relaxing. But you are doing the complete opposite.”

Vissehn looked up at his friends father as he rose, one brow lifting to that jaunty arch that made the youth look puckish and fey. Solendis was a tall man; taller than Vissehn and certainly bore down with the paternal disapproval that had likely cowed Stenden in his more playful years. The light of his evening was dimmed in the derision he heard in Solendis' tone, but not with shame. "Yeah, you got good liquor down in the cellar and bad locks to go with them. Sounds like a mighty enjoyable evening to me."

Eyes glittering with that cold mirth, he let his lips curl up in that wicked grin. "Naw, see, the plans to let him get all cozy comfy an then ruin th'Emberglades by exposing that their Lord is--" he gasped theatrically. "A fuckin' lad who wanted to live a little! Gods an' ghosts, whatever'll everyone do? Carry on with all their lives cause it don't fucking matter if a boy has a moment to hisself?" He snorted and tossed his name of golden hair. "Consequence, hoo M'lord I'm just a peasant brat what didn't get that stirling education, you'll have to use smaller words than that." He feigned a poor imitation of woe, the light never leaving his eyes as he already turned to walk off.

Solendis maintained his composure, sticking to his condescending gaze of disappointment. But as Vissehn began to walk off, he raised his voice. “You’re a smart boy, educated or not, so listen to me. Stenden cannot afford to be a boy, not now, not ever. I’m not sure where you’ve lived exactly, but the entire system that holds the Emberglades together is predicated on the ideas of nobility- exclusivity- the right to rule because we are a cut above the rest. Let the people see him the boy he is and not their Lord, and you’ll have what we have now, only ten-fold.”

The bark of authority in Solendis words made Vissehn straighten-- though perhaps not for the intended reason. Hackles raised and blood thick with liquor and assurance, he turned and closed the distance faster than his stumbling in the hall had would indicate. 

This close to the man, Vissehn could see the weight of years in the lines around his eyes, the necessities he had born in the name of the Emberglades; he’d been illused and run up by wars and ledgers and lost causes. In other times, Vissehn might have sheathed his bladed tongue and let the man go on with his platitudes and his conceptions, but alcohol made truth out of anger and the commonborn youth had so much truth in him.

“Cut above?” His grin pulled sideways. “Oh, fancy that, cut above. See, even piss drunk an’ half blind from thistle I shoulda never mistook you for Sederis, cause there was a bloke that knew the truth in it, didn’t he?” Vissehn’s words were sharp with laughter. “Ain’t a single soul of us better than the dirt we’ll die in, save by the deeds done on it, not the blood we’re born of.” He canted his head and let his gaze streak over Solendis. 

His following snort showed how much he thought of the inspection. “Your father seems to have ‘predicated’ that he was right to rule by sowin’ more graves than any other fucker; how his get carry on is on them, I figure.”

“My father sowed those graves so he could reap almost three centuries of peace!” Solendis responded to Vissehn’s snort. “And there is more blood that has yet to be spilled to let Stenden enjoy three hundred more. Leave it up to people like you and we’d still be a wartorn backwater, stabbing each other over better plots dirt. Content to accept your lot, and do as you please. No ambition to change things for the better! Nothing beyond what can be touched and felt on the morrow!”

Solendis threw his arm out to his side, gesturing at the manor and everything that surrounded it. The fields, the villages, and for now, the soldiers that were fighting on their behalf from all over Quel’thalas. “So yes, we are a cut above the rest. Because building a better tomorrow is more important that the price we pay today. That was something Sederis understood, before the end. It is that, which puts Stenden a cut above the rest.”

“Which includes you.” He brought his arm back round and pointed his finger at him, the distance now close enough to bring his fingers inches from his chest. “You more you remind him that he’s a boy, free to do as he pleases, the more you drag him down to your level. Keep it up and he’ll be back to square one- No one will bear an ounce of respect for him. His words will carry no weight as they did at the start. And I’d sooner be damned before watching him get humiliated- and underestimated like that again.”

Sobriety was the better part of wisdom, and even when not a bottle or more in, Vissehn could not be called wise. “Like me, eh?” His voice was low and soft, a shadow coming to those bright eyes. “And what the fuck do you think you know about me?”

He was in Solendis space then, closing that distance so that the finger extended pressed against the fabric of his tunic. “I know your lot-- a merchants lad’ll break your bones, a lords son’ll bury the lot. I know how many of my cousins had long ears after their mums spent a spell as maid in a manor. That’s how you shape your tomorrows-- kill the kind that don’t match, or if you’re feelin’ charitable, just fuck it into them. You all pretend to some greatness, somethin’ pure and noble of the blood, but I seen what your lot do when no one important is lookin, and your kind is as base as mine. Leastwise we don’t have the gall to claim ourselves any mans betters.” The deep hate in him seeped out into his words, and he pushed forward so the finger jabbed hard against the fabric. “That you think Stenden’s greatness has got anything to do with Mereded, or you, or this bloody manor and name-- that’s where you’re wrong.”

Vissehn grabbed Solendis’ wrist, his lean and long fingers gripping tight enough to show the strength of the boy but not yet painful. “I’ve bled and killed for better tomorrows-- cut enough short for others to know the weight of a future and how little it really is. Stenden’s got a greatness to him, but it’s not been inherited from warlords or passed on by cuckolded politicians. He’s got vision, a heart big enough to carry the burdens of his ancestors an’ a mind canny enough to know when to hold fast or when to fold.”

He released Solendis, shaking his hand as though he had touched something filthy. “Everyone ‘round here got their heads so full of shite, Emberheart, Illithia, sayin’ names like they got weight behind the letters somewhere. You want a son at the end of this? Stay out of my way. Elsewise Emberglades’ll get a Lord, for certain-- one without a soul. I’ve looked into the eyes of the livin’ dead, and I’d take on a scourge and a legion afore I have to see another home lost to a man whose got more nobility than soul.”

Solendis rubbed his wrists, “Then I’m afraid to say that such horrors await you.” The Steward spoke evenly, knowing better to test the patience of an impulsive drug addled youth- With a body count to his name. “Maybe not now, maybe not for a hundred more years. But when Stenden is a boy no longer, you’ll find that he’ll sell his soul on his own accord. Because you are absolutely right. You are right. Stenden has greatness to him, he’s growing into it right now, but all great rulers understand that a soul must be sacrificed to rule-.”

He let his arm sink to his sides. “To rule well with kindness, and justice. To put his people first. That leaves no space for himself or the baseness you seek to encourage.” 

Then his hands clenched into fists. “You claim I know nothing of you? Well, touché Mr. Bladeborn- or whatever your namesake truly is! I am not those men who inflicted misery upon you and yours, they are not my lot!” He thrusts a finger at Stenden’s office, still glowing with candlelight within. “HE is my lot. Stenden, Riah, even my brother, THEY are my lot. We live, trying to undo the sins of our fathers, to make the blood they spilled and injustices they wrought WORTH it.”

Solendis pushes himself forward, folding his arms once more. “So, you tell me to stay out of your way? Let my son live a little? Indulge in his desires? Your way will turn Stenden into one of those Lordlings you hate.”

“He doesn’t have to sell shit!” Vissehn roared, losing the thin threads of control he had on himself. His hands shot forward, clawed to grab Solendis by his tunic but at the last moment he jerked his hands back as though burnt. “You can be kind an’ good an’ still have power-- The High Cleric, The Knight Commander-- you can take lives an’ still be good, and real. Don’t need a title, don’t need a-- a legacy to protect. You’re gonna kill him an’ not even have a body to mourn!” 

He ran his hands through his hair manically, laughing roughly. “You’re offering your fuckin-- your fucking son-- for a future that you can’t even see is all going to shite! You’re layin’ him on an altar and lettin’ the world go in with the knife. Gods, I might as well be fuckin’ trying to reason with Her!” 

The eyes that turned on Solendis were thick with undisguised disgust. “He ain’t your lot. You might have gotten him on his mother, but he’s got more of Sederis in him, an’ that means he can be more than you’re giving credit for.”

Vissehn turned away and rubbed his face, exhausted from the anger he’d let fly. He was a tall youth but he was so lean, hungry in every sense and it showed in the way the light flickered over the sharp edges of his cheeks and the faint hollows beneath. His head pounded, the lights were all too much, and he’d thought of Her for the first time in-- in too long. “You’re not my employer, an’ until the time Stenden sends me off like th’nothin I am, I’m his. However long he’s got a soul burnin’ in there, he’s got me.” The weight of the declaration settled in his soul, and he realized he meant it. “You want to know the ilk who is swearing themselves to your lad?” The words tumbled out before his reason and self preservation could stop them.

“Vissehn, once of the Hawk.” He shrugged and let his grin return, still wicked but dimmed. “My deals-- my vows-- are good.”

Solendis gives a moment for his confession to sink in. “Ah, so,” he speaks after taking in its meaning. The rumors were true. He had heard whisperings after looking to Zarannis’ background and the tribe of Tel’dorei that she had spent the best years of her youth with- The Hawk Tribe. The boy was Unwelcomed- Exiled- Dead in the eyes of his clansmen. “We could never confirm if you wore the mark that all Exiles of your kind wear. But I see where all that spite comes from.”

His arms unfold, reaching for his chin, a calculating look flashing in his eyes. “Very well. I think there’s no point on harping-on on what’s already been said. You belong to my son’s retinue. You say you’re good on your promises- Then good. Serve him well. Just know that Stenden, like Sederis before him, understood the meaning and value of sacrifice. It’s only a matter of time before he offers his soul to the Emberglades.”

Vissehn did not look back as he left Solendis in the common room, the stifflegged walk to his own rooms too long by far. Solendis had no answer from the youth to that parting volley, only the seething quiet of rage contained poorly behind clenched teeth. Vissehn slammed his door, knowing it would only cement whatever the man thought of him and finding he wanted to prove every base thought true this time. Let them think him a roustabout; a good for nothing witches get. He was and worse, for all they would ever know of him.

When the door closed, though, he slumped against the wood, hand rising to catch at his collar.

In the dark spanse of his suite, he stared. He stared until the shadows held no mystery, until the ghosts and monsters summoned with just Her thought had dissipated into vapor and paranoia. Only when he was sure, only when the lock slid I to place and the windows shuttered against the night, did he settle on the overstuffed coverlet. 

Vissehn pulled up the tunic, palm grazing the fabric of the binding beneath. His fingers pushed between the layers of bandage, and he twisted until his breath came short and his vision swam.

People like you.

You’re the first real friend I’ve had Viss.

He threw himself down on the bed, eyes closed as he tried to find the moment under the stars, the burn in his belly.

Instead, the press of Solendis finger seemed to burn instead, the judgement lingering long after the night and sleep claimed Vissehn, once-of-the-Hawk.

--

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel

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Awesome sol En Verre Leroy Merlin

Awesome sol En Verre Leroy Merlin

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[pursehouse-blog1]

Awesome sol En Verre Leroy Merlin

Awesome sol En Verre Leroy Merlin

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[thepilgrimofwar]

Warplanning 2 - Edited Roll20 Log

[Backdated from after Breaking the Line & The Wintergales, and before The Whole Hog]

[Event Start]

Days had passed since the start of the civil war and the weight of it all seemed to bear down upon the members of house Emberheart. Dark rings could be seen beneath the eyes of Solendis and his son Stenden. Sleep did not come easy for either of them. One, worrying about the life of his son, the other, worrying about the lives of his people. The Lord and his Steward both did what they thought was best, but so far, had nothing to show for it apart from the coalition that gathered before them.

Judereth and Relriah had both opted to stay on the frontlines with the other officers at the head of their militiamen. Keeping up the fight against Illithia as they gained ground from their initial winnings. Zarannis too had decided to stay on a frontline of her own, keeping an eye and ear on Mediea Wintergale, and speaking with her sister Illsei. She believed that decisions moving forward were left to those ready to make them and as the party gathered in the War-Room the unfolding of what was to come would soon become clear.

[Banter]

Thanidiel spends a long, long, drawn-out moment staring at Beathyn particularly. Then to Renalays. Then to Beathyn. Just Beathyn. Her long platinum brows entrench in the polar opposite of 'pleasure.'

Kebha is about as focused as she's ever going to be, which is not a lot. Her ear flicks as Thanidiel edges closer.

Lirelle looks between Renalays and the woman on the opposite side of her. She looks askance at Thanidiel briefly before turning to the inquisitor. "What are you doing here?"

Thanidiel definitely seems to prefer the Illidari over the -Inquisitor.-

Ethalarian sits with his arms folded over his chest, leaned back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table like the uncouth dirt farmer he is.

Stenden looks across the table to all the officers who came today. The rest were seeing to their troops at the front no doubt. "Thank you all for coming." The boy gestured to the walls where briefings and reports on the major players in the conflict. "If you need to get up to speed, especially for the new comers, feel free to have a gander." He said, in reference to the Inquisitor and the Illidari who both seemed to cause tension with their very existence in the war room.

Vissehn yawns and scratches under his arm, looking unkempt and delightfully uncouth. He waves to the others, before listening to Stenden with the fullness of his short attention span.

Kebha seems to be absolutely oblivious to this tension- but then, she also doesn't see a problem with her eating habits. She instead chooses to bounce on her heels, 'looking' down the table at the assembled lot.

Vissehn:"Oi, hail scary Inquisitor lady. Eat any babies t'day?"

Renalays:"Sir Valcinder -humbly- requested my presence here on behalf of the Lord Emberheart here. Not that it has been an inconvenience; the Inquisitors have been... sorting the Kingdom province by province, as it were."

"Are you offering?"

Vissehn makes a show of warding off danger, feigning a stricken look.

[Planning Starts Proper, Summary of Turn 1]

Solendis:"So now that we're all gathered: Goodember is in our custody. The frontline against his realm of Shalemarch is holding for now. The Illithian front has gone well thanks to your efforts- And House Wintergale has, just last night, declare their loyalty and support."

Thanidiel:"I assume Fish saved the day in the Cloudrend Glades?" That's a veiled insult.

Lirelle:"Hm. Wasn't aware you knew each other."

Thanidiel:"Don't."

Renalays:"Are you ashamed of your service, Phoenix Guard Highdawn? No matter - this is not the time to coddle or press egos."

Beathyn clears his throat loudly and dramatically, attempting to keep some ensemble of order on Solendis' behalf. "As per our agreement that we came to," he gestures towards the compatriots of the diplomatic team of Vissehn and Renalays. "He will be providing us verbal support and access through the Cloudrend Glades. He won't however, be providing soldiers for the war effort unless he is attacked by House Illithia directly."

Isilos raises an eyebrow at the mention of his Nephew's organization before slienlly returning to the table and ignoring the rabble.

Lirelle squints at this weird shared history. Right.

Thanidiel stares at the Inquisitor for a steady moment - the vile burning bright in her felfire eye before she huffs and focuses on the report. "That's good," she can -at least- claim.

Thanidiel:"It would be harder if we had to drag him by his ancient ear from skirmish to skirmish."

Stenden:"Going by how old he is, that ear might come off."

Thanidiel:"Withdrawing support whenever things bothered him again would have struck the morale."

Lirelle:"It saves us the trouble of having one last player to deal with after this is over. As long as he keeps his word."

Kebha loses interest in the table, and retreats to crouch on those lovely chairs right there like some kind of weird, folded gremlin. She can hear just fine from here thanks.

Solendis gave his son a LOOK. Which chided him back to a more official tone.

Vissehn:"He's piss-scared of throwin' lots. Wants to be independent an' his own entity."

Vissehn shoots a look to Solendis, and murmurs to Stenden.

Ethalarian 's eyes flick back and forth between Renalays and Thanidiel, but he doesn't seem interested in saying or doing much. Above his paygrade, probably.

From Vissehn: "Might rip off half his face wivit, yeah? He'd look a right horror, like from Northrend."

Renalays:"Exactly. Complacency is what we need from your people. Not a... tenuous simulation of it."

[Wintergale gives nominal support]

Stenden folded his arms. "So, what should we do about this development. Before we move on to... Other affairs that need dealing with." Stenden looked to the military minds at the table.

Esheyn also chooses not to get involved in... any of that. She folds her arms across her chest, listening silently.

Lirelle:"Zarannis will keep him in line, one way or another. There are other things more important for now."

Oosaarn released a frosted breath into the air with a snort. "Don't suppose they would simply follow whoever kills their leader."

Beathyn flings his arms into the air at Oosaarn's comment. "That's what I kept saying!"

Renalays:"Inefficient."

Beathyn gives a look at Renalays.

Oosaarn:"It's the only way Warsong decide who's right."

Renalays:"The Sin'dorei do not rally as easily as the other cultures of the Horde."

Kebha perks up at that- that was what she was good at. The killing thing. The talking thing, not so much.

Renalays:"They would spend weeks, if not months, fixing together all of their pieces into a different puzzle with different names."

Ethalarian exhales a long sigh through his nose.

Renalays:"Less energy dedicated to -killing.-"

Oosaarn:"Just saying. The other person can't win the argument if they can't argue."

Vissehn jerks a thumb towards Renalays. "His death can wait til the present unpleasantness is done."

Solendis:"So, logically speaking. We could start up a Western front against Illithia. Only real question is, how much ought we invest into this- and does the Coalition wish to be part of it- Rather than continuing to advance as they are now against the more defensible frontlne."

Thanidiel:"A token force would demonstrate 'allyship' between Wintergale and Emberheart."

"Otherwise, I doubt Illithia has interest in traversing the Cloudrend Glades either."

Stenden tapped his finger on the map. "So, a token force. Diversion perhaps to draw numbers away from the east?"

Thanidiel:"Possibly. It's easy to feign numbers."

Thanidiel:"Tie branches to the horses' tails, burn more fires than there are squadrons every night. Yes?"

Lirelle:"If you intend to create a diversion, you still send -enough- men to handle being a diversion."

Renalays gestures her gloved hand in Thanidiel's direction. For both seeming to -dislike- each other, they're almost speaking like two halves of the same weapon.

[Muroco offers Rockhoof Guerilla Warfare.]

Muroco:"I can act as a diversion."

Thanidiel:"Honestly I like that."

Oosaarn:"I would like to see the Grimtotem acting like a diversion."

Stenden looks at Muroco. "I'm listening." His ears perked up at the sound of that.

Thanidiel:"He counts for thirty of your ill-fed Northerners."

Lirelle:"That is honestly not a terrible idea."

Muroco bangs his fist on Mammoth with a resounding thud. "Your locals aren't used to seeing someone like me, and they haven't seen Grimtotem tactics before."

Ethalarian arches a brow in the big Tauren's direction. "I didn't realize smashing everything in sight to a pulp was tactics." He scratches at his chin. "It works for you, though."

From Lirelle: you could do an event for mark when hes got free time since he's not around as much

Thanidiel:"Grimtotem are quite known for guerrilla warfare amongst the Shu'Halo."

Oosaarn:"It's called psychological warfare."

Muroco:"They're going to smash themselves into a pulp against me."

Oosaarn:"And also regular warfare."

Stenden:"It'll spread our forces more thin, but if you believe you can do so, I can give you one division of troops for support. If you can instruct them- I am certain they will be very useful to you."

From Lirelle: or he can write a story cause he's really good with those, you can talk with him imo

Kebha nods in the background. "The big one is good."

Muroco is now a leader of fledgling guerilla fighters to-be.

[The Fate of Nelio Goodember]

Stenden turns their attention back to the front. "So. Now onto the other matter at hand. Nelio Goodember."

Renalays:"Ah, you have contained the fat bastard?"

Oosaarn:"Horrible name."

Renalays:"His petition records at the Magistrate annoy me."

Kebha subtly perks up, resting her cheek in a clawed hand and looking like she might actually be paying attention.

Vissehn beamed. "I dangled him off a balcony!"

Nelio Goodember is dragged into the room, bound, but not gagged. "UNHAND ME!" he screeches as he gets shoved onwards into the corner of the war room.

Renalays:"Did you break your wrist in the process or did your youthful years prepare you for that?"

"Hello there, Lord Goodember."

Lirelle:"Oh for fucks sake. Who thought it was a good idea to drag him in here?"

Vissehn laughs at Renalays, brows waggling at her.

Kebha literally hisses at the loud bastard.

Oosaarn:"You're surrounded by enemies. And at least half of us don't so much as blink at the idea of removing someone's head. Best to keep a silver tongue."

civil*

Thanidiel:"What the orc said. Shut your jowls."

Solendis gives a wry smile. "My idea, I think it was best to let him listen to his fate as he's decided- and to plead his case accordingly." He walks up to Nelio. "Hello friend."

Lirelle sighs. Fucking diplomats man.

Ethalarian glances up and leans forward to take a peek around Esheyn at the bicc boi currently dragged into the room. He grunts and then goes back to being a grouch and leaning back. Exactly what he figured one of these northerners to look like.

Nelio Goodember pouts and shuts up for now. Not wanting to aggravate the warriors with a blood thirsty reputation. "Well?"

Vissehn waves to Nelio. "Oi! Nice seein' ye again! Thanks fer cushioning my landin!"

Oosaarn just... marched right up to the trio and sized up Goldmember. "Could untie him and let my worgs chase him around until he feels like being cooperative."

Esheyn glances to Ethalarian with a shrug as he takes a better look around her. She comes to lean against the table when she turns to face Goodember and the others, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Kebha:"He looks like he would make good crackling, no?"

Vissehn elbows Stenden. "See, I got manners."

Stenden speaks up. "So. I've been told I should execute you."

Nelio Goodember visibly sweats as the orc steps up to him. "W- Worgs?"

Oosaarn:"Yes. Giant wolves. Worth ten of your pitiful chickens."

Thanidiel:"I'll repeat myself and my say that I dislike the concept of killing him if we can use him. Shove him back in the dungeon with his House's seal and give him a treat every time he stamps off orders for his people on our behalf."

Ethalarian throws a hand up and shakes his head in Esheyn's direction. "You could also let Muroco just step on him a little at a time." He tips his chair back on two legs now. "Unbroken bones make for good bargaining chips."

Muroco:"True."

"I could break the bones he can live without."

Kebha:"Ooooh! Can we hear his toes crunch?"

Oosaarn:"Mokra hasn't tasted elven flesh since the second war."

Muroco:"He's too corpulent. He won't put up much of a race against worgs."

Solendis:"Bargaining chip sounds the most useful. But by not just having his head- I fear we will be sending the wrong message about how we see traitors."

Vissehn looks to Stenden. "What you wanting for him?"

Vissehn:"You're the Lord here, we're offerin' the peanut gallery of commentary."

Thanidiel:"Fish has a point for you, Lordling. In the end, we stand by your choices whether they feed us or burn us." That's... not comforting in spite of the -fervent- loyalty expressed.

Ethalarian visibly cringes. Smooth, Thanidiel.

Stenden looks at Vissehn, and at the man that was visibly shrinking by the moment into the corner of the room. "I'll hear everything at my disposal first. What I want is for the realm to stop tearing itself apart- and how we handle this... Traitor, will determine that." He gives his agent a nod. Wait, see. For now at least, he supposed. 

Thanidiel doesn't seem concerened at all. 

[Judereth Swiftquiver nominated to rule Shalemarch]

Lirelle:"He has no worth to us as a prisoner, he is simply consuming resources. What Highdawn said is made much more smoother if someone else is in charge of Shalemarch. Someone capable. And loyal."

Renalays:"Do you have a recommendation then, Lady Dawnbrook?"

Solendis snaps his fingers at Lirelle. "What was that? Who would that be?"

Lirelle:"I'm sure you have minor lords that you could elevate to that position, those who have served your family all this time. Failing that, give it to Judereth. She is capable enough, and you no longer have the Black Banner to call on. Someone martial is not out of the question."

Oosaarn:"I offer no useful advice except that which entertains me. Former general. Not diplomat."

Nelio Goodember sweats more.

Renalays:"Judereth is an individual that the State would appreciate in control of Shalemarch."

"She has merit and war to her."

Kebha hasn't a sane thought in her head, she is not the one to be asking.

Solendis scratches his chin. "That would work. She's known to the peasants as a good leader too."

Solendis:"So where does that leave you?" he looks at about to-be-not-Lord Goodember.

Renalays:"It sets the tone as well for your government, I will preface, however, Lord Emberheart. Embrace one group to alienate others."

"Although, your uncle and his father before him had no taste for noble-blooded aristocracy and I suspect you have some inkling of that in you."

Vissehn looked to Renalays. "Stenden ain't neither of them, he's willin' to do what it takes."

Nelio Goodember:"I have-" he paused. Gold? That'd be ceased. Influence? In chains? "I have the love of the people? I pulled them from poverty and kept them well cared for in a time of heavy Horde levies- If you remove me, I believe any still loyal are likely to resist the decision!"

Oosaarn:"Want my advice? Side with those whose loyalty and honor are iron. Not sniveling nobles who more likely to respect their dinner plate than you."

Renalays:"I will believe that when he takes after the traditions." She stares plainly at Stenden, "A leader should fight, like the Farstriders who warden and guide us."

Ethalarian rolls his eyes.

Stenden sighed and joined his father. "I am the Emberglades." he says coldly. Looking at Renalays, he gives a small smile and a nod. "I can't please everyone. But I can keep the peace, even if it costs blood."

Thanidiel:"--Lady Illithia spills enough for her family."

Muroco:"Want me to punch him in the stomach for you?"

Stenden frowns but says nothing at Thanidiel's comment.

Lirelle:"Enough Brat. He is a child. If he dies on the front lines, this becomes an even bigger mess than it already is."

Oosaarn:"Too easy of a target."

Vissehn bristles visibly but says nothing.

Ethalarian:"Much as I'm loathe to admit it, the fat bastard raises a valid point." He turns his attention to Lirelle. "How certain are you that this replacement of yours won't have to contend with sedition from within?"

Renalays scoffs behind her white mask - more reigned by Lirelle than anyone else who had barked back at her.

Lirelle:"I don't know, and I don't care. His subjects love his money more than they love him. Any disorganised mob that forms can be easily crushed."

"If necessary I will remain here with the Crows to handle any sort of consequences."

Ethalarian:"Oh, right. Murder more of the common folk. That's always the solution."

Oosaarn:"So take his money for yourself."

Renalays:"If you are going to install your own woman in Shalemarch, then have the process be organised. Order is what comforts the lost."

Thanidiel:"Fish could help there if he doesn't miss the frontlines."

Lirelle:"Common or not, once you take up arms, you have already made your choice."

Thanidiel:"No faster courier and herald in Quel'Thalas."

[Summary]

Stenden stands above Nelio Goodemeber. "I have heard your council," he gives a nod of appreciation to the heroes gathered in his hall. "As Lord of the Emberglades, I hereby strip you of all lands- titles- and assets- They now belong to me to redistribute as I see fit." He says, clear as day. "Bladeborn," Stenden looks back over his shoulder. "Fetch Judereth Swiftquiver. Tell her what has transpired here and that she needs to meet with me immediately." He turns back to Nelio. The man who had severely- Severely- underestimated him. "And you. You will remain in the dungeons. A hostage to your supporters. Hopefully they're not stupid enough to get their 'Lord' killed by rabbling."

Vissehn nods. "I got a way with the lowborn. Bein' one, yanno."

Renalays:"Hmm."

Kebha looks almost disappointed that she's not going to get to murder anything, but she just sighs and taps her claws on her cheek.

Vissehn bows low, silently and obediently, and immediately slips away to do Stenden's bidding.

Renalays does have a glint of what appears to be genuine appreciation of Stenden's mandate - even with that subtle behaviour to the boy's agent.

Nelio Goodember eyes started to water. At least he'd live. Right? Right?

Stenden:"Thank you. All of you. I do appreciate your council."

Thanidiel:"Shall the rest of us push to the western front?"

Oosaarn:"Is that where the fighting is?"

Stenden looks to Muroco. "Especially you, Rockhoof. I have high hopes for your efforts and high hopes that my soldiers will not disappoint you or your methods."

Stenden:"Yes, keep where you are- And when Rockhoof draws more than they can afford away from their lines, it should give you an opportunity to strike once more as you did."

Lirelle mulls over Stenden's ruling. It was at the very least, acceptable. A hostage was not her preferred method of doing things, but it had its own merit at least.

[Event Ends]

[thepilgrimofwar]

Letters

To Ms. Dawnbrook,

I hope you’re making a speedy recovery from your injury. Sederis assured me that the living wood cast that you wear ensures it, but you can never be too sure with the chaotic nature of living magic. I’ll keep this short. I’m writing you about Sederis. I know you don’t usually keep abreast of politics or the going ons of the Emberglades but my brother… He hasn’t been the same ever since you were brought low in combat. He isolates himself in his room, speaks shorter and sharper without a hint of humor, and recently, he got rid of that god awful beard. I don’t know what’s come over him but I fear that he’s losing touch with the world around him and wants nothing to do with it. I’d try to convince him to reconnect with the world, or console him, but I’m afraid we’re not as close as I’d like to be. I know we don’t always see eye to eye on things, but please, I need your help. Though we may be related by blood, Sederis has never seen me as a sibling. But not you. He grew up with you and your sisters in Dawnveil while I studied in Kearn. You’re the closest thing he has to a real sibling, more than I ever will be. I dare say you’re the only family he has left. Please talk to him. Solendis Emberheart, Steward of the Emberglades.

(( @retributionpriest Back dated to May this year, when the both of us were dying of work))

[thepilgrimofwar]

Emissary of the Fallen

She sat alone with her drink in a tavern at the edge of the world. Back to the wall. Eyes focused half on the lukewarm ale and half on the door. The weight of all the war bearing down upon her shoulders.

Die for your country.

Those were Zarannis’ last orders to her Farstriders, as she lay dying in a field of summer flowers. She watched as they disobeyed, screening Fury Company while they still lived, braving the blood and brine from that accursed tide-caster Ralleigh.

Die for your country damn you.

She had sneered then, as she sneered now at her drink. Remembering as Ellinia’s marines stole her body from the wreckage of fallen banners and bodies. But the remnants of the Kestrels kept disobeying- continuing their vigil over their commander until she was safely off the field.

Die like the finest of us. Vicren Springwhisper. Woods. Darsi. Why should you live when the best of us fall?

It was at that battle, where two companies of her finest Farstriders were torn asunder. Fighting to buy time for the Northern Vanguard to retreat. Encircled by the Alliance and dying to a man- except her.

‘Die for your country.’ She had ordered the last captain of the Kestrels. But he had refused. Saving her life and the lives of her comrades.

-

Zarannis laid still, curled into herself, staring at the canvas walls of the field hospital. She had not moved since she had penned her report to the Archon. Of retreat. Of defeat. Hundreds of lives lost, including their Nightborne allies from across the North Sea. 

“You have a visitor,” announced the Oathsworn Dawnmender on duty who ushered in a blood covered Farstrider, bearing the insignia of the Kestrel Lodge on his lapel.

“Kestrel, Ranger Summersong reporting” he saluted his commander who hadn’t bothered to face him. “The casualties have been tallied. Two hundred and fifty nine dead. Hundred and ninety eight wounded. Thirty missing.” There was no response from Zarannis, it was unclear if she was even listening. But that did not seem to bother the company captain in the slightest. He continued counting off their numbers for her benefit. “Fifty three Farstriders remain combat ready. The wounded can be mended and be back in action in a matter of days- Light willing. We await your orders, Kestrel.”

“Stop calling me that,” Zarannis croaked, her throat dry as dust. “The Kestrel lays in an unmarked grave outside Tor’Watha. All real successors lay in pieces under the burnt husk of our Lodge. It’s nothing more than a dead title for a dead man.”

The captain paused, then pulled to him a field chair. Sitting by his commander’s bedside, he spoke softly. “Do you know why The Kestrel lays in that unmarked grave? Because you gathered us up to go after him. Do you know why the rest of us haven’t joined him in the ground? Because you stole us from the Amani. I don’t call you Kestrel because the title fell to you. I do so because we followed your lead. You earned our command.”

“And I commanded you to die,” Zarannis snapped, the disdain made plain in her voice. But the fight soon left her and she curled once more into herself, as if she was in agony.

“And I respectfully disobeyed,” Summersong responded. “Sometimes you need to act against orders in the best interest of your men.”

The words had cut her deeper than she had expected and she lay still once more. “What’s your name Ranger?”

“Keres Summersong.”

“What do you want from me Keres?” Zarannis asked the man, to which the Ranger obliged.

“The final battle at the Sunwell is at hand. It might even already be over. We need our commander. Not just for the Kestrels but the entire Northern Vanguard. Whatever the outcome of the battle, we need to be ready for it.”

Zarannis coughed, the dryness in her throat causing her voice to crack. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you’re a bigger coward than I thought possible.”

“Cowardice?” Zarannis stirred again, fire returning to her. “You think it is cowardice that would make me refuse? Is it cowardice that I won’t throw hundreds of lives away a second time, all for nothing?!” She broke down in a fit of coughing.

“Would you have preferred to throw thousands away? The last battle would have been a slaughter had you not sounded the retreat. Many did not make it out, but I think you fail to realize that you still saved enough of the Vanguard that it still needs leadership.” Keres handed her his waterskin, which she took with a measure of desperation. “Don’t you dare push that responsibility on the rest of us.”

-

“You look nothing like the General of the Northern Vanguard,” Beathyn jested, pulling out a seat for himself before her. “Took longer than I care to admit to track you down.”

Zarannis was pulled back to the present, and the ever warming mug of ale that had long lost its foam top. She gazed at him in her time-lost state, measuring her friend’s features and a cheek-to-cheek smile. She hated him for it. Had he not also led men to their deaths? Had he not also ended the lives of hundreds?

“That,” she sneered. “That was a title I neither asked for or wanted.”

He raised her eyebrow at her. “Then why did you volunteer for it?”

More memories flashed in her mind’s eye, dredging up old promises that she could not keep and people she could not save. 

“Someone had to.” Zarannis looked him in the eyes. “You lost men during the campaign didn’t you?”

The smile on his face faded. “I did.”

“I lost everything that I held dear. The Lodge, the Farstriders, the Tal’dorei who followed me, the Oathsworn of the Northern Vanguard, and the order for which they died for. I lost them all. So I detest the title. It’s tainted with their blood.”

Beathyn held her gaze and matched it with an intensity of his own. A rare sight for those that knew the light-hearted man. “You were among the Waywatcher Assassins. A Farstrider that held the border of the Amani for centuries. Blood is your profession, Zarannis. As it was theirs.”

“Not anymore.” Zarannis turned away, focusing on her drink. “Not a Farstrider, not a General, and not a pawn of Solendis’ schemes. Just a girl.”

“Fair enough,” Beathyn nodded, sliding over an envelope in front of her. “So you can attend this as just-a-girl then.”

Zarannis spied the Emberheart's wax seal. “What is this? A bribe?”

“It’s an invitation,” he replied. “A funeral of a friend.” Beathyn rose to his feet, dusted himself off and rose to his feet. “And that’s all?”

He nodded. “I’ve got to deliver more of these now.” Beathyn turned to leave. “You can head over early. It’s not for another few weeks but I’m sure they won’t mind. They’ve got enough guest beds to put up a garrison.”

-

CC0 Public Domain Image

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @curiouslich @thanidiel @esheyn @thenaaru @forever-afk @cynfuldax @felthier​ @azriah​ @korkrunchcereal​

The Invitations are coming

[thepilgrimofwar]

The Ladies of War

The end was nigh and everyone knew it. Seven thousand troops now marched on Arenias’ fortress by the sea. Banners of every colour arrived daily to join the siege. Reds from the Heartland militia, Greens and Black from Wintergale Volunteers and the Blackbanner Holdouts gathered by Zarannis. Even the Maroons and Blues of Shalemarch & Westheath's own troops, who had been promised amnesty for their service. But more that that, with colours of every kind, were the banners of the Coalition. Troops from all over Quel’thalas and beyond. Knights from other holdings. Famous mercenary companies. Restless orcs from the Warsong. It seemed as if all the world had come to crush the Lordling and his rebellion.

But what spoke louder of the end- more than the seven thousand, more than Beathyn’s cannons, or the assembled war veterans- were the whispers about The Ladies of War.

This wasn’t even the doing of Solendis’ propaganda. If anything, Solendis and his recently liberated printing presses in Kearn had to work to rein in the rumors that were getting out of hand. But it could only do so much to dampen the word-of-mouth, and the morbid reverence the peasants had for The Ladies of War.

There were three.

First was the Lady in Red, Relriah Ilithia, Lady Emberheart, and mother to a son who was almost murdered. A woman possessed by the spirit of vengeance so deeply that she burned incandescent. Turning her from a Lady who had been the perfect wife and mother into a symbol for her allies, and a monster to her enemies. She’d ride into battle, dressed- not in armor- but in a simple red dress. Unafraid of arrows, bolts, bullets, or shrapnel. As if it did not matter if they pierced her body. For she was vengeance incarnate, and her flesh was nothing more than a vessel.

Second was the Lady in White, whose name changed depending on where they spoke of her. She was a tangible contemporary to the fairy tale of her namesake, and just like the folklore, the stories morphed and changed each time they were told. But one singular fact was the same: She had appeared on the horizon upon the wings of a great beast. Then, in a bid against General Serisera’s forces, she called upon the war dead and they had answered. They rose from the ground like bloody ghouls, seeking to once again bring war to a warmonger deserving of their ire.

Last was the Grey Lady, Lirelle Dawnbrook. A phantom of the Phoenix War and known to all the Glades, Lirelle had come back to take the head of the man who broke the peace she had died for. She was singular in her purpose, relentless in her will and it was said that she would not stop until Arenias joined her in death. Now at last, she marched at the head of The Crows to do what they did best: Put down traitorous lords and anyone else who got in their way.

Everyone knew for a fact that whenever one of these ladies appeared on the battlefield, victory was assured. The mere sight of them had sent enemies routing from the field.

Here, at the fortress at the end of the world, all three of them converged. And there was no doubt as to what that meant.

-

Image by IrenHorrors

@retributionpriest​ @stormandozone​ @thanidiel​

[thepilgrimofwar]

Purgatory

It was said that she would be found in the furthest reaches of the South. Far beyond where the long arms of Imperial law could reach. In the lands of Warlords, squabbling over what blighted land they could call theirs if they spilled enough blood on it. 

It was said it was a living nightmare, over there. Where the Phoenix Wars did not end, but continued in miniature. Banners still marched against each other leaving in their wake wastelands of an already wounded land. Where remnants of the Black Bloods drifted out at night like specters over the battlefields, feasting upon the dead.

It was said. That she had gone there to punish herself. 

For the South had become a war scarred hellscape. A fitting purgatory of her own design. The perfect place to bring to an end a life devoted to war.

Beathyn stalked the trenches of an old battlefield that bore no name. It did once, but as the battles here overlapped over and over, it had become a desolate space. Stripped of its meaning by endless earthworks and the bodies of those who built them.

He asked the soldiers around him where he might find her and was met with shrugs. To them, she was just another face in a sea of strangers that came and went from this place as they pleased- when their Lord had paid or failed to pay them.

The agent of the Emberhearts, hugged his shotgun close to his chest, cradling it underneath a water-treated cloak to keep out the damp. He hoped he didn’t have to use it. Crossing paths with a contingent of pikemen, destined to some distant flank, he managed to catch wind of a woman of her description. A Lady of War.

She sat lazily upon the side of a battered barricade, smashed long ago by cannon fire. It gave her a commanding view of the unearthed no-man’s land before her. A cigar between her lips, and elbows resting on the ground. Beathyn approached from incline behind her, looking out at the trenches opposite to theirs.

“Strange choice for retirement,” he said, shotgun still clutched to his chest. “Highdawn.”

“The North despises me and my People reject me,” is the honest answer that rumbles out over the expanse - still managing to project like the same ghosts of artillery fire around them, even when she is so low and her lungs constrained by her own weight.

“This is the closest I can settle Home while keeping peace.” How odd, that the bloodmonger still prizes such a thing. Then she pauses, a long flick of her ear swishing out like some annoyed beast, “It gives those that still follow something to feed on.” Is that irritation chilling the femininity of her voice towards the need of conflict, or that even after all of this, there are dozens with feveret loyalty to her?

“If someone Northern was going to find me, I was thinking it would be Flamethorn or Islesun.” Objective and punitive, but somehow lacking in genuine hostility, the words march out from her lips, “You have no bond to me.” 

The unspoken followup of ‘So why are you here?’ pulses out in a breath of smoke that dissipates into already acrid air.

Beathyn is almost transfixed by the image of her. Comfortable. In her element. Like a living spirit of the wardead. He then settles into a crouch next to her, letting the wisps of smoke dance round him before he made his reply.

“The Emberhearts send their regards,” he said, as if it explained everything. He reached into his vest pocket and produced a folded envelope marked with the wax seal of her friend’s house. It almost seemed too official for the whiskey loving, food gorging man that she was familiar with.

When opened, it bore the words of Solendis Emberheart. Words of thanks. An invitation for a funeral, in honor of Sederis’ memory.

“I guess you could say I’m their mailman of sorts,” Beathyn pulled his cloak over his shoulder and tucked his shotgun underneath his arm as he relaxed. “A really heavily armed mailman who’s been tracking down Quel’thalas’ most dangerous killers- Because apparently that’s the sort that’s drawn to Sederis-” he looked at Thanidiel and gauged her reaction, glancing at her eye patch and her dour expression. “No offense of course.”

“He was deathseeking and I am bloodseeking, maybe he was hoping I’d turn around and kill him at some point for being too slow or too philosophical.” Is that a joke? It is difficult to interpret such things from her through the lenses of an almost-stranger; everything she verbalises is strained like teeth brandished behind a muzzle. She reaches out after that, plucking the letter out of his hand between two fingers and seamlessly breaking the seal.

“Who else have you played courier for? I will assume many - you approach Eastweald at this rate, there would be no others of the Sunguard aside from Emberfall and Novastorms.” Then her ear flicks again as she pulls her fingers around the strap of that eyepatch and pulls it down to unveil the magicked and blue eye; just a shiver slower in its rotation to the one alight of felfire. 

“Why am I going to a funeral? Emberheart’s blood succeeded there, between that and me assuring the survival of Goldenshade, my honor to him is resolved.” She looks over the blackened battlefield - as though able to see cadres of men miles beyond that he could not.

“You can take the Crows back to Lirelle if you wish.”

“Well,” Beathyn shrugged, “it’s an invitation. Accept it, reject it, go- don’t go- I leave that up to you.” The courier didn’t seem too bothered by her mannerisms. The agent seemed used to the abuses- either that or he wasn’t too invested in who came to the funeral.

He pauses for a moment before rattling off the names of the attendees, ones by one, most of them delivered to an address or left with a house servant. Apart from a few superiors, the rest were familiar names from the Guard. Leaving out all but one.

“As for the Crows,” he says at last. Rising to his feet and shouldering his weapon. “You should take them yourself. Lirelle will be there.”

--

Art by Michael Kutsche

@retributionpriest​ @thanidiel​ @stormandozone​

[thepilgrimofwar]

Finale 2 - Edited Roll20 Log

News of Ethalarian’s death spread through the ranks as they began their final assault on the inner walls of the fortress. Instead of disheartening the men, it seemed to enrage them instead. With Vissehn’s infiltration of the gatehouse, the army made their way into the courtyard under the artillery fire from Beathyn’s guns. Inside, the battle raged on as the trapped soldiers of Westheath had little choice but to fight to the death.

But as their soldiers pinned the remaining forces to the corners of the courtyard, clearing a space for our heroes to enter the Lord Arenias’ hall, Krissen Dawnhollow and a half-company of troops marched out to meet them.

Krissen Dawnhollow makes a resigned laugh. “Here’s our end men, this is it.” Whatever remnants of her forces from the siege had concentrated here. This is where they would make their last stand. “So, you’ve come to take the Old Man’s head? We’d step out of your way but I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to live with ourselves after. Might as well die here. Defending our Lord. That ought to make him proud.”

She makes no mention of the battle that took place on their eastern flank earlier. Nor the death of Ethalarian Dawnstalker by her hand. There was no glory in killing for her, only glory in death.

Krissen Dawnhollow looks at Lirelle, recognizing her from her service in the Deathseekers. “It ought to make Sederis proud don’t you think? Not the Sederis who came back to rule. The Real Sederis. The one we knew.” A crazed look twists itself onto her features. “Sederis the Deathseeker, -The Pilgrim of War- Not this half-Lord of the Emberglades that he preoccupied himself later. The man I followed to the ends of the world to die for!”

Lirelle cocks her head at the crazed woman. “If you think that’s who Sederis was, then it’s clear you never really knew him.” She did not recognize her. She did not care.

[Initiative]

Mara Blazingdawn:"I have been bidden to bring this farce of a squabble to a quick end. Quel'Thalas will know peace once more. By the Dawn, I will Avenge those slain."

Thanidiel:"If you really had a shred of loyalty in you, you'd have accepted the whole of your leader. Not cling to a convenient image of him."

Vissehn:"I suppose yer not lookin' for a duel, yeah?" He grins as he swings his blades, having traded the rifles for the shortswords. He then immediately closes on Krissen, ready for the fight, swinging at her in a wide sweep.

Esheyn 's form ignites in Light as she steps up to join the fray, and to bring her weapon down upon her foe in a blaze of holy energy.

Thanidiel strides forth on Vissehn's heels - keeping up with the swiftness of even the former Pathfinder. Sidestepping and allow Esheyn to charge through as well as her left hand is suddenly engulfed in roiling, golden, flame. A vicious punch sailing out as she positions closer to the gate.

Mara Blazingdawn takes her longsword into both hands and leaps to action. Brilliant light blasts from the pommel of he sword as he positions herself to the flank of Krissen Dawnhallow. With purpose the brings down the blade onto her enemy to bring her down.

Krissen Dawnhollow and what remained of the defenders of the fortress tried their best to hold their ground as they were torn apart. Bolts rained down from the walls behind them onto the coalition but it did not seem to slow them. “This is your last testament!” Krissen yells, not at the heroes around her but to her men.

Lirelle pays no mind to Krissen, the darkness at her fingertips coiling and lancing itself out. If she wanted to die so badly, then she was happy to oblige.

Oosaarn charged cracked his neck before charging into the fray towards Duskhollow. Runes along his ace's blade briefly lighting up before it rose and quickly fell in an arc.

Isilos followed along Lirelle's path.They were cut from the same cloth at one time. Focusing his healing energy on Judereth he lashed out with holy light.

[Krissen Dawnhollow is defeated]

"Will those of you on the walls surrender?" Thandiel looks to the ones still remaining on the walls. “If you throw down those crossbows right now, then I won't use them to shove you off one by one."

Mara Blazingdawn felt the rasp of the assault, but she still stands. "Highdawn is right! This battle is over! No further bloodshed is required."

The crossbowmen look at each other, before scattering towards their towers.

Thanidiel stares up at the battlements as the men seem to choose... the wrong answer. Allowing the poeticisms below and aside her to pass without commentary.

Meanwhile

Fighting to the last man, Krissen stumbled forward with her sword. Though she was badly bloodied and could barely stand, she stood defiantly between the heroes and the entrance to Arenias’ hall. Relriah dashes up, with a quickness that seemed impossible to be achieved in a dress, she cuts the Deathseeker down.  

Relriah looks down at the woman at her feet, indifferent. If the woman herself did not care if she was alive or dead then neither would she. “My friends spoke true earlier. A Deathseeker was never something Sederis wanted to be. In Death he sought redemption for things that no one had blamed him for.” She knelt down next to the fallen soldier. “He never found the peace he sought as a Pilgrim of War.”

Krissen Dawnhollow looked up at her, eyes glazed over as she grew paler and paler with each passing moment. She laughed. “...Didn’t… He?”

Lirelle:"He didn't find the one that he sought because what he was looking for was a false peace. But he found his own peace, the one meant for him, at the end."

[With the troops from the inner keep defeated, they head inside.]

This was the Lord that had sparked all this of- Who led to hundreds of deaths and threw thousands of lives into disarray. Dressed in armor that was clearly meant for someone younger and more hale than the tired old man before them.

Lord Arenias Ilithia speaks as they bash down his doors. “Mereded stole my sons and sovereignty, Sederis stole my daughter, and Solendis stole my bloodline. All my life, the Emberhearts have taken from me. And when justice was so close at hand -you- had to ruin it all.” He gestures to the heroes that were now beginning to fill his halls. For all his plans and schemes, the one thing he did not account stood before him: Friends.

Friends of Sederis, friends of each other, and friends of those who answered the call. They had something that Arenias and tyrants like him could never understand: Bonds that were stronger than blood, bonds that were worth fighting -and dying- for.

Relriah raises her voice. “I was never property to be stolen, Father.” She stepped forward in front of the party. The girl was unrecognizable to Arenias. Though she still wore a dress, she was much too strong and much too willed to be the Relriah he had raised. “Was it worth it? Trying to kill your own grandson? Your own daughter!?”

Lord Arenias Ilithia sneered. “I lost you the moment you turned into an Emberheart. Stenden is no grandson of mine. He is a product of Mereded’s legacy- a constant reminder of shame that-”

Relriah laughs. “Legacy! Is that what’s so bloody important to you?! More important than your own family?” She gives him a dark look. “Let me show you exactly what I think of your ‘legacy’.”

"Justice doesn't turn the world." Thanidiel pops off like a villain. "Those who are loved do. And it seems like the Lordling is preferred over you."

Vissehn looks at the aging man and shakes his head. He has had a lifes worth of the old bleeding out the young to survive; a bloodline of it, and every generation bled dry. He will be the last, and so will his friend-- no more will those like Arenias and Dasia take their claim in kindred.

Mara Blazingdawn speaks up. "Surely we do not need further bloodshed. We are hardened defenders of Quel'Thalas, tested against the might of the Alliance. This fight is over. Throw down your weapons and you may yet live. If honor demands you hold a sword, why not save your guardsmen and join in single combat?"

Esheyn is all but ready to charge forward, weapon in hand, but... she pauses, to give Mara the chance to speak.

Thanidiel narrows her eyes at the old man. "The offer's there, Arenias. Those of the Dawnspire make no tricks."

Lord Arenias Ilithia listens to this for a moment but grips onto his sword and shield tighter. "Surrender was never an option. Everyone who still remained in my walls knew that." Though he did not say it, it began to make clear why there had been no civilians in the city when it was besieged. The old man may have been spiteful and murderous. But he was still a Lord of his people.

[Combat Starts]

Thanidiel:"It is only because you hold onto the past feebly that this door remains closed to you. You are no Child of the Blood."

Isilos:"Ah yes, diplomacy at its finest."

Lirelle:"Don't waste any more breath on him."

Vissehn:"This is a kinder fate than ye had for a lad in mourning, ye sad bastard."

Mara Blazingdawn frowns at the words. "You will not be a martyr. Your death is an act of stupidity, not gallantry."

Esheyn nods, for it is decided. She takes a moment to regard her comrades, her fel-tainted gaze fixated on each individual for a brief moment. But her attention lingers on Relriah for a beat longer than the rest, before she is once again engulfed in Light. "It is time to end this," she says simply, though her voice reverberates with the energy that radiates from within, and she launches herself forward to strike at Arenias in a single stroke.

Vissehn spares no further words and darts in with all his speed, slashing with his own.

Thanidiel 's blazing light had consumed her left arm all the while as they had marched through stone and wall - transferring to her poleaxe like fire leaping from tree boughs as she follows up on their heels yet again to bring down a strike.

Mara Blazingdawn dashed forward and unleashed a blast of blinding white hot light onto Arenias and her allies, assaulting him and healing the others. [Dawning Glory but only healing Vissehn]

Lirelle takes a step forward, silent as she usually was these days. For a moment she seems to glow in unlight, the claws that pushed themselves out of the bark of her arm seeming to unfurl before they broke off, the shards hurling themselves into Arenias with all the fury and anger at his stupid war.

Oosaarn followed the others forward and crashed into the group before them. Again those rune showed ignited. This time draining the life force off any his axe swung into.

Isilos looked over to the Death Knight again.He was undead but he was a proven alley. "Try not return to a lifeless state." A hint of a tone, perhaps he was changing his mind on the undead.... wouldn't stop him from using holy light to heal them, but it was progress.

[Arenias is defeated.]

As Arenias falls to his knees, his daughter catches him. But not with her arms, but the flat of her blade.

Relriah whispers to him. “I will make sure that not a single soul speaks your name in the glades again. That ever babe born after this time will never utter the name ‘Arenias Ilithia’ in their life. You will be forgotten, scrubbed clean, not even a footnote will be left in the history of the Glades.”

Relriah does not let him speak and slit his throat. She would not let him have the final word. He had spoken enough on her behalf for a lifetime and she made sure sure he would never speak again.

[Three Days Later]

With the death of Arenias, the Civil War finally over. Now began to more difficult task of putting the Emberglades back together. But though a victory parade was planned for the victors and arrangements were being made for various coronation ceremonies- There was one last affair that needed taking care of first. Sederis’ funeral.

Thanidiel:"If we do this one more time, does he come back?"

Invitations were sent out once more and this time, the venue was the Emberheart Mausoleum. Solendis chose an open field rather than the fortress of a family manor as a statement that they had nothing to fear any longer.

Solendis hopes not. Nothing would traumatize him more if Sederis got back up while the funeral pyre was aflame.

Solendis smiles at the guests as they gather up once again. The Steward was happy that the war was finally over and that he was finally getting much needed closure. “Thank you all for coming, again.” He addresses them all. “Now where were we?” Solendis looked amongst the crowd and sends a nod towards Lirelle.

Lirelle:"Sederis is an asshole."

Lirelle steps forward, says her piece, then steps back.

Stenden |Some of those present laughed. But slightly louder than them all, was Stenden. “But he was -our- asshole.” His newly found freedom in his words seemed to be the influence of Vissehn for better or for worse.

Lirelle:“Nope, just an absolute asshole who left us all this for us to clean up.”

Oosaarn released a grunt that wasn't exactly sounding like a disagreement with Lirelle.

Solendis clears his throat, trying to bring things back on track and re-establishing the importance of this moment for him. “When the first round of invitations were sent out, House Shadowsunder was not able to attend. As a gesture of utmost respect we were given a box.”

Thanidiel:"He could have done worse."

Solendis presents a decorative wooden box, laying it beside his brother on the pyre. “It is customary to have it burn with the deceased in Shimmervale. Once fully consumed in flame, the egg within will hatch and will begin a new life of a Phoenix.” He places his hand respectfully over the box from Vulthaien Voidsunder. “I have been informed, that this will be the first Phoenix born since the sacking of Voidheart and I can think of no better honor that can be given to Sederis.”

Solendis makes one final bow to his brother before lighting the funeral pyre. No one speaks as it burns, not until there is a burst of flames and a Phoenix chick rises from the ashes.

Stenden speaks up at last, a more sombre look in his eyes as he tracks the Phoenix. “Our family gained the right to rule by avenging the death of a Phoenix. Today, through blood, fire, and the birthing of a Phoenix. The Emberhearts have earned it once more.” He looks into the fire, at the remains of the man before him. “Thank you Uncle. For your service, for your sacrifices, and your friends.”

And so the time of Tyrants had finally come to an end. For now at least.

[Epilogue]

Judereth Swiftquiver never got used to her title or station as a Lady, always opting to speak with her subjects directly when she had the chance. With her lowborn origins, she quickly became popular amongst her new peasantry who saw her less akin to a new tyrant, but as one of them, and worthy of their trust.

Nelio Goodember continued handling the books of Shalemarch. Though Judereth kept him on a short leash, she was assured that he was at least loyal. Mostly due to the fact that she had relocated him at a cabin at the border where he could easily escape- But for one reason or another, never did. His help turned out to be invaluable in repaying the Emberglades’ debts, justifying to Solendis that Judereth’s gamble was a good one in the end.

[Westheath]

Following the Civil War, Relriah Illithia took control of Westheath and kept her promise to herself, wiping out all mention of her father from the history books. Between being the sole surviving child of Arenias and her popular support during the war, there was little opposition to this.

After having her life steered by the men and women in her life, she finally took control of her own destiny. Choosing to leave Solendis, she set up her own court upon the ruins of her father’s fortress. Ruling with the centuries of her time as a court lady to draw from.

[The Broken Bulwark]

Disowned by her father Zarannis, took on leadership of the Bulwark under the name of House Galewing, in homage to the Kestrels Lodge of her service. With the survivors of the Black Banner, she began rebuilding her holdings and though it may take many years to come before it even resembled itself prior to the wars that ravaged it- It was a start.

In memory of her time with the Hawk Tribe of her youth and receiving support from the Unwelcomed, Lady Galewing offered free passage and rights for them to settle in her lands. Repaying her many debts to the ones she who had kept her safe during the Phoenix Wars.

[The Cloudrend Glades]

As the news of the Civil War’s end, Mediea Wintergale’s health began to take a turn for the worse. It was as if the old man had finally seen fit to let go of power- now that his family was safe and none had come to punish them for what crimes he may have committed in the past. He stepped down for his daughter, and retired to a small cabin by a lakeside.

Succeeded by Illsei Wintergale, together with her sister Zarannis, they ruled their provinces well in the years that followed. And when Mediea finally breathed his last, both of them were welcome to sit by his bedside holding his hands as he passed.

With Mediea Wintergale died the last of Mereded’s generation as well as the grudges and sins that cursed it. But though it was an ending of an era for the Emberglades, it also meant the beginning of another.

[-Fin-]

[thepilgrimofwar]

Right of Blood

The Lord of the Emberglades gestured to his Steward to bring him the map of his realm. The Emberglades, the five provinces that were placed into his care. The five provinces that were now at the brink of civil war.

Stenden, fourteen summers of age, wiped the blood from his face with a trembling hand. A hundred thousand thoughts raced through him as his father unrolled the map across the dining table.

“Thank you father,” he said emptily, glad to focus his mind on borders, names, and houses. He welcomed anything that could keep the events of the day from his mind. It had been the first blood he had seen spilled from still-breathing men- Men who had come to take his life in a botched assassination attempt.

“The assassins bore the crest of House Illithia,” Solendis said to his wide-eyed son. Cold. Factual. “This was a power play. The image of your body paraded above the tabards of Westheath sounds like a message Aranias would send.” Though his tone had remained even, Solendis’ fists clenched in rage.

Stenden looked up at his father, then at his clenched fists. They were covered in blood from one of the assassins he had helped to dispatch earlier. It had stained the map he had helped roll out in splotches of crimson. 

“I want you to wash,” the boy said.

“To wash?”

“Your hands.” Stenden nodded. “Then I want you to write missives. That an attempt on my life has been made. Declaring a state of war between the Emberglades and House Illithia. Any who stands with them are hereby enemies of the realm.”

“We need to know who stands with them before making declarations like that-” Solendis protested. But his Lord silenced him with a trembling hand.

“We need to mobilize every garrison at our disposal regardless of who. The declaration of war ought to be sent first. We can sort out our enemies and allies later.” Stenden stated. His voice betraying a boy who was on the verge of cracking under the pressure. Barely keeping composure that his station required. “But most of all, we need you to play to your strengths: Opinion. We need the outrage of the people on our side. We need everyone to know the desecration of Uncle’s funeral. So- Have a wash. We cannot have you write these missives in anger.”

Solendis bit his bottom lip, held his tongue, and made his way out from the dining room. Grabbing a napkin to wipe the blood from his hands, he spied Lirelle by the doorway. Watching their exchange. Expressionless. Impossible for the great Spymaster Solendis to read. He nodded at her briefly, before making his way out into the courtyard.

“How long have you been there?” Asked Stenden, pretending to study the map in front of him.

“Long enough,” she unfolded her arms and stepped forward, her attire still spotless aside from the torn cloth, no longer having circulating blood to bleed was sometimes a boon. The skin underneath was pale and unmarred, like porcelain, the magic she loathed but made use of removing any trace, held in memory to be inflicted on a future foe instead. 

“You intend to declare war on Illithia? Are you aware of what that entails?”

“Sacrifices,” Stenden said, turning towards her. “Sacrifices of men that I will be ordering to die in my name. Sacrifices of men who will be ordered oppose them in the name of their Lords.” The boy swallowed hard.

“And who are these nameless men that you will be ordering to die for you? The forces of the Emberglades and the Black Banner were decimated during the Phoenix Wars. I saw them die, and followed them in death. Goodember cannot be relied on, and Wintergale is just as likely to ignore you as he is to help. Believing that you are ready to command men to sacrifice for you is pointless if you have no men to sacrifice.”

“Whoever will answer the call,” Stenden bowed his head. “Judereth Swiftquiver will answer and the militia of the Heartlands will follow their Banneret. As for the others...” He trailed off as his gaze returned to the map on the table. “I assume they are against us. My grandfather made sure of that.” The boy referred to Mereded Emberheart. The Tyrant. The man Sederis had tried so hard to emulate in the name of order. Who’s sins were now his to pay.

“I don’t stand a chance, do I?” He looked up at Lirelle. In his eyes were composure, that was true. But also fear. Wide-eyed fear.

It was hard to remember that he was barely fourteen summers old. He should have been playing with the other children in the dirt and fighting over meaningless games, not planning for a war of his ancestor’s making. She looked him in the eye, her scarlet gaze unwavering “No.”

“Not as you are. What happens next depends on how much you want you and your family to survive this. The Crows are on their way here. Even with their depleted numbers they are more valuable than anything Goodember can offer. Dawnveil will not help, my father will not risk sending any troops, not officially at least. Make use of what you do have. Outside are gathered some of the finest soldiers the realm has produced, and among them one of the daughters Wintergale. I know of a handful more who would answer if I asked for help. Even if they bring no levies of their own, their experience alone is worth more than that. They were here for Sederis, now ask them to help you.”

Stenden focused on her words, hanging on each syllable, letting the gravity of what she was saying seep into him. “Sederis. My uncle. I’ve been told by my father that one of his greatest weaknesses was that he was unable to ask for help.” He stood up from the table, “It’s time to do right by him.” 

But as Stenden turned towards the dining room exit, his mother appeared at the doorway. Haunted by a distant look in her eyes.

“Mother,” he said, snapping her back to the present. “You gave the order to kill the men, on their knees, in the courtyard.”

“I did,” she said, toneless. She wasn’t held back by the decorum of a subordinate like her husband was. She was his mother. That was the beginning and end of their relationship.

“Why? We needed to question them, hold them as bargaining chips for a future prisoner exchange-”

“You don’t know my father,” Relriah stated like a matter of fact and moved towards the table. She gave Lirelle a look as she passed her, a new found respect for the priestess.

“What don’t I know about my grandfather?” Stenden stood his ground.

“That he’d send men, willing to die for him without question. That wants nothing less than to burn Mereded’s legacy to the ground, even if it means murdering his last remaining child and his only grandson-” she looks Stenden in the eyes, with an intensity he had never witnessed from her before. 

“He cannot be bargained with. He cannot be reasoned with. You don’t know anything of my father because I’ve spent my life protecting you from him.” Relriah looked away, and pulled out a chair at the dining table, collapsing into it. “But it seems that it wasn’t enough.”

Stenden, unsure of how to respond, neither as Lord of the Emberglades or her son, made for the doorway. He nodded at Lirelle as he left, intending to do exactly as she had asked.

“I killed a man,” Relriah spoke up once her son had left the dining room, “My first man. Knife across his neck while Lady Highdawn cut him down. I keep asking myself ‘why is it I don’t feel remorse.’ The Orc, Bloodaxe said, that it was good that I didn’t. Highdawn told me that it was what it means to be Sin’dorei. But that didn’t give me answers.” She paused, looking at the pale woman. “Sederis- He told me long ago that he enjoyed it. You knew him. Better than most. Lived a life like he did. I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

Lirelle regarded her with the same neutral stare, picking her way over to pull out a chair opposite the lady of the house. “He used to say the only things that mattered on a battlefield were chaos and luck. Nothing else matters, how you were born, how much money you have in your pocket, who is waiting for you at home, none of it. I believe that it is much simpler. There is a certain clarity to life when everything rests in your own two hands. All you need is to be faster or better than the man in front of you who wants to kill you. We enjoyed that simplicity, but I always thought he would have been able to settle down, if he had the chance.”

“We tried once,” she said, in a tone that spoke of lost dreams and bygone times. “There was a violence in him that he could not tame at the time. I think by the time he had joined the Guard he had made his own peace with it. I was married to Solendis, and had Stenden by then. I believe that too- That he would’ve settled- Given the chance, and the right woman.”

“But I see the clarity you spoke of. Relying on yourself. The power to take life,” she glanced at the door, where Stenden had left. “The power to protect others. I can do something. As opposed to sitting on the sidelines, just watching, bearing with it all.”

"His father loomed over him long after the old man died. He's even managed to steal the childhood of his grandson too."

She said nothing else of what she knew of Sederis, the words unspoken but soaked in absolute truth left in the dark realm where they belonged. "Leave the fighting to the soldiers. Be there for Stenden. Their mother wasn't, but you can save him from that."

Relriah nods. “I hold no illusions. In the face of war, I’m just a woman. No training, no magic. But you’re right, unlike the previous lady of the house, I love my son too much to leave him behind like she did. I love him to death.” The lady of the house contemplates something, mulling it over in her mind. She looked determined- Something Lirelle had never seen in her before. “Perhaps I can still save my son, from the sins of both his grandfathers.”

-

@retributionpriest​ @stormandozone​ @thanidiel​ @curiouslich​ @esheyn​​ @cynfuldax​​ @thenaaru​​ @forever-afk​​ @felthier​​ @azriah​​ @sonofkhaz​​ @korkrunchcereal​​

[thepilgrimofwar]

Succession

“Enter.”

Judereth pushed past the large mahogany doors of Lord Emberheart’s office, saluting the boy that sat behind a desk covered in her history: Service records, portraits of family, and medals that belonged to her father and brothers long dead. 

“Take a seat, Banneret,” Stenden began, uncoiling the ribbons to an envelope that held her past within. “Following the laws set by Mereded, you joined the Heartlands militia at the age of fourteen. Made your way up to a logistics officer by the time your full-service with the militia concluded at twenty.”

She nodded. “That is correct.”

“You then continued as a logistical officer in the reserves for close to a hundred years. Earning several commendations at the Bulwark during The Fall under Lord Tar’saren-”

“Lord Emberheart,” Judereth spoke up, growing impatient with confirming what Stenden already knew. “As much as I’d like to indulge your interview. I have got a war to run.”

Stenden ignored her break in decorum. If there was anyone who had earned the right to speak frankly, it was the only Bannerlord of the Glades who had rallied to the Emberheart in their time of need. Even when it had meant certain doom during the opening moments of the Civil War.

“And if this did not pertain to that, I would not have called you here,” The Lord gestured for her to give him a moment more. He was almost done. “Three members of your family have died in service to the Emberglades. Lanadel Swiftquiver at Wintergrasp. Dorsen Swiftquiver and your father Gerrand Swiftquiver at the Battle of the Isle. How does that make you feel.”

“About their sacrifice?”

“About each of them being under the command of Sederis Emberheart at the time of their deaths.”

Judereth looked her Lord in the eye. Even seated, she towered over the boy. “It only goes to show that they were trusted retainers of the Emberhearts and Sederis always kept a Swiftquiver close in battle.”

Stenden nodded. “Being the third and only surviving child of Gerrand Swiftquiver, the title of Bannerlord of the Heartlands fell to you. Banneret.”

“One I did not ask for.”

“I too did not ask to be Lord of the Emberglades either,” he said instead. “Yet here we are. Doing our duty.”

“I suppose we have that in common then,” Judereth made a dark chuckle before shaking her head. “We’re both here, doing our duty- not because we were the best ones for the job, but because there was no one else to do it.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong, Banneret,” Stenden said with a smirk that put off the older woman. “On the contrary, I was quite literally born for this- and you, Judereth Swiftquiver, were only called here because you are, in fact, the best.”

Judereth folded her arms, reminded that it wasn’t merely a boy that sat across the table from her, but a politician. One trained by Solendis, who’s every line was in service to getting something else.  “What do you want from me, my Lord? Why am I here?”

“With Goodember in chains, Shalemarch has need for a new Lord. You’re the only candidate. Lady Swiftquiver.”

The Banneret almost fell backwards into her chair. “What do you mean I am the only candidate?”

“You’re born of the Glades, you’re known to the people, and based on how you’ve conducted your war against Illithia and glowing recommendations from members of the Coalition, you’re more than up to the task. Furthermore, it wouldn’t be the first time where a lowborn family was raised to nobility.”

The once impatient woman seemed to sink back into her chair now, staring at the scattered papers over Stenden’s desk.

“Because as it stands right now, without its Lord, Shalemarch is about to burn. If we’re quick about filling this power vacuum, it won’t have to.”

Judereth shook her head at him. “No my Lord, I assure you the struggle for power has already begun. Shalemarch is already burning. All that’s left to decide is how much of it will burn before this is over.”

Stenden sank back into his chair now, interlocking his fingers over his lap. “So, Lady Swiftquiver. How much of it will burn?”

She glared at him. “And you’re leaving that up to me?”

“The choice is yours,” Stenden said as a matter of fact. “Once again a title you did not ask for falls to you. The real question is: how will you wield your new found power?”

“I have no need for any of it,” Judereth scoffed. “What would I do with power?”

“Change things for the better,” Stenden stood up, meeting her eye to eye. “Three of your kinsmen died in my family’s name. Your father, your brothers, all sacrificed in the name of Emberheart. What would you do with power? Make sure that never happens again. Do better than us. Put an end to these needless wars. Stop Shalemarch from burning.”

-

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel

[thepilgrimofwar]

An Accident

Beathyn waited patiently aboard the rowboat, staring as the silhouette of the Dawnbrook Manor grew upon the distant shore. He had tried his best to locate Lirelle, following rumors of something great and terrible leaving death in its wake, but the trail had gone cold. The killings stopped, as resettlers took up residence in the ruins that the phantom had cleared for them. Why would she just, stop? Dawnmender ‘Stabs’ had no love for bandits, warlords, or any of the other nonsense going on in the South, beyond the reach of Thalassian law.

“So do the Dawnbrooks get visitors often or is this just a… Side duty?” The agent for the Emberhearts asked the ferryman.

The old man shrugged, eyeing the both of them briefly. “Not usually by sea. Solendis and them always come by carriage.”

“Aye, I came from Kearn. Had to put in a few official reports before heading this way. The trip through Shalemarch always gives me bum-ache anyway.” Beathyn laughed.

He steered them closer to shore, his hands burned near the same colour of the wood from centuries spent outdoors, still full of wiry strength despite his age. “So what business you up to with them?”

“To settle some affairs of Stenden. Renewing old trade deals and speak about greater ties in this chaotic time- Can never be too safe, even if the Isle has been mostly peaceful since the end of the war.”

--

Beathyn arrived at the Dawnbrook manor’s sea entrance, a marble pier that led to a sidegate, then a path up towards the house proper. He had been expected, so the caretaker, Drevain was already waiting for him. 

“Hello old friend,” Beathyn greeted him. “Is Drenden ready to receive me?”

“He’s in his study, would you like an escort up or do you remember the way?” As the young man offered a hand to the duo disembarking, he dipped his head down to exchange a few words with a boatman, the familial resemblance between the two even starker when they were next to each other.

Nodding them off, Beathyn made his way up the marble stairs, shuffling the letters in his hands. He hadn’t mentioned an invitation to the ferryman. An invitation to a funeral.

--

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Beathyn said, knocking on the door to Drenden’s study. The Lord of Dawnveil was not a slave to the courtly mannerisms as other Lords. “I’ve got a few affairs that I need settled, and I should be on my way within the hour.”

“No no, of course not. Please, come in.” Drenden picked up a hseaf of papers from the desk in front of him, moving them to a pile beside him, a very tiny part of the desk cleared for Beathyn to put down anything he needed to. He had always been a large man, but something about his stature seemed smaller than it used to, clearly the conflict and his daughter’s passing had exacted a toll on him.

Beathyn went through the motions, presenting issues of current affairs over his desk. He tried to ignore that weight that now rested on Drenden’s shoulders. He had seen him at his usual best, when Lirelle and Sederis had invited him to cook for them. But as he went through Stenden’s new plans for economic reform and relaxing of taxation laws in the Emberglades, Beathyn observed the dour expression with a hint of sadness. It made what he had to do next more difficult. “There was one more thing Drenden,” Beathyn said, rising to his feet. “Sorry to ask, but you wouldn’t have any idea where Lirelle is, would you?”

The man across the table fell silent, the scratching of his pen stilling as he lifted it from the pages he was signing, his administrative instincts saving it even as he bristled. “My daughter is dead,” he eventually growled out, “If we knew where her body was we would have buried her here at home.”

No one had told them. No one had told them. Beathyn swallowed hard and began to panic. “Yes… About that,” Beathyn turned around to face Drenden square. “There wasn’t really a body to return… It’s still… Walking about, you see.” He attempted to ease the news to Drenden, but completely botched it. The agent cringed for the after effects.

“Who?” A fist slams on the table, “Who desecrated my daughter’s corpse to raise her?” He stares at Beathyn, something burning deep in his eyes. 

“Ah- Uh- She- She, kind of, sort of, came back by herself.” Beathyn blinked at the father’s rage. It had only been moments ago that he had lost a daughter to war. “She was at the last battles of the Phoenix Wars, I saw her there. But I haven’t seen her since.” 

“She what?” After all of that, Drenden just looks deflated. “Tell me everything you know. Don’t leave anything out, anything.”

-

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@retributionpriest​

[thepilgrimofwar]

Lady Swiftquiver

Judereth made her way from the office of Lord Emberheart, with the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. As far as she was concerned Shalemarch was going to be a right mess one way or another, but it was better if it was her mess. The alternative was to leave it to the mercy of Stenden, who no doubt would have turned it over to the coalition and all the violence that entailed.

Making her way downstairs and towards the guest rooms in search of something to drink, she sighed. For all the good that the veterans of the Phoenix Wars had done for her and the smashing of Illithian lines, they were not suited for pacifying rogue states- Unless you counted putting any and all traitors to the sword. Even if they conducted themselves dutifully and loyally, just born to the wrong Lord.

Finding a half finished bottle of whiskey, no doubt from either Zarannis or Vaelrin, she opened it and proceeded to mellow her thoughts away from the potential death of thousands. Instead, she focused on the notes from a bell, echoing through the halls of the manor. She followed it, knowing it belonged to Lirelle- The Banneret had given it to her so the undead priestess did not scare the living daylights out of the patrols in the manor with her ceaseless wandering as she had not needed sleep.

“Dawnbrook,” she said, finally catching up with her. “Guess I’m nobility now. When Stenden said ‘glowing recommendations from the members of the Coalition’ I’m assuming he meant glowing recommendations from you.”

Lirelle slowed down as her ringing steps were joined by a quieter gait, the eerie chime stopping as they walked outside to the fresh air. She turned to Judereth, observing her for a moment, noting that the responsibility did not seem to cow her at all. “Was it not warranted? There are scant few choices these days. You were the only suggestion that made sense.”

“There’s Zarannis- Well, there was Zarannis, before she found the reserves of whiskey in the store room. Do you know if she’s still being considered for taking over the Bulwark despite herself?” Judereth sighed even deeper. “But I suppose you’re right. Only other choice would be to turn Shalemarch over to some local Lordling and Light knows that might turn out even worse than anything I can do there.” The newly appointed lady took a swig from her bottle. “Any suggestions? You’re the least noble-like noble I’ve ever met, so there’s bound to be a way to ease into this.” 

“The Bulwark is the only thing she is competent enough to manage considering that there is absolutely nothing there. Right now she is an alcoholic who is far out of touch with who she is or what her responsibilities are. Solendis should know that much, and if he doesn’t then this all might be making him too tired.”

Lirelle squinted at the apparent new alcoholic in the making in front of her. “Talk to your people. Find out what they want, and explain to them why certain things that they want cannot be done. Sederis might have been right and what works in Dawnveil won’t work here, but you’ll have to try. But first of all, take stock of Goodember’s accounts. Have someone outside take a look at them to make sure that everything adds up, because who knows whether it does. Once that’s done, decide if you want to do things differently, or let them continue as they are.”

“We’ll see how much talking I can get done while the war’s still running. Because by the looks of things, I’ll be making demands of them almost immediately. To have the militia lay down their arms, or better yet, turn them against the remaining enemies of the state.” Judereth sighed heavily. “You are right though, things that work in Dawnveil don’t work here. Explaining things can only go so far. The people here much rather them tell them what to do, and then leave them alone to do it. They’re a stubborn people. Bullheaded, but honest and hardworking.”

“Then ask Solendis to give them amnesty if the militia goes to the front lines in Westheath. It’s not their fault that their lord was a moron, so don’t punish them for it if they’re willing to do things right," Lirelle propped one shoulder up on the parapet, crossing her arms in front of her.

“As for the rest of them, if you believe that, show them why they should work for you.”

“That I may be from the Heartlands, but I am nothing like Sederis,” Judereth stated quietly. “You know, it isn’t obvious to the rest of the Coalition, but Sederis’ wasn’t exactly liked in the Glades. It felt- in a way- like he was just like his father. That we were no more than chess pieces to him. Pawns to sacrifice. Knights and castles to threaten. Because one day, after eight years of warmongering, he swoops in and claims his birthright- then goes straight back to the Guard.” Lady Swiftquiver took a long swig from her bottle. “Then, for the most part he was absent. Drawing soldiers to his units. Requesting we mobilize for Legion Fall. Like we were an instrument, a tool, to be used and leveraged for his own influence and gains.”

Judereth shook her head. “That may not have been the case, since he did return and acted like a proper Lord in his last year, but the impression to the people stuck. Likely why so many under Illithia are true believers in this rebellion. Which makes me wonder if there are true believers in Shalemarch too that I’m going to have to deal with.”

Lirelle waited for Judereth to meet her steady gaze before speaking, the crimson of her eyes coloured even deeper in the dim light. "If those are the only complaints, then I would say he did his job well. The Emberglades might have had its resources and its people drained, but it never saw the aftermath of the Burning Legion. It never saw a man killed by demons in his house, in his fields, or in front of his children. And in the end, not a single Alliance solider stepped past its borders. Sederis asked for resources and men to stop those things that were happening elsewhere before it happened here. He might have been an idiot in the way he went about it, but that does not change his intentions. The rest of the Coalition don't see it because we were there fighting with him. Because we all knew it was what needed to be done."

“It was, and that was the reason why I hold no ill sentiments to him, even if my father and brothers all died under his command. It was a risk we were all aware of when we were born into a family of marshals.” Judereth watched the crimson gaze as it fell upon her and did not feel its weight as they saw eye to eye. “But I was close enough to the ground to know that the regular peasant- The sort that I’m going to have to win over- The sort who only understands the things that were taken from them and not the blood spilt and treasure spent for his sake… They don’t appreciate the bigger picture. Which makes persuading them both easier and more difficult at the same time.”

“If you’re not looking for reasons but rather solutions, I suggest you talk to his brother. Maybe Beathyn.” She pauses for a moment then adds, “And Vissehn. If you need someone to spin a narrative, Solendis is the one to start with. Vissehn is excellent at connecting with them and getting that story across and if Beathyn doesn’t fuck up his words, he’s just about as helpful. If it’s as you say and they need to be told, then tell them what to think.”

The newly appointed Lady nods. “Thank you Ms. Dawnbrook,” she says, grateful for the advice. “As long as what we’re telling them is true.”

--

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel

[thepilgrimofwar]

An Example

Crows and Hawk went flying down, tryin’ to catch a bastard, got him fallin from his bed and trussed him up for Embers!

Chorus: Feathers fine and flyin’ through, feathers ‘gainst the dark, to our creeds we must be true, hail thee, Emberheart!

[Chorus] Rode up on the dark of night thru again til morning there they gathered in their might despite our kindly warning

[Chorus] Went on through the castle halls Least as I remember Saw a bloat without no balls and knew he was Goodember!

Stenden sat in his office, one that had belonged to Mereded, Solendis, then Sederis and now was his. The chair seemed to envelope him, a space bigger than he was, where decisions bigger than himself were made. Sons and daughters had been sent to die from that chair and though he was now beginning to fully understand what it meant, he was powerless to do anything.

His mother had ridden off with the army on his behalf. Though she acted as if she was merely playing a role in his father’s game of propaganda and tale-weaving, Stenden was sharp enough to know that was only a half-truth. Relriah had wanted to keep him safe, and this was the most direct way she knew how. Leaving Stenden in a position where he could do nothing but wait- and it ate him on the inside.

But when the news of Goodemeber’s capture made its way to him in the form of a runner, he leapt to his feet, wanting to cheer but realizing that he had no one to cheer with. So he shut his eyes and took a breath instead. There would be time for joy and celebrations later, after this war was done.

“Ohhh….!” The voice filled the entry hall as the company entered, a bright and cheery tenor that lilted strongly into alto. “Crows and Hawk went flying up, tryin’ to catch a bastard, got him fallin’ from his bed and trussed him up for Embers!” As the Crows entered, a young lad in the colors of the Emberhearts lead the way, holding the rope that wrapped around the portly captive who was marched up alongside. The youth whooped loudly, and the chorus came in from the other troops.

“Feathers fine and flyin’ through, feathers ‘gainst the dark, to our creeds we must be true, hail thee Emberheart!”

The company lead called a halt, but Vissehn was far too gone to care. Standing up on tiptoes, he hollered out into the foyer. 

“Ste-- M’lord Emberheart! We got tidings!” He crowed, laughter following the words.

Stenden opened the office window that overlooked the courtyard. Though he had received word, actually seeing the portly man bound and sacked did bring a flood of relief that he found hard to describe. “What tidings Bladeborn?” He called down from above, letting Vissehn have his moment despite already knowing what had transpired.

Puffing up his honestly narrow and unimpressive chest, Vissehn shouted back. “WE GOTTEM!”

Stepping beside the figure of Goodember once more, Vissehn placed both hands on the man's cheeks and made him look up to the young lord. “This is who called us in, friend, and there’s loads more mischief for me to tussle up beyond even you, Your Most Lordly Lordliness of Lordington Goodember!” He patted the man’s head, grinning into his gagged face, and then passed the rope to another in the company of Crows.

Nelio Goodember, who still had phantom pains from his shadowmended broken nose, shot the boy a venomous look. But Stenden returned it. An emotion bubbled up within the usually soft spoken and reserved boy. It was the tension of struggle. A rush from being underestimated, and able prove them wrong. A delight of power, not gained from cruelty or coercion, but from the kindness of murderous friends. The Lord of the Emberglades smirked at his subdued vassal.

“Take him away,” he said to the House Guards of the manor, who went unburden the returning Crows. “He’ll have to be satisfied with the cellar until we have a proper room ready for our new guest.”

As the guards took their quarry elsewhere, Vissehn looked up, and decided he could probably climb the wall to the office window. He shouldn’t, but he could imagine it-- the running jump, the quick scramble for handholds, ascending to the window and then giving Stenden the news, in song, while the rest of the world caught up to them.

Looking to Garris, the older commander was the picture of mercenary ease; perhaps something like what Vissehn would look like, in another hundred years. Just as Vissehn was about to go back into the ranks, Garris caught his eye.

Gaze flicking to the wall Vissehn had stared at so longingly, he canted his head, and offered a wink.

It was all Viss needed.

Whooping loudly, he rushed the wall and launched himself into the air, hands barely making purchase on the roofing before he was hauling himself up, boots scrabbling over the tiles, and then he was at the wall. It took him mere moments before he was to Stenden’s window, and with a groan and an exhaled WHOOF, he was perched there on the young lord’s sil.

“Oi.” He grinned, panting hard from the exertion of doing all his acrobatics nonsense without having the sense to loosen his binder.

“Hi,” he responded, and folded his arms dramatically. “Am I supposed to be impressed?” Stenden huffed.

Vissehn blinked at the dramatic rejection of his childish charms, and for a moment he looked all his handful of years; wide eyed and dumbstruck that someone wasn’t impressed with the feats he’d accomplished. “I-- I mean-- yeah!” 

When Stenden took on the serious mien, he looked so much like Soldenis that Vissehn was stunned. Of course the brothers had their similarities but Vissehn had always seen Stenden as more like Sederis. Now, he could see how being raised with Relriah and Soldenis had left their stamps on the youth; he knew the face of lordly disdain so well that even in what might have been pretend, it seemed genuine. 

Then, the moment passed. Lordling or no, he was Vissehn’s junior and he was starting to think, friend of a kind. Vissehn leaned forward so his face was much nearer Stenden’s, frame filling out the space in the window.

Tapping Stenden on the tip of his chin, Vissehn grinned. “You don’t even know the half of it! I jumped off a balcony to gettim’!” He laughed. “Don’t go pretendin’ you aren’t in awe of your pal Fish, being the man of the hour.” Waggling brows, he finally sat down heavily on the widowledge. “Made a good pick with me, huh?”

Stenden holds the pout for a moment longer before breaking down into laughter. “Consider me impressed!” and just like that, he’s obviously so. Closing the window he sits on the windowsill and observes the boy of the hour.

“Birds of a feather, me’n the Crows!” He made room for Stenden, relief washing through him and coloring his cheeks a shade pink. He didn’t need validation from Stenden, nope. Not him. He didn’t crave being recognized by his peers. That was someone ELSE.

Stenden smiled. “Well, you seemed to have fit right in with the Crows, and managed to keep Lord Goodember alive- with what sounds like great difficulty-” Stenden couldn’t help himself, and just wanted Vissehn to get to the good parts. “Why in Fel did you have to jump off a balcony to get him?”

With a dramatic sweep of his arms, he set the scene. “We was storming and fighting, and I had to shoot his big Captain of the Guard fellow and then the man hollers ‘-Run-’ and we hear this ruckus, right?” Vissehn leans back against the glass pane. “So we see this sack of shite just… STUMBLE off the balcony, through them big windows on the side of the hall, and I’m like-- Shite!” He jerks forward as though catching something. “SO I ran an’ barely got through, an’ caught him afore he bit it by falling to the ground! Ugh, near pulled my arms from my socket.”

Stenden listened intently at first with the talk of fighting and shooting, but then, as the scene from the balcony became clearer in his head, the boy snorted. “You single-handed caught three hundred pounds of noble-born lard?” He glanced at Fish’s arms and squinted. “What happened next? My good sense says that he’d have fallen head first and snapped his neck- How’d you pull him back to safety?”

“Lirelle horked somethin’ gross and healin’ and he snapped out of his stupor and started strugglin again!” Vissehn smacked his forehead. “So of course whatcha think happened, happened-- he fell, and I fell with him!” 

Turning, he gripped Stenden’s shoulders gently. “He went doooooown….” Vissehn began to slide off the sil, onto Stenden’s office floor… pulling Stenden down with him, in terribly slow movements. “An’ I landed on his fatass, no harm for me!”

Vissehn landed on the floor with a laugh and yanked Stenden down with him. 

Stenden lets himself drift with the storyteller, allowing himself to be yanked down to the floor in dramatic slow-motion. He chuckled, “I guess you could say he cushioned your fall then?” The Lord of the Emberglades remains prone, flipping onto his back and continues listening.

“He needed a lil’ coddling after, cause he got a lil jostled, but I was right as rain.” Propping himself up on his elbow, he saluted Stenden. “An’ then we marched home and I made a song ‘bout it.”

Stenden replied. “I suppose Ms. Dawnbrook managed to fix the worst of the fall, seeing that all he has to show for it are bruises and an undignified sacking!” He snorts again. He’d have to speak with the vassal Lord later, where he’d put on the airs of his station, but for now Stenden was content in being a boy.

“I heard the tune a ways-off, and to the laughter of the Crows as the lot of you arrived. Would you sing it for me?” He asked.

Nodding at the lord’s assessment, he enjoyed the moment of just being a teen, sharing space with someone else his own age. It had been far too long, and Stenden was good company.

Looking at him now with a smile, Vissehn sat up and primly crossed his legs. “Oh, yeah! I can sing it. AHEM.” he cleared his throat, and unlike before when he was singing riotously, straying key part of the charm, now he actually tried. His voice was a very high tenor-- almost more akin to alto-- and when he put his mind to it, clean and pretty.

“Crows and Hawk went flying down, tryin’ to catch a bastard, got him fallin from his bed and trussed him up for Embers!

Feathers fine and flyin’ through, feathers ‘gainst the dark, to our creeds we must be true, hail thee, Emberheart!

Rode up on the dark of night thru again til morning there they gathered in their might despite our kindly warning

Went on through the castle halls Least as I remember Saw a bloat without no balls and knew he was Goodember!”

He paused then, and his cheeks went redder. “I thought-- well, I wanted t’make a good showin for ya, so the last line is like…” He cleared his throat.

“Rolled him back through hill and dale Having done our part Back to the true lord of the glades Stenden Emberheaaaaaart!”

He laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, the color in his cheeks high.

Stenden let the silence sink in after the last line was sung. He smiled. He hadn’t heard the sounds of singing for what must have been two years. Before the war, before he had the weight of ten thousand lives rested upon his shoulders. Then, after giving the moment the reverence it was due, the Lord of the Emberglades started to clap. Slow and serious at first, before giving his full applause.

“Bravo, Vissehn. Bravo!” He cheered, still on his back staring at the ceiling of the Emberheart office. A place of work-turned-opera house for a few precious minutes. “I’m almost certain that masterpiece will be sung by many a peasant for years to come.” Especially the ones Goodember had pressed into service, he thought.

Finally Stenden sat up and shot Vissehn a smile, “In either case, promise me that that won’t be the last song you sing in my name. There’s plenty of work left to be done, and you’ve got a singing voice you ought to be proud of.”

His whole face red, Vissehn reached out and ruffled Stenden’s hair. “Stahpit, you’re gonna make my face explode.” Closing his eyes, he squirmed in place. “But, I can promise that, yeah, I’ll keep singin’ for ye. Just keep giving me things to sing about!” Reaching out, he lifted up Stenden’s arm into a feigned flex. “Gotta get strong like your uncle, or savvy like your father, or hell, beautiful as yer mum.” He chuckled and released his friend’s arm. 

“That’s a promise then,” Stenden said, picking himself off the ground and onto his feet and gave Vissehn a hand. 

“But I’d like to think I’ve got a bit of all of them in me.” Only time would tell if the little Lord was right.

-

@stormandozone @retributionpriest @thanidiel

[thepilgrimofwar]

Backstage

“No time for your son? No time for your husband?” Solendis stopped Relriah as she made for the exit of the manor shortly after the war meeting that night had concluded.

“There’s a war on,” she said matter of factly.

“You heard Judereth, there is time before the final push. Time enough to get our house in order before then.”

“Isn’t our house in order?” Relriah replied, short, curt, like she had never done before.

“No, no it is not,” Solendis frowned. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

She reached out to touch his face, a gesture of warmth that somehow felt cold to him. “When this war is over. When I’m finished protecting our son. I will go back to being your wife, alright?” Relriah looked him in the eyes, showing the concern she could barely muster. “But right now, we have a tyrant who thinks he is safe in his castle. We have a city to liberate. And we have an army that needs leading.”

“Judereth- Lady Swiftquiver can do that-”

“Lady Swiftquiver is predisposed with the messes in Shalemarch. The one who’s been leading the campaign for the last several days has been me. Lady Highdawn as my teacher and advisor. I may not be a commander, nor am I suited for it. But the men look up to me. They rally around me like the symbol you told them I was.”

“I made you out to be a symbol- Not become the symbol I made!” Solendis pulled away from her.

Relriah sighed, turning away from him. “Why did you marry me Solendis?”

“To keep you safe,” he said quietly. “For the man you loved.”

“And Stenden? Why did you put a child in me?”

Solendis looked at his wife, who seemed to be drifting towards the darkness of the courtyard patios. “To ensure that the Emberglades had an heir.”

Relriah turned back towards him now, tears, and fire in her eyes. “Nothing you’ve done- Nothing you’ve ever done. Has been for me, has it?”

Solendis shook his head. “Everything I’ve done has been for duty. I thought you of all people understood that.”

“Oh I do,” Relriah sneered between clenched teeth, “I do, more than you will ever know.”

Solendis met her gaze with a growing anger of his own. “Oh really? Because all my life, I’ve played the tune of someone else. A spare. A replacement. A stand in. Steward of the Emberglades. Husband of a Daughter of Illithia. Even now I but a humble servant to Stenden’s regime. Stenden, my son. Born, raised and chosen to rule. Not me. Never me.”

“It is a weight I did not carry. Responsibility. Scrutiny. And the ever present corrupting influence of power. So never stepped forward, always hung back where I knew it was my place to be.”

Relriah laughed maniacally. “And what do you know about being passed round like a thing?! To be used, bred, and for what? The state? All the while smiling- All the while being the good and dutiful wife.” She paused, then with a swiftness he never thought her capable of, Relriah took him by the face, locking her fingers behind the nape of his neck. Intimately. Dangerously. “Everything I’ve done. My whole life. Has been for duty. More. Than. You. Will. Ever. Know.” She mouthed each word with cold intention, then released her husband.

It shook him to his core. Something inside of his wife was breaking, and a fear greater than any other tightened in his chest. Because, Solendis, who had always been the smartest person in many-a-room, did not have the slightest idea of what to do. His wife was possessed, but possessed by herself.

“But don’t fret darling,” Relriah’s voice became sickeningly sweet, as she put her mask back on. Even though the tears in her reddened eyes still remained. 

“Things will go back to normal.” She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the quickened beating of his heart. 

“After this war is over, I will go back to being your wife.” She patted him on the cheek.

“I promise.”  

But Solendis did not believe her. Because he did not know which one of her made that promise- and which one would survive the war.

With a smile, Relriah then took her leave from the manor without opposition. Away from its walls and into the fields under starlight.

-

@retributionpriest​ @stormandozone​ @thanidiel​

[thepilgrimofwar]

Volition

She knew the word, and every letter that made it. It was an odd word: Volition. It never rolled off her tongue quite right. But when she spoke it outloud, it was like magic. Her blood would rise, and electricity would flow through her veins as if uttering any other spell from any other arcane tome. 

Vo-li-tion.  

It meant the will to act. Not desire, or want, even though both those things also drove her actions. But it was nothing as base as that. Volition meant will. It meant choice. And as Lirelle had told her some days ago, volition was what she was going to need in the coming weeks. For a choice needed to be made. To be a mother to Stenden, or to be her own woman. Neither could reconcile the other.

Her body was now both lithe and strong, after weeks under the instruction of Thanidiel Highdawn. Accelerated by both potions that restored her stamina and a tenacious drive to not be useless on the field of battle. Relriah had become a capable fighter and commander, even if neither role suited her personally. It was evident in the recent action during the Illithian counter-offensive.

“Lady Highdawn,” she called out once training for the day had concluded. “Thanidiel, might I have a word? It’s on something of a personal nature,” Relriah asked, figuring that the rapport they had established over the course of the campaign would give the paladin some insight on her dilemma.

“Aye?” sounds out - her voice always a drum that reverberated through a space. Even now after the hours some of exercises and drills, little strained her voice. But it never did, in these moments away from both Emberglades and Quel’Thalas in a way. When they were amongst those who held loyalty to Highdawn - those who were willing to toil and perfect themselves under her education - she walked and she spoke less like a lynx on the frayed boundary of striking, and more like a creature within domain.

Her back is turned even as her long ears flick towards the Lady’s direction, attention taken on briefly educating a younger woman who’s joined her ‘fold’ on wrapping a blister. Some native of these lands taken by the motley band Thanidiel had marched with and had attached, much like Relriah. In spite of all of the once-knight’s grumblings of distaste for being still looked to for leadership.

“I’m not quite sure where to begin, but I feel like something has happened to me,” she brushed her hair aside. Relriah recalled her conversations with Lirelle a few nights before. “Because, as we approach an inevitable victory given our numbers, the thought of this war ending has me on edge. As if I am afraid of peace, finally returning to the Glades - Of becoming the Lady of the House once more...”

The Lady’s voice trailed off as she waited for Thanidiel to finish up her aid to the newcomer. There was still that tensions that twisted itself in her chest. An apprehension of trading the star-filled skies of the present, for the four walls of the manor that was slowly creeping back into her life. Though she had promised Solendis that she would be his wife once more, she did not know how she felt about it. Not truly.

“I am afraid of peace,” is the frank and honest sentiment conveyed as she pats the youth’s shoulder with the bandage of proper tightness and about-faces to regard Relriah fully. Her way of establishing an immediate camaraderie in that department as she now starts to unstrap training armour in favour of the soaked woolen shirt underneath. “It removes me of purpose; my skill has never been in the tending of fields or roads like how the armies of these Northern lands operate. Even when I was younger than Stenden, I spent my time in the mountains ‘fore Eastweald in a constant war of our own with the Amani.”

“You sound like the Wintergales,” she comments as Thanidiel retrieves her cigar tin. “Before The Fall that is. When Amani raids still came from deep within the Cloudrends,” she says, noting the knight’s for purpose.

She starts to stride a short distance to the side, towards fencing where she had left her cigar tin. Plucking up one from within as she uncaps it with a steady slide of a knife and lights in a brilliant little ‘pop’ of arcane-flame. “Even the Wintergales have walls and towns to return and maintain, no? I cannot say I remember such ‘luxuries’ from my youth.”

Relriah notes the emphasis on the luxury of walls to return to, trying her best to form an image of Thanidiel’s past. But can’t. Relriah’s life had been nothing but walls.

Puffing the acrid first smoke out from her cigar, it fumes out into the air quickly, followed almost immediately by a longer one that rolls around her mouth and over her tongue. “It is not the responsibility of being a Lady that burdens you,” presses itself in a firm observation of the other’s character. 

...marital problems?”

Relriah shakes her head. “No- Yes- Not really,” she says unable to grasp that feeling in her chest. “Solendis has never mistreated me, nor am I unhappy with our arrangement- But-” A fire seems to light behind her eyes. “He loves me- But never the way his brother did. By comparison it is cold, calculated. Punctuated by words like: Obligation and Duty.” Lady Emberheart paused, realizing she had spoken too much in her attempt to express her truth to Thanidiel.

Thanidiel starts to scratch at the corner of her azure-blue eye as she watches Relriah, that same pupil tracking the Lady just a beat slower than the furious fel-green other, “I took a man for a lover before. He grated me in a similar way - too cold to match up to my blaze.” Then she rolls her shoulder, an action that serves as both a shrug and as a way to loosen the previously unstrapped leather armour and let it all fall onto the soil. It seems as though she’s simply stomping right over the implications drawn between Solendis and Sederis. A quiet mercy, or more realistically, an apathy to such things.

“But if you are not unhappy with such an arrangement, then what it is that displeases you?”

Relief fills her when she hears her instructor’s reply, mercifully apathetic to her accidental revelation.

“Because,” Relriah replies. “I think something in me broke when I took the field, and the lives of others. It’s as if the longer I stayed on the battlefield, the more my heart rip in two. One belonging to Lady Emberheart. One belonging to…” She trails off, glancing up at the stars. “Me.” There were two of her now, and which would survive this war was still in the balance. 

Thanidiel stares at Relriah for an eon of a moment - like a parent taken aback by some philosophical revelation of the child and knowing little of what to do with it. Even the cigar held at the edge of her lips has smoke suspend from it like incense. Then her brows start to furrow, that entrenchment already between them like a fault in the earth.

It is rare for the Phoenix Guard to voice much of anything that proximates near that ironclad heart of her’s, but yet here it is, barking out as the bemusement of processing what Relriah’s fucking problem was fades. Skipping over clarifications or allowing the other to expand her say further and going straight to the hamfisted solution.

“If Lady Emberheart is not you, then to force yourself to claim contentment with her arrangements as you do now is foolish. You are strong enough to be your own, so do so. That is what Sederis died for; what every Sin’dorei has died for.”

Relriah listens to her, and bows her head. She spoke true. The Phoenix Wars were fought primarily for their right to be their own people. Not to have their future dictated to them. In the same manner it had always been dictated to her. 

“I am,” she nods speaking an affirmation to herself, “I am strong enough. But to choose myself is to forsake the life I knew and had grown comfortable with. Because I am no longer comfortable. There’s an energy now, that will not be satisfied with four walls of someone else’s choosing. Being nothing more than a passenger to another’s ship.”

She could not articulate it at the time, but she felt like a child. Forced to bear poorly conceived decisions of parents who did not know better. Listened to, but never heard. Powerful in her own right, but impotent to change anything in her world. But here, at the bleeding edge of impending peace that had been heralded by her own hand, Relriah felt like she could bear it no longer.

“What would you choose, Highdawn? Duty, or yourself?”

“One does not distinct from the other. When I was young, these things were forged into one. I came in as wet earth rich with mineral, and came out as steel,” answers back in a matter-of-fact fashion. Then she shakes her head some, pushing away a loose lock of hair from her bun then swings her palm out to brandish another cigar to Relriah.

Both an offer and the indication of a point being firmly laid to the other woman’s feet.

“But if you have the opportunity to be split of such things, I would not pursue the things that leave me cold.”

Relriah makes a soft chuckle, and takes the cigar. She had not indulged in such things since being married, lest she be seen by others and let it be the spark of rumors. Lady Emberheart had been perfection incarnate. It was built into the role that she had carried on her shoulders. But in that single gesture, she took a big and knowing step towards one of the women she wanted to be.

With the tiniest of cantrips, she lights her cigar. Summoning a small curvature of flame at the tip of her forefinger. She breathes it in, and in a long drawn exhalation, spreads the smoke into the sky in… relief?

“My life has been cold,” she states. “Immaculate and perfect, perhaps. But with all things without blemish, it was a sterile thing. I don’t think I will bear such a thing any longer.”

The warrior nods once - firm and resolute as though on Relriah’s behalf, as well as showing her immediate approval. “Then you will not, because you have the Will, and one’s Will is one’s Strength. Just as I am nothing without this, so can you make yourself again with it.”

Her arms fold over her chest, chin lifted imperiously as always as her gaze travels to follow that smoke and puff out her own gust of tobacco. “That is the luxury soldiers wish for the Sin’dorei, so advantage it than to needlessly burden yourself with ‘should do’s when the dead already have.”

Relriah gives a thoughtful pause, another breath of smoke. “I think that’s it. That’s the answer to all of this. My life had been given to me. The privilege of upbringing, clothes, suitors, and the expectations that came with it. This,” she gestured to the camp, filled with men at arms who had joined Thanidiel of their own accord. “This is a life I’ve made for myself. Worked for. And through pain, and blood, and sick. It’s a life I earned.”

She looks at Thanidiel, and gives a nod. Of a new form of rapport and of respect. “Thank you, I think you’ve helped me, more than you know.” With one last sigh, she looks back at the Phoenix Guard. “So, we’re coming to the end of all of this. Where will you go when this is over?”

The woman, more weapon than individual, stills with this inquiry. A breadth of silence needed to bring the abstract of her thoughts into language; a process rarely demanded of her to much capacity beyond the thunder and action of the field. Approaching kinship with the way a hound is asked something beyond its education.

“I don’t know. I tire of service yet duty is all I know. I am… dysfunctional in the ways of the civil world. I could die, but yet I do not. I could step into line with the Phoenix Guard proper and I would excel as I always have but it would be an obligation like my whole century and some has been.” Another pause before eventually she works out with a screw on her face, “I suppose after everything, I have attempted to resolve what would make me happy and have not found any solutions as I can with more… tangible things. So I… wait.”

The show of unfamiliarity with her own thoughts was not lost on Relriah, who listens intently to what she had to say. It was not everyday she got to hear of the inner workings of a warrior, much less a Lady as accomplished as Thanidiel was.

“If it pleases you, and if it suits your purpose, there will be a place for you in the Glades should you wish to stay,” Relriah makes a tangible offer. “I am my father’s last remaining heir to House Illithia and to the province of Westheath. If I’m not to be Stenden’s mother after all, I suppose I will be mother to those who would follow me. That said, I will need the very best advisors available to me if I am to keep the realm stable for the sake of my son.”

“Maybe. Beathyn promised me land in the Glades on your husband’s behalf. It was… intended for,” The fighter raises her hand to wave towards the whole of the bustling campground, “Them. My Lieutenants at bare minimum. I thought it’d be more grueling, that I’d die and that would be that. But it is looking like that is not the case.”

She breathes. 

Not a sigh but a sound weary all the same.

“Somewhere far from walls. The hundred years I’ve spent at Silvermoon’s whims has shown me that I drown when I must consider lifestyles I was not birthed into. Perhaps whatever wilds have not been tamed and settled at the Glade’s edges if such a thing exists.”

“Ah, of course,” she makes a comment about her husband’s offer that must have been made long before now. “There will be good land to settle in the Bulwark, if farmsteading suits your lieutenants and a possibility of something more martial. But if you wish to remain far from walls, in places untamed then you may be content with the Cloudrends...”

Relriah gestures at the mountain range that overlooked the Emberglades no matter where they went. Always looming in the south, earning their namesake, forcing the clouds to coil upwards towards it’s crown. “I suppose the land there may be reminiscent of your childhood. Save the Amani raids since The Fall. Though, as you must know by now, The Cloudrend Glades are never completely safe.”

The ex-Knight hefts a shrugging motion upon her shoulder, her neck bending away from it as she rolls another mouthful of smoke over her tongue.

“I don’t think they need me any longer if they take up the idea of the Bulwark. But I’m no dictator, I will see what they all wish for, either way of company, I think you are right. And perhaps something familiar to those times would be… good, seeing as I cannot tread those lands any longer.”

Finally, as though struck by an afterthought, Thanidiel grunts then tacks on a sloppy, “Thanks.”

—

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel