#dawnwatchwra

[theshadowofazeroth]

Alleria’s Advance

[ Theme ] [ Picture ]

Dawn breaks on a shattered alien world. A blue sun crests a mountain range of dull orange and rusted red. In the crag  overlooking a passage through the range they lie in wait, bows and blades held close and low to avoid the glimmer of the foreign sun. Demons mill about the narrow corridor between sheer cliffs, unable to fathom the murderous vengeance poised to rain down upon them.

The Army of the Light hosts various races from across the cosmos; none compare to the Quel’dorei of Azeroth. The true scouts and vanguard of the Army of the Light, they represent the military might of a people with strength of character, conviction of purpose, and faith in each-other and themselves.

Of the groups formed during the Alliance Expedition with the Sons of Lothar, Alleria’s Advance is among those on the bleeding edge of the Army of the Light’s forays into Legion-controlled space and worlds. Infiltrating compounds and scouting the wilds of countless nameless worlds across the universe, they represent the pinnacle of what can be done with the right tools and the right skills.

There can be no doubt that Alleria’s Advance has grown from their roots as Quel’dorei rangers of the eternal forest of Quel’Thalas. From their adoption of broader gold and heavier bows to refinement of ultra-light slashing and stabbing blades and use of combination chain-and-scale armors with protective coats and layered breastplates, Alleria’s Advance has fully embraced a new style to match their role in the universe; one of grand purpose behind killer instinct and immaculate training.

Dawnwatch specifically has found allies in Alleria’s Advance, much to the dismay of the Silver Covenant. With the help of Kahaleane Highblossom and her two ranger aides, Calath Phoenixriver and Alvia Rosedawn, Hamathiel Sunsheer’s small group of professionals has an opportunity to refine their own tactics and learn from the example of what their people have persevered to become.

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

People are Strange

Stormwind City. With the appearance of Argus in the skies and the shadow of doom falling over Azeroth the bastion of the Alliance was seeing better days. Panic in the streets. Hushed feelings of fear and dread. Whispers of what was to come. It would take a truly blind man to not notice the signs.

Donny Stranger didn’t get it. The city was crazed, and he couldn’t really figure it out for himself. Sure there was a new planet in the sky; didn’t they get the memo? The draenei were handling it with help, ancient allies were showing up left and right, and even the world they lived on was coming to life to help.

So why the big deal?

Standing about five-feet six-inches tall with dark brown hair and wide-side, expressive brown eyes, Donnalac Stranger wasn’t what anyone in the Alliance would call attractive. He had poor posture, tended to fidget in place, and wore what amounted to a mix of “whatever was on the floor this morning” and “hey this doesn’t smell bad today.” Simple boots, simple belt. Nothing spoke of any refinement or class. No meaningful social standing. And certainly no higher education.

Almost all of it was true. Everything but the last part.

Donny Stranger, the resident misanthrope of The Call of Azeroth. Voted least-likely to succeed on the field in his graduating class in Dalaran. Barely able to defend himself in a fight, unable to conjure anything but the most basic of magics, and physically incapable of speaking to the opposite gender without a stutter. Here he was, combing Stormwind with what magic he could muster to find where his best friend had vanished off to.

Last he spoke with Pratchett, the writer had decided to take some time to figure out what he was supposed to do with himself. He claimed to be settling some issues in Stormwind before he went missing, completely falling off the face of the planet around the same time Argus had shown up in the skies. Short of an appearance with the elves he worked with and a custom order at the Grill-Bosses cart for nonperishable travel food, he had gone completely.

Donny made his first stop at Pratchett’s apartment, only to find it occupied. The young couple were friendly enough as Donny stumbled his way through an introduction, only to have little to offer up in evidence of the former tenant. They had recently rented the apartment after it was vacated, and noted that the floor around the bed had been replaced alongside the bed itself.

It didn’t help Donny in the least.

Next was Pratchett’s trail; the young man ascribed to the same magical fundamentals as the rest of their group, and so too did Donny. Following the magical trail, faint as it was, lead him throughout Stormwind City. Pratchett must have gone to every place he worked out of or with on his way to vanishing off the face of Azeroth:

The printer he used had closed his account with the young man, and was instructed to forward earnings for his publications to the orphanage. The orphanage only knew they were getting donations anonymously. Pratchett’s old room in the Golden Keg was rented out to a friend of theirs with no sight of the writer. The library noted that Pratchett had returned a number of outstanding withdrawals and returned his card with them. He closed his tab in the Pig and Whistle, Golden Keg, Blue Recluse, Slaughtered Lamb, Travis and Sons, The Prancing Paladin, and a few other nameless haunts. As well as one Donny was sure Will had never actually gone to before.

It was a dingy little hole of a tavern. More a bar proper, without any booths or food. Just a number of glass bottles on a wall and a serving counter with beaten stools and standing tables. The resident patrons were all dirty and drunk, old men past their prime. It smelled like stale beer and sweat, the kind of smell that came from laborers more than adventurers. Dock workers had a brine to them; these people were just the smell of people left out in the sun too long.

Donny didn’t waste time inside. Not once he saw the lingering energies and the taint coming from inside. Whatever happened inside had left Pratchett in a mood; his trail lead from the little bar straight out from Stormwind via the stables and off into the skies.

It took Donny a bit to get out of the city. Everyone was going somewhere with Argus in the sky and doomsayers on the streets. Everyone seemed to be able to get there quicker than Donny; this wasn’t something new though.

He paid for a flight out, only to find out the gryphon masters were on strike. He went to find a caravan, only to learn they were booked for weeks. The Deeprun Tram was experiencing technical difficulties. Ships leading out of the harbor were all fully requisitioned by the Legionfall for supplies and courier work.

Donny gave up after being rebuked at the docks. Frustrated with the state of things, annoyed at Argus having everyone’s attention, and generally worried for his friend, he took the most extreme step. A portal was opened right then and there, in the middle of the dock, leading to where he guessed he would find Pratchett. Donny Stranger hurried through it, cursing under his breath as he struggled to find something to do with his hands in frustration. The portal snapped shut as soon as he ventured through, cheap boots coming down on the loamy soil of the graveyard far, far to the north.

For once, his aim was good. It was somewhere he visited before, somewhere he remembered keenly for the setting and the importance to Pratchett. Donny paused to look around for a long few moments and take in the surroundings, making sure he ended up in the right place before acting on anything.

He looked down and saw the boot-prints in the soil near his own. Familiar boot-prints, before a familiar headstone.

Alurius Brightsong Lost to the Fallen Prince, Raised by the Fallen King The Light in His Heart Never Dimmed May it Burn in Ours Forever

[bloodwakesfieryspirit]

Wrap Up: No Time

[ Music: The Guess Who - No Time ]

In the closing hours of Dawnwatch’s rousing success the final loose ends of the Legion plot comes into view. Da’na’shan, the eredar haruspex, offers little at first in the efforts of Sunsheer and Pratchett, leading the two to find a proper prison to hold the Legion commander.

A proper prison surrounded by Illidari all-too-happy to interrogate.

By morning they have their answers. The vague concept of elemental energies and temporal powers aligning was more than correct; it could have even been possible by all accounts. Taking raw, empowered elements from various points in time aligned to their natural resonance (timeless fire, drastically-changed water) combined with key moments of the Burning Legion reaching into Azeroth (earth from the Well of Eternity during the War of the Ancients, air from the very top of the canopy of the World Tree, Nordrassil during the conclusion of the Third War) and combining them with aspects of Azeroth’s parallel-connected dimensions (living essence from the Emerald Dream, essence of undeath from the Shadowlands, mana from the Twisting Nether), could very well have caused the artificial timeways generated by the Kiel-Succor to have become permanent and expansive. A single Burning Legion is infinite; multiplying the Burning Legion any number of times could lead to their immediate victory.

The Illidari consider it to be an insane plan, destine to fail because of temporal mechanics and general chrono-problems. But the risk was too great.

If only people had listened the first time.

The information, corroborated by the supporting cast of Timewalkers, Kirin Tor, Call of Azeroth, Illidari, and various other groups helps to solidify a very important observation from all of the above; Hamathiel Sunsheer was right. By chance or by decision he was the first person to identify the problem and address it. By all counts, he is the reason this scheme didn’t come to fruition.

It’s leverage for the future, in assets and credibility.

The combat itself might not have been constant, honorable, or even remotely fair at times; but the willingness to engage in it is enough. Though he may not have landed the killing blow, Akitear Blackvale is at least recognized by his peers among the Order of the Broken Temple. Avenging the deaths of so many by helping to defeat Tei’shan Reh'zah, it affords the grumpy monk a modicum of respect. And potentially access to greater teachings on chi and its application, if he can sit still long enough. Maybe even a sip of Stormbrew...

With no real desire for fame, fortune, or glory through the entire mess, there isn’t much for Syllandra Emberdawn to get out of the entire experience; except for the experience itself. Alchemic resources in the form of the raw elements gathered by the Da’na’shan. Exposure to further forms of alchemical and magical transmution from Tei’shan’s encounters (transmute pants to meat!). And a glimpse at what might have been thought possible only under the guidance of Elune.

Despite taking a beating every step of the way, there is even less to come back with for the wayward young human. Spending resources with the draenei, the Call of Azeroth, and his few friends among the kaldorei, Willaude Pratchett comes out the entire experience none-the-better. Having lost his magic at the outset of the time-hopping mess, Will is left to brood over the appearance of Argus in the skies of Azeroth seemingly just as he loses the one weapon he had in his fight against the Legion. After years of preparing, everyone else is ready while he struggles to even keep up with his friends; much less Dawnwatch.

[aetherine]

Walk in the Park: Part 2 - (Wild) Wild Life

The forests around the city of Suramar are home to beautiful flora and fauna, as well as a dizzying amount of breathtaking vistas. Yet this beauty and variety hides a dangerous threat…

The Legion arrives! With time running out to set things right for Suramar and the rapidly approaching Legion fleet descending upon Azeroth, Dawnwatch must fully map the wayward time-displaced ley-line in Suramar in order to protect the integrity of the local telemancy network. But will they be in time?

[jaxtox-blog]

"GET ME IN CLOSER!” the goblin yelled over the wash of the sea and battering rains. “I WANT TO HIT THEM WITH MY SWORD!”

It was hard for the Jandvik to argue, even if he was so small and nerve-wracking. The captain bellowed his orders in an echo of the goblin’s words, sending the various vrykul scrambling to get the ship to the correct part of the stormy seas.

The new Jarl instructed them to fight with the Outlanders as the Nightborne called them. Ally with these people from far away and work at facing against the Naga, Helya, and everything else that sought to stand in their way.

They saw the goblin for what he was, though. One of the constructs of the Makers. A being forged in the crucible of their Gods. They called him Titanforged, and he didn’t argue.

He just wanted combat.

His thirst for battle and desire to face against the darkest depths of the sea was all the vrykul needed to hear to allow him on one of their ships. Though his equipment was strange and his manners foreign, he acclimated well with their values. Strength, honor, duty. Respect which was earned. Indulgence in what life has to offer.

But mostly battle. He instructed them where to go and whom to fight, and never gave them a disappointing encounter. Now they rode the waves and sliced the seas to find another foe. A great speaker of the dead raising the corpse of a kraken for Helya’s forces. And it had just appeared on the horizon.

Jax was getting used to this, fast. He leaped from tentacle to tentacle, cleaving them apart with his fiery blade and moving on to the next in a whirling dance of burning flame and shining titansteel. His shield came up to deflect a volley of sharpened bones cast by the dread necromancer atop the risen kraken corpse, the goblin-mech pausing for a moment to sneer underneath his engineers’ mask before rocket-booting across the gap between himself and the spellcaster.

He hit the necromancer with everything he could, sending the woman flying off the side of the undead monster she rode and into the water. He didn’t stop there, riding the woman through the air with his shield between them, pummeling her with the butt of his blade. His words come out one-at-a-time, every blow to the woman’s face and head accentuated with his annoyed voice.

“TELL. HELYA. JAX. SAYS. LIKE. A. BITCH.”

They splashed into the water and the goblin mech’s weight was enough to drag them both down. Water filled her lungs, robbing her of air. The pressure of the depths closed around her body, robbing her of movement. And Jax drove his blade square into one of her eyes, robbing her of her life.

The Jandvik didn’t know how the little green warrior did it, but he was on the dock when they returned to their port. He threw the captain of the ship a wet, slightly slimy ear as he approached, all grins as he turned to head into the port town proper.

[bloodwakesfieryspirit]

From the Desk of Bloodwake: No Time

Paperwork had started to pile up in the little alcove they claimed was his office. The extended halls of the Kirin Tor could hold an almost infinite amount of supplies, books, research materials, and reagents.

Sun forbid they give us enough space to stretch our feet.

It was an ungrateful thought, considering all the work the Kirin Tor had done for Azeroth and specifically, his people. There were rough parts, but for the most part he couldn’t complain.

Especially while they stay out of my day-to-day. Now where did I...

Aeth’alis Bloodwake. Kirin Tor researcher. Magus of the Sin’dorei. Blood Mage. Adventurer. Light-fearing man.

In the last year Aeth’alis had taken on a much different role than he was used to; a hands-off approach to the threats across Azeroth. It was simple math; he could expend his energies alone or in a small group and get a fraction of the work done, or he could put together the pieces to a bigger picture and enact change across the world. Real change. Actual progress.

His alliance with Hamathiel Sunsheer had been part of this, among other people. He wasn’t acting as an on-again off-again patron of just the Dawnwatch, but they were possibly the most lethal and surgical group he had access to. Entrusting Sunsheer with the ley-line survey equipment had been a risk which paid off many times over now. The nudges and suggestions here and there in the Kirin Tor were starting to change the shape of opinions about the sin’dorei. Shell-partnerships across Azeroth were collecting more and more adventurers, be they Horde or Alliance or other factions across the globe, under a unified banner.

But the news coming in from the Kirin Tor about Sunsheer and his Dawnwatch was striking.

Blood Elven group disarms Legion temporal plot.

Joint Sin’dorei-Kirin Tor-Alliance effort leads to destruction of Legion ship, commander.

Timewalker representative claims eredar commander assassinated with single shot while attempting to hijack timeway-bound Well of Eternity.

It was making them look good. Damn good. And among the rank-and-file adventurers interested in the gossip columns it was rallying more and more action against the Legion. The last one had to be bravado on someones part, but Aeth’alis wouldn’t dispute it publicly. It had the definite bent of some distinctly yellow journalism he read while still above Crystalsong Forest.

Regardless of where it all was coming from, he responded. A quickly-drafted letter to Sunsheer congratulating him on his efforts, with a request to meet. A strongly-worded letter to the Kirin Tor as a reminder of the invaluable aid the sin’dorei had once again offered in saving Azeroth as a whole. Congratulations to a number of the groups involved on the outskirts of the affair, with a specific letter to Sunsheer’s pet human on the matter of his creative storytelling of the scenario. A brisk communique to the local Bronze Dragonflight representative.

It went on and on.

[theshadowofazeroth]

The Shadow Falls

It’s a storytelling convention as old as storytelling.

The end of days. The final stand. Tremble, mortals, and despair! Doom has come to this world.

Azeroth faces the apocalypse as often as the pages of its story turn. Shadows fall on the world every few years, with the mortal races saving the planet and all of creation every time.

But what happens behind the scenes? Where is the characterization intrinsic to making a good villain, foil, or even ally?

Dawnwatch. The Call of Azeroth. Stormwake Warband. The Disputation of Shadow.

These groups and more are going to have their villains, their allies, and each-other characterized here. With more to come.

So many more to come.

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

Stormwind. Old Town. The night carries on. Men and women drink and celebrate in spite of the hanging omen above them in the skies. Off the main drag, in a little alley that smells of stale beer and dank water, a young man and his female companion race up rickety stairs to an apartment door...

[ WARNING: Gore, Stylized Sexual Situation ]

“You couldn’t believe the month I’ve had.” The young man grins wide as he unlocks the door with a quick turn of the cold iron key in his hand, giving it a gentle nudge with his boot to keep from touching it with his hands.

Busy hands, at that. The key in one hand, her waist in the other. He couldn’t believe his luck. Just when everything was looking like oblivion...

The woman just keeps smiling as she steps inside the tiny apartment. “What is that smell? It seems so familiar.” Five-foot six, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds wet with vibrant red head and glittering green eyes. She wears light silks and linens, with a short skirt and shirt that shows off her abdomen as well as moderate bust. Lacey, transparent cloth makes up her sleeves and a bit of a collar for the shirt, giving her an almost regal appearance.

He motions over towards the workbench in the corner, a well-beaten piece of furniture with enough inking supplies to keep a team of writers and illustrators busy. “Might be the station over there; been busy writing that thing I mentioned earlier.” He seems to preen a bit with this, clearly marking it as a point of personal pride.

She seems distracted though. Something catches her attention in the room, something she can’t quite pin down. The smile is still there, but it drops a tiny bit as she looks around. “No, I don’t think that’s it. It’s something-”

He doesn’t give her the chance to continue. With the door closed and locked he wastes no time, sidling up next to her with his hand still on her almost-bare waist and the other pocketing his key. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Hopefully you’ll have all night, yeah?”

She lets out a quiet ‘Mm,’ nodding as she turns her head up and back, her back arching just enough to give him a teasing glimpse down her shirt.

Light almighty is the only thing that makes it through his mind as she shimmies in place, slowly forcing the skirt down from her hips with the rhythmic, vigorous motion.

He lays on the bed and takes it all in as she moves to him, crawling over the sheets. Like some prowling Barrens cat crosses his mind, only for him to grin a bit wider and shake it off with a subtle shake of his head and scant huff of air. Don’t say it out loud, the narrating writer thing gets old fast.

He just takes in the scene, palms resting on her hips while fingers grip her and pull her up to straddle him.

She couldn’t figure it out. Something about this place was familiar. Something about the room was strange. Something about him had started to get uncomfortably familiar.

Another mortal to sway to the Legion, another asset to pull in to the web of lies and deceit. Another soul to harvest, maybe even devour for her own. She hadn’t fed on the life of a young man like this in months, and the aching was starting to get to her. Maybe that had been the reason she was so eager in spite of all the feelings. This beautiful stranger. This little mortal mark. This delicious morsel.

She looked into his eyes for the last time, and saw something in there that caught her off guard. Her eyes went wide once she realized what it was.

Looking into her face, catching her eyes as he grips her behind and holds her close, he realizes it in a heartbeat.

Fucking fuck.

He tries to throw it from atop him, off the bed for a better vantage on the situation. He tries to take that grip and haul it off from him, but the supernatural strength of the thing takes a hold of him with its hips and rides him in an decidedly not fun-time manner.

He starts raining blows with all his might, fists beating into the rapidly changing flesh atop him. The pale fair skin goes flush and brilliant red. The simple fabrics fade to nothing, replaced with a leathery corset and itty-bitty thong. Wings emerge from its back, while the joints in its legs pop and contort from human to distinctly unguligrade. Fiery hooves leave black marks on the bed sheets, while sharp nails dig into his clavicle and stain the pillows with blood. The creature’s already fair bust exaggerates through the transformation, fooling the uneducated into thinking this corrupt humanoid is something female.

Neither male nor female. Just a transitory state before being a corpse.

It shouts his surname. He never told the demon his first name, much less the whole thing. It clicks as soon as the fel creature goes for a slash across his face, barely avoiding losing his eyes as he sinks back into the pillows. “Oh! So you’ve heard of me!”

“Devil in disguise!” the creature cries as he braces himself and thrusts, sending his body up and back as he bashes the thing up against the wall the bed frame rests against. “We know what you’ve done to our sisters! I will not be part of you!” The demon barely gets the words out before he pulls his weight around atop the bed. Muscles flex, joints strain, and all at once he grabs the thing by the base-joints of its wings and twists the both of them around.

That leaves teeth and claws he thinks to himself as he pulls his arms from around its back and grabs either of the demons wrists. Holding its hands up together he gets a firm pin with his weight on its wrists with one hand and its neck with the other, leaning in close to the curvy demonic figure. “Oh you don’t have to worry about that, hunter-of-men’s-souls. I’m not going to take you.” He smiles, a knee quickly moving between the demons legs to pin its snaking tail in place. “Light, you all must’ve not heard the news. I’m depowered. No more magic. No more final death from me, here.”

Its eyes go wide. He can’t tell if it’s shock from the revelation, his knee getting too close for comfort, or the realization that it isn’t much longer for this world. Probably not the second one, he muses. I know I’m not that good.

“Then you have no way of killing me here! What are you going to do, Pratchett? Serenade me to death? Cut me down with words and harsh language?” All the while the demon struggles, thrashing in the bed beneath his weight as it tries and begins to succeed in freeing itself.

“Oh you keep this up and I’ll regret not getting you to scream my name a couple more times before we got to this point.” Bravado and the act are the only things keeping me from losing my proverbial shit here he thinks to himself as he shifts and adjusts atop it, trying to keep the demon in place. “Guess this story’s come to a climax, huh?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, brilliant felfire turning to pinpoints of light as she glared unimpressed at his self-sure grin. “Your writer jokes are stupid, boy.”

She just had to wait him out. That was as simple as it was. He was only mortal, self-admittedly without magic and without the advantage which let him kill the sayaad before her. She just had to keep him bantering, keep him distracted, keep him off-balance long enough to throw him to the floor.

She needed time, and she knew his ego was too great to miss an opportunity to posture and gloat. Allah’torel knew the boy as well as any mortal, and she had taught her adopted daughters to be weary of this one.

“Not as stupid as this.” Will grins wide as he pulls his weight from the demon without warning, ducking to the side of the bed where he’d thrown his pants. He rifles through them as the demon crests the edge of the bed, nails tearing into his good sheets as he fumbles for the last thing he’d handled that wasn’t the demon or his nice-pants.

The demons wings spread out wide behind, its whole body tense as it moves in and goes for the strike. But then he’s at the things throat, figuratively and literally. His right hand balled up into a fist, the key to his front door between his middle and index fingers and held tightly, he jabs at the sayaad’s throat.

Those wings already looked like they were at full tension, but the shock drives them to twitch and stretch out even further. It takes the demon a moment to comprehend what is happening to it, and in that moment Will goes in for the kill.

All at once he moves up. Grabbing the demon’s side with his free hand and with none of the thinly-veiled desire from before he hefts the thing up with his rising body. Using his still-balled fist as a pivot he pushes the both of them up onto the bed once more, letting the demon fall on its back with its head free over the opposite side of the bed. Will mounts the demon for what he hopes is the last time that evening, driving his key-gripping fist into the things neck. Once. Twice. A third time. Purple blood spurts out of the front of the demons neck as he grits his teeth, sneering at the rapidly fading light in the demons eyes as the cold iron key pierces the bones of its neck and severs its head. He gives the body a few more vicious strikes, the last few impacts enough to send the demons head from its body and thunk wetly against the linen mat covering the floor around the bed.

Will takes in a few deep, heaving breaths before visibly relaxing. His shoulders slump as he leans forward a bit. “Damn.” With a quick motion he tosses the key up in the air before him, just enough push behind the motion to let it hang in place before he snatches it out of the air with the teeth sticking down out of the base of his palm. Gripping it tightly with his fist, he drives the key into the demons sternum before slowly pulling himself off from it and his now-ruined sheets. “I was really looking forward to that too. Need to remember to thank the Grill-Boss for all that hand-to-hand.” He glances back at the corpse, dripping fetid corrupt blood on the floor still. “Might leave out what prompted it, though.”

[aetherine]

Walk in the Park: Part 1 - Life During Wartime

The forests around the city of Suramar are home to beautiful flora and fauna, as well as a dizzying amount of breathtaking vistas. Yet this beauty and variety hides a dangerous threat...

Post-rebellion! After addressing other threats while the majority of the Alliance and Horde forces focused on reclaiming the Nightwell and Eye of Aman'thul, Dawnwatch is asked to investigate a newly discovered ley-line in Suramar.

Armed with survey equipment specifically tailored for such endeavors and a roster of combatants to keep safe in the Suramar wilds, Hamathiel Sunsheer and his allies must plot the ley-line and identify what force could possibly have created new font of power in the ancient forest.

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

He made sure to grab a table an hour in advance; the Crescent was a nightmare to get into for lunch if you weren't lucky or 'somebody.'

The dwarf wasn't either really, which meant it took some serious effort on his part to keep up with everyone else. It was something he was used to, with mixed-blood heritage and his choice in profession earning him the ire of just about everyone he had known growing up. If it wasn't for the Ambassador-

“Emberslag!”

Kartast literally went up an inch from his stool, jumping up and attempting to twist around to see who called him.

“Oi! Pratchett! Bloody hell, get in 'ere! Yer just in time!”

The dwarf motioned over to the young human at the doorway of the tavern before quickly taking to his feet, waving his arms to make sure he didn't get lost.

“I'm actually on my way to-” “It dunna matter, boy! Git'cher ass in 'ere! I gotta table 'an a appointment with you-know-who!”

The young man spoke to someone outside and ahead of him on the street, all smiles and waves as they parted ways as quickly as they could in the bustle of Dalaran's afternoon streets. Will didn't waste any time slipping into the tavern, avoiding conflict with the hired muscle at the door by first pointing with his finger at himself and then to the Dark Iron dwarf at the table with his arms flailing about. The round-about waving gesture the young man makes with his index finger and hand conveys more intent than his words could have so quickly, indicating his intention to slip inside and get to where he's going with little hassle. His insistence and haste are the only things that get him inside without an explicit vetting process; the dwarf inviting him in helps matters, but only just.

“Rhonin's magnificent fiery mane, what in the fel are you doing in here, Kart? And which you-know-who are we talking about? There's a couple.” Will asked the important questions as he stole a stool from a nearby counter and slid up to the not-quite-made-for-three-people table with the dwarf.

“The Ambassador, boyo! Who else, ah?” Kartast is all grins and pride as he made the exclamation, getting comfortable on his stool again. The reaction from his human companion was priceless as always when it came to Her. Kartast thoroughly enjoyed catching Pratchett off guard whenever he could, a feat which was becoming harder and harder as the young man went through hell on a seemingly daily basis. “Hope ya got a spare hour in yer day, 'cause she's s'posed to be in any minute!”

“Good thing I wasn't in a hurry. I suppose my sister can manage until dinner without me.”

“Oi, Gracie?! Why didn't ya invite'er in? I'd love ta see the-”

“You'd love to hit on her until she picked you up and carried you to the nearest water trough, Kart. You know she could crush you.”

“Aye, boyo, aye. S'what makes her so attractive.”

“Aaand we're changing subjects. I imagine you're in here for lunch with the Ambassador then?”

“Aye, I am! Hilde'gath's got some work she needs done; and where Flaresoul needs us, the Emberslag's'll go!”

“Mm. Well, I'll stick around for a little bit. Have a bite as a courtesy. Only a bite though; I'll die if I eat heavy for the rest of the day.”

“Oh yeah! Donny mentioned ya tried ta kill yerself this mornin'. Keen on that orcish cuisine eh?”

“The draenei daughters and their mother have had me on a strict diet for the last week or so here, Kart. I needed it. Like you need eye-candy.”

“Ah ya poor bastard! Surrounded by buxom, beautiful blue gals 'an their tender mercies! A torture if I ever heard'a one!” The dwarf guffawed as he raised a hand to flag down service, giving a few curious looks around as he let his attention wander.

He couldn't help himself, it was all too enjoyable for him. The barmaids all dressed up for show, the patrons in their flashy outfits and revealing clothing; even the glimpses outside of the melting pot of races on the street. If there was anything he was guilty of, it was being a true race traitor. Which among the Dark Irons was starting to become more and more acceptable. One of the few reasons he was able to get away with it so openly.

The fact Pratchett wasn't joining him in the sights was cause for concern. The dwarf only realized it after the long silence that came with looking about the tavern, giving his friend a long considerate look before nodding at him as he spoke up. “What's botherin' ya? Ya got that far-away look on 'yer face.”

Will shrugged helplessly, placing his palms on the tops of his thighs as he leaned forward a bit and rested some of his weight on them. “Ah, I don't know. It's been a morning, you know? Just dealing with things.”

“Yeah, things huh? Like what things?”

“Just... things. Life. Trying to get through it, you know?” “Aye, yeah. Don't think I don't know that answer for what it is, boyo. Ya seen'er yet?”

“Who?” “Sarah! She's in Dal, after doin' whatever the feck she was up to in Suramar with Gaile 'an Yesi.” The way Pratchett sunk and lowered his head, Kartast knew he'd made a misstep. “Ya ain't on good terms with'er still, huh?”

“You know what? Let's change the subject. Again. I've already gone through it a couple times today, with Gracelyn insisting I sit down and talk to her.”

“She ain't wrong.” “You're not helping, Kart.” “She still ain't wrong.” “You're still not helping, Kart.”

[ Image Source ]

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

“You're insane, man.”

Early morning in the streets of Dalaran, the floating city mages. The early hour didn't stop the citadel-like beachhead against the Legion from functioning like any other part of Azeroth, nor did the danger outside the walls deter the citizens from their daily habits.

It was those daily habits which brought him here. Sent out by his patron with a small food cart and enough supplies to get a start servicing adventurers from across Azeroth and beyond, they had finally set up without incident.

The young man with the shorn hair and glasses waved off the other young man speaking to him, taking a hold of the cob-sized chunk of meat with both hands before biting into it and stopping in place.

“What the hell is it anyway?”

The other young man asked the question as he looked over to the cart, appearing genuinely curious. Humans. He could look himself. He could ask his companion. He could try the thing and not be such a woman about it. But instead he shows caution and hesitation.

“The Grill-Boss calls it A Warrior's Death. Woven black cracked pepper bacon with a honey glaze from giant wild boar on the outside, ground pork and beef beneath that, a pair of yak sausages done dwarven brat-style, and a mix of cheddar and provolone cheese at the center. Baked, painstakingly, over night and turned by hand for hours on end to ensure the perfect blend of cooked fat, rare meat, and charred flesh.” The orc running the cart grinned wide at the two humans, taking one of the finished products of this 'Warrior's Death' and biting into it. It looked large in the hands of the young man that had ordered it, but in Friggut's grip it was a perfect fit. The orc chomped at the end of it for a few long moments, savoring the juice and grease as it exploded with flavor.

The human that ordered it took his bite, cautiously and carefully ensuring that he went for one side solidly with his teeth before pulling it off quickly. Friggut always forgot the young human was one of Kesh'ka's little projects, and the way he ate showed it. Pratchett had been a thorn in Friggut's side since they had started sparring months ago, proving to be too capable of a fighter to simply put down so that the orc could get back to what he saw as honorable pursuits. Even if they were simply cooking.

“I'll have you know, Donny,” Pratchett started as he chewed and spoke at the same time. He hurriedly finished off his first bite as he looked to his companion. “It's honorable to die a warrior's death in orcish culture. The idea is that if you're going to go into battle, you need to accept that you will die if you don't respect the situation. 'Enter battle honorably as a dead man, and fight to earn another day of life.'” Pratchett holds up the meat-burrito of cardiac failure and continues. “So too with this. Either you give it your undivided attention, or you'll end up a mess by the end of it. Unsatisfied, messy, and weakened from the experience. But either way you have to earn a Nok-Karosh. You can't just pick at it and expect everything to come out in your favor.”

“Like magical theory, then. Respect it, or you'll never survive the process.”

“Something like it. Surviving a battle and coming out of it with your honor are two different things though. You might as well not survive if you're without your honor at the end. Which is why I'm going to take this,” Pratchett motions with his meat-burrito, “And go sit down at one of the benches by the Landing.”

“Yeah, I'll meet you over there.” Pratchett's companion motions a weak wave towards the food cart, taking a few steps off towards the crush of bodies navigating the streets of Dalaran. “I'm gonna get some coffee and see if Sally's up yet. You don't mind if she comes with?” Donny cocks his head a bit as he puts his weight on his rear foot, leaving himself open to being half-shoved by a group of adventurers approaching another nearby cart.

“No no, she can come, no problem. Always love to see Essex when we're not pub crawling.” Pratchett gives Donny a lopsided grin before saluting with his meat-holding hand, a quick from-the-brow motion. He offers a quick nod Friggut's way before turning and melding into the crowded street.

Humans.

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

The young woman was aghast.

“What do you mean, you're done?” The tone was nothing short of incredulous, accented by the kick from under the table. She had to be gentle, the young man not being sturdy enough to take a hoof to the shins without bruising.

The young man jerks a bit in place as the swift kick comes in, making sure not to spill his coffee as he hastily sets it down. “I mean I'm done-done. I've been through this 'oh no Will's been injured better keep him off his feet for a few months while he recuperates' thing before, and I'm not doing it again.”

“But you-”

She isn't even given a chance to finish her protest as Will cuts through her words without hesitation. “No no, I came out of it last time with an opium addition and a broken merc-company. I'm not doing it again. Especially not with the Legion on our doorstep. Especially not after the month I just had.”

She couldn't argue the last point, not in good faith. Jolaana sighs as she slumps back a bit, shifting her behind to accommodate her tail as she slides in her chair and braces her hooves against the marble floor to keep from sliding any further. “Then what will you do, hm? Throw yourself bodily at the Legion until they capture you again? Or just execute you on the spot?”

Will shakes his head dismissively as he leans back in his chair, right hand dropping to the arm of the chair while his left comes up to his chin. Elbow propped against the other arm of the chair, he shifts a bit in place to better hold his chin as he speaks. “What are you going to do, Jolaana?”

She blinks, glowing eyes flickering with the gesture as she stares at the young man in mild confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Pratchett starts as he pushes himself upright in his seat, both elbows on the arms of the chair as he raises his hands to accentuate his point with his usual gesticular emphasis. “What are you and yours going to do while I recover and recuperate? Are you going to stay in Dalaran and mull about while people out there nowhere near as capable fight the Legion? I knew the native Doukaas pretty well, and he wouldn't have sat around idly. If your father's even remotely the same, he's already got a plan to go out there. Probably with the Legionfall offensive that Khadgar and them are working on.” The young man leans back again in his chair, hands going out to either side before him in a dismissive out-of-my-control gesture. “So what the fel, right?”

She hated that phrase so much. Jolaana grimaces in response to the wording, otherwise taking the opportunity of Will's monologue to sip her own blended coffee beverage and enjoy the taste. One thing she had to appreciate about Azeroth was the cuisine; hundreds of years and she had never enjoyed something so thoroughly as coffee. Once he posed the obviously rhetorical question she launched into her own diatribe. “We are going to be responsible and approach the Legion with care and caution, so that we do not fall into a trap-”

“Oh no, not this again.”

“I am just saying, Willaude, that you knew you were at risk. And yet you were still cap-”

Will shakes his head as he reaches forward and picks up his thick coffee mug. “No, no no. I was warded, I was in public areas or working in groups the entire time. I performed with the band, stayed in their flop house, and made sure to buddy up whenever I had to head to Shal'Aran or back to Silvermoon. If it wasn't for someone's vindictive streak I'd have been perfectly fine. At least until we came up with a plan.”

Jolaana gives the young human a serious, judgmental look. Her entire face shifts from the warm and engaging expression she normally wears to something terribly unimpressed and disappointed. “You need to let that go.”

“I need to let that go? Me? I'm the one?”

“The Light knows what is in your heart, Willaude. You simply need to embrace it so you can move on.”

“I am not the one in need of 'moving on.'” Will stands up with a quick, fluid motion. Foot back and using the back of his calf to push his chair out of the way, hand switching his coffee mug from one to the other so that he can speak with his dominant right, the writer points for a moment at the draenei woman across the table from him before pointing out towards the streets of Dalaran outside. “I moved on. I finished my business and did Rose justice. Light-All-Fucking-Mighty, the Doukaas I knew helped me put her spirit to rest. Dawnwatch single-handedly helped me avenge her in a way I'd never have been able to alone. And the thanks I got for it? Sarah doesn't relent; not in the slightest! And it's not like I don't know how she feels. I was sure I'd lost my entire family after the Riverpaw killed my uncle out in Westfall. On top of sharing more than a tiny bit of my soul with the girl until she could pass into the Light. No no no, I moved on and she pulled me right back into her shit-storm of a vendetta.” Will shakes his head a few times, going to take a sip of his coffee before pausing and adding, “She came and found me in Suramar. She kidnapped me and stripped all of my warding. She's the one that needs to embrace her inner-fucking-Light.” He sips his coffee, as much a distraction to keep him from ranting as it is comfort to calm him down.

Jolaana offers up only a long pause after the young man's tirade, head lowered a tiny bit as he goes through the motions and gestures. It's almost a minute before she poses the question to him. “It bothers you, doesn't it?”

“Which part?”

“The way you feel? About Sarah, and Rose?”

“Yeah,” he starts with a sigh, shoulders drooping as the wind is taken from his sails. “It really does.”

[thetheshadowofwestfall-blog]

All I can taste is blood and cloth.

Blindfolded, gagged. The tickling sensation coming up from the floor and down from the ceiling must be some kind of paired binding rune. These knots are tight enough to hurt.

Don’t actually remember what happened. I was out with a group of shal’dorei before running into-

Ah, fuck. Sarah.

[theshadowofazeroth]

Doukaas’ Draenei

[ Theme ] [ Picture ]

"I don't even know what to call them. A clan? A family? There's the two parents and their daughter, and then a bunch of the daughters... friends? Either way I wouldn't go into a fight without them if I had the choice. Doukaas will stare into the face of death and laugh. His wife could probably give the entire Kirin Tor a run for their money. And the kids? They're intense. No other word for it. If anyone can retake Argus, it's them. And this isn't even THEIR Argus." 

Across time and space, pulled from the very depths of the past and dragged alongside the Azeroth of modern times, came Draenor. Past Selves. Alternate Universes. An iron foe powered by whispers of glory and honor until sharpened into a world-devouring blade to strike against the Legion; only to be claimed by the Legion in the end. From this inglorious end came the man'ari refugees of Argus. The draenei of Draenor.

Sha'kure Doukaas was once a contender for Exarch among his people. A bastion of hope and determination with mastery over the Light and a warmth in his heart, he led his family and their friends apart from the rest of the refugees in an effort to throw off the pursuit of the Legion and Kil'jaeden's vendetta. It was only by chance that he and his kin were restocking and discussing their future with the draenei of Shadowmoon Valley that they were included in Kairozdormu's plans for their adoptive world.

Doukaas and his draenic allies are very much a glimpse into the modern draenei. A patron and matron oversee the family in the form of Doukaas and his wife Dalassenos. Their daughter and apprentice Soulpriestess, Jolaana, keeps the group together through her friendships and bond to her family, as well as devotion to the Light and the departed souls of her kin. Her close friends set the pace for the group however; Arbiter Ruada serves as a broad-shouldered mountain of a woman with the drive and ability to bring down almost anything she can strike with her Hammer of the Naaru. The rangari sisters Keil'nei and Kala'naa are scouts and skirmishers with years of experience in the Twisting Nether alongside their friends and family. With many other friends and family in addition, these refugees of a time-lost world put their incredible might behind the defeat of the Burning Legion.

Both Dawnwatch and The Call of Azeroth have extensive dealings with Doukaas' Draenei. Dawnwatch works closely with the group on various similar interests they hold, either group acting as both reinforcement and rescue for the other when dealing with overwhelming forces. The Call of Azeroth finds Doukaas' Draenei as a a source of work and resources, with Doukaas using the short-lived mortals to address problems he and his kin would be too busy to handle themselves.