#neither will windrunner

[redisaid]

Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

[cosmerelists]

Stormlight Characters! Adolin and Kaladin are dating! How do you react?

Previously, we imagined how characters would react if Kaladin & Shallan were dating. But what if it were instead Adolin & Kaladin? (And don’t worry, poly shippers, the full trio will eventually come!)

Shallan: ...

Shallan: Well, my ex may be dating my crush.

Shallan: But neither of them are secretly an assassin who poisoned me!

Shallan: I think my dating game is getting better!

Dalinar: I knew what I was risking when I hired a hot bodyguard for my sons.

Dalinar: ..to be honest, I thought it would be Renarin.

Syl: Well...Adolin may be a shardbearer...but he can also bully Kaladin into going out...

Syl: Yeah! I’m on board!

Maya: [slowly gives a thumbs up]

Renarin: I’m so happy that you’ll be part of Bridge Four now too, brother!

Jakamav: A highlord? Dating a darkeyes??

Jakamav: Er...a darkeyed Knight Radiant, I guess? Or does that make him a lighteyes? Sometimes?

Jakamav: THE SOCIAL SYSTEM IS IN SHAMBLES

Moash: I can’t believe Kaladin is dating a lighteyes!

Moash: [deep breath] Unchained...unchained...unchained...

Amaram: I have to take credit for this.

Amaram: If I hadn’t forged Kaladin, he never would have become the sort of man who could stand beside Adolin.

Amaram: Why is everyone looking at me like that?

Sadeas: Sure, if Adolin wants to date my former bridgeman slave, I guess it’s his reputation to ruin.

Ialai: (murmuring) That line would play better before the youth became a Knight Radiant and saved everyone.

Sadeas: I know! I know!

Hesina: Our son is practically a highlord now! And to think we thought Laral was his only chance!

Lirin: (muttering) Still a waste of surgery skills.

Sigzil: Kaladin leaping into an arena to fight off four other men to get Adolin suddenly feels...symbolic.

Skar: Nice, Captain! Now you’re extra manly like Drehy!

Zahel: Well, maybe they’ll BOTH bother me less, now.

Zahel: ...or will they bother me TOGETHER?

Zahel: Did I just become homophobic?

Lewshi: A Windrunner? Dating someone who cannot fly?

Lewshi: I suppose Kaladin could carry him. In some sort of harness.

Navani: I could make that!

Adolin: AUNT NAVANI NO

[turttastic]

Ranking potential Kaladin fates from best to worst in my opinion. Obviously this is just my personal feelings:

Desirable Outcomes:

1: My Ideal World:

Kaladin stays romantically uninvolved, but ends up in a position where he is responsible for kids. Maybe he's a teacher, maybe he raises Shadolin's kids if something happens to them, maybe he raises Oradin. He would be great with kids, he's such a protector and I think the unconditional love of a kid would be good for him personally. He is ideal for a found family setup, honestly, and I don't particularly want to see him get paired off with a woman just to create a nuclear family.

2: Impossible but beautiful world:

Kaladin, Adolin, and Shallan polycule. They understand him, they love him, they are both capable of providing him with different types of support and won't be intimidated by his personality. Adolin is an absolutely crucial part of the puzzle here, though. To me, Adolin x Kaladin can work without Shallan, Adolin x Shallan works without Kaladin, but Kaladin x Shallan cannot exist without Adolin because it would be catastrophic.

3. Monster fucker win:

Kaladin ends up in a partnership with Leshwi that is probably somewhat ambiguous but has a distinct romantic undertone to it. They already have a warriors bond and respect/have a vested interest in each others continued survival. There's a deep relationship there for sure. I don't personally see it as romantic but I think it'd work fine if it was. Wouldn't detract from either character.

Neutral Outcomes:

4. The Easy Way Out:

Kaladin finds Tarah again and ends up with her. This feels like the most obvious and perhaps most likely possibility. It's boring, it's uninventive, I don't want to see it happen, but I guess it's fine? It's a nice conclusion to Kaladin learning to live in the present, but it just feels too easy.

5. Windrunner bloodline:

Kaladin gets back together with Lyn. She can do better tbh. I love Kaladin but hes a lot. He also is kind of a traditional type of guy when it comes to gender and relationships I think, and Lyn is the type of woman who wants to break away from tradition. They just don't fit to me. Only reason this happens is because they specifically want Kaladin to marry a Windrunner and have kids that seem destined to be Windrunners also until they're not.

6. Blaze of Glory:

Kaladin dies in book 5 saving someone else. It would be so so so upsetting for this to happen and unfair to Kaladin personally but it wouldn't butcher his character at least. Like it would suck, I would go catatonic, but it'd be like Vin and Elend dying. It seems like a believable fate for him to meet, as heartbreaking as it is.

Bad Outcomes:

7. White Woman Jumpscare:

Kaladin ends up with Laral. What can i even say about this. Childhood friends to enemies to strangers to Kaladin pitying Laral in a way that really pissed her off because of how condescending and patronizing it was. I don't want them together.

8. Chrom's fate:

Kaladin gets married to a random, unimportant woman between books 5 and 6 solely for the purpose of creating plot relevant children that will likely ultimately be used to hurt him.

9. Depressed together:

Adolin dies and Shallan ends up with Kaladin. Any outcome where Adolin dies is unacceptable to me but thus one especially. I love Kaladin. I love Shallan. I love them both in a relationship with Adolin, mutually or separately. But they cannot under any circumstances be allowed to date just each other. They understand each other's trauma and are drawn to each other, but neither of them is capable of helping the other process their trauma while also dealing with their own feelings. It's a relationship destined to crash and burn from my perspective.

10. Hell and hate on planet Roshar

Syl takes a physical form and gets romantically involved with Kaladin. Literally the worst possible thing I can imagine happening to either of them. Their souls are bound together, they are vital to one another, and they love each other, but not Like That. It's closer to a sibling relationship than anything. This particular situation could only arise from a gross misunderstanding of their relationship as its been developed thus far.

[eighthdoctor]

if jaina or sylvanas had a dog what kinda dog would they have

well, nathanos--

they both grew up with hounds

i'm not sure either are dog people anymore but the proudmoores absolutely keep a pack of foxhounds and jaina would be familiar with those. sylvanas would've hunted with alaunts, which are sighthounds that can also catch and hold large game.

terriers, property guardians, and herding dogs are Working Class, and neither would've kept a companion breed (ie dog just to be a dog). gundogs won't really exist in azeroth, but hounds are upper class & fit the windrunners & the proudmoores.

[gay-ass-worldhopper]

Spoilers for The Stormlight Archive

Do not read if you’re not done with The Way of Kings

Okay so I have a couple of irl friends (one) who also like Stormlight, and I’ve given the knights radiant quiz to a couple of my other friends, and I noticed a pattern: everyone I know has either been a Windrunner, Lightweaver, Truthwatcher, or a Elsecaller, with most of those people having Edgedancer be the runner up, (second most likely after taking the quiz) this is interesting to me because we have main characters for most of these people (Kaladin, Shallan, Renarin, Rlain, Jasnah, and Lift).

This is an odd correlation to me, and so I have deduced three possible explanations: a) the test is skewed currently so that people get an order that has a character they know, b) the personalities / moral alignments that come with the other five orders are rarer, or c) my social circles are all like-minded so this is just false anyway.

Because of this I want to do a poll!

[edit] so I realize that a different poll would help me collect better data, but you can’t put a second poll on even with a reblog, so here’s a link instead

https://www.tumblr.com/gay-ass-worldhopper/735452265411936256/poll-number-two-as-i-realize-this-would-probably

Also reblog for a bigger sample size

[maltacus]

A Match made in Heavens, Chaper 10

”They’re here.”

”Where? How can you tell?”

”You need to study meteorology some day, Anduin. These are rainclouds, not thunderclouds. Trust a banshee to make a drama entrance…”

Jaina wove a small spell to amplify her voice across the entire vessel.

”HANDS TO QUARTERS!”

Graceful as a cat – or two – Sylvanas Windrunner swept her long legs across and met every onlooker with fearless fire in her gaze and thorough nonchalance.

”My dear fiancé.” She took two slow and swaggering steps towards Jaina, who had a hard time looking at anything else. Here they were, at last. This was really happening. ”Fancy meeting you out here.”

”Fiancé.” Jaina nodded. ”Welcome aboard. I trust the climb was not too tiring?”

”Oh, do not worry.” Why did she have to do that voice thing again? It just…rolled over Jaina’s ears like a caressing wave. Was it a banshee trick of some kind? It must be. ”I assure you I have ample endurance left for the night.”

Jaina almost sputtered. That infuriating banshee…harlot! They were trying to broker peace here and she had the gall to imply that –

”Anduin.” Sylvanas cut her moment of indignation short only for it to be replaced by rising dread. Tides preserve them, would they even manage through the greetings? ”My soon to be nephew-in-law I understand?”

Jaina nearly fainted and Anduin’s face grew a shade whiter.

”Dearest sisters.” Sylvanas’ voice dripped with venom. ”How lovely to see you again.”

Neither of the younger and elder Windrunner answered. Alleria looked pale and furious, Vereesa like she wanted to be anywhere else.

”Where is your charming husband?” Sylvanas asked smoothly but with a distinct edge towards Alleria. ”Surely there is no need to be bashful on this joyous occasion. We are all adults here, after all.”

Jaina had her private doubts about that.

[rebeltombraider]

She's Your Daughter

Damn these plot bunnies swarming me lately... here's another one-shot, but via World of Warcraft instead (these things are kind of addicting to write when main stories are being writer's blocked, tbh... XD)

Rating: T

Warnings: Family Fluff (they deserve it), Cuteness, Sass-vanas, Jaina likes to act as if her mischievous tendencies don't exist. Her Wife and Sister-in-Laws know better.

Background: 5 years after Sylvanas' return from the Shadowlands and her ever going journey of gathering searching for her place on Azeroth once more, she ends up making the start of a peace between herself and her sisters. 2 years after that, she and Jaina Proudmoore reintroduce themselves to the other under Vereesa's watchful eye. Neither knew Vereesa was playing matchmaker until the woman's smug attitude when the two announced they were courting each other. Twenty years later, little Y/N Proudmoore-Windrunner, now an eight year old half elf (half elves aging doesn't slow till close to there 20's here) has made some amusing topics arise. Oh, and Jaina hasn't aged since the bombing of Theramore, because I said so <3.

Description: Just who is the one responsible for their child's more eyebrow raising instincts when it comes to skirting the rules?

The only person currently within the home heard the large runed ornate door to the rebuilt Windrunner Spire swing open to let in sounds of her daughter debating with her wife, interrupting her entertaining a welcomed surprise guest that had arrived mere minutes ago.

"But no one said I couldn't go out the window! The punishment was that I couldn't go out any of the doors!"

"... I knew I shouldn't have trusted your Nana with teaching you things without supervision."

Slung over her wife's shoulder, Sylvanas smirked when she saw her own mischievous smile on their daughter's face to fit the teasing drawl the little miscreant picked up as well, "Taught me? No... she just told me stories about your own adventures when you were supposed to be grounded, Mom."

Even after twenty years together, Jaina's soft blush never ceased to tug on her own sluggish heart's strings.

"I suppose it was only when, not if, my own Mother would betray me like this." Jaina sighed deeply in exaggeration, "Besides, your Minn'da probably had many escapes from Windrunner Spire, so how could it be my blood that encourages you? You already sass me much like she does."

Vereesa laughed from her seat on the chair next to the couch Sylvanas lounged in, "Oh please. Lady Moon here would just stroll right out the front door in plain view without a care."

"Yes... I'm afraid climbing out of windows from ridiculously high places remains your forte, Wife."

Jaina raised an eyebrow at Sylvanas' sass, "Of course, I forgot that you waited until our relationship to do the same. My apologies."

"Only your window at the Keep, and only because your Mother has terrifying accuracy that hasn't lessened with age. It makes me wonder if that is why your Keep has such long hallways. Far more open for shots at fleeing targets that cannot find cover."

Y/N's sudden wiggling cut off Jaina's retort, and the woman let out a sudden gasp of surprise when Y/N went limp just to push off Jaina's shoulders to slip from her grip... right into an arriving Alleria's arms.

"Come on then, Little Star. The sun has since finished its descent, and it is time for rest." True to form, Alleria hoisted Y/N under her right arm and walked off towards the main staircase that would lead to the family bedrooms with no hesitation, "It is my turn to tell you a story before bed. You may continue raising chaos tomorrow."

The two's voices echoed lightly back and forth, slowly growing quieter as Alleria carried Y/N up to bed. Sylvanas smirked at Vereesa and counted down on one hand, grinning mercilessly towards Jaina as her last finger lowered in perfect sync with a rush of frost magic in the air followed swiftly by Alleria's firm voice warning Y/N to dispel the ice holding Alleria's feet to the floor.

Completely unrepentant in the face of her Wife's exasperation and ignoring Vereesa's laughter, Sylvanas drawled teasingly, knowing Jaina was secretly pleased that their daughter was just as much like her as she was like Sylvanas.

"She's your daughter."

[sekhisadventures]

The Timelost Worgen

Once, Nozdormu sent the heroes of Azeroth through time to defeat a powerful being, his equal in every way in the most literal sense. His own future self, fallen to madness, Murazond of the Infinite Dragons.

They were sent to one of Azeroth’s possible futures. A bleak and desolate version of their world that Nozdormu referred to as ‘The End Times,’ where the corrupted leader of the black dragonflight, Deathwing the Destroyer, had done exactly as his name implies and had destroyed Azeroth to free his dark gods from their imprisonment.

However, there are many, nigh infinite timelines, and this was not the only one that ended badly for Azeroth.

In one timeline, known by the bronze dragons as Azmourne, when the forces of the Alliance and Horde invaded Icecrown citadel, the Scourge had won. Azeroth had fallen to the forces of Arthas Menethil and became a world of death where all served the Lich King and, through him, his dark master Zovaal the Jailer.

In another, Azewrath, the War of the Ancients was lost and Sargeras claimed Azeroth as his seat of power, Suramar being all that remained free of the iron rule of the Burning Legion as they put the world to the torch.

This world is not one of those… in this world, when Teldrassil Burned, King Wrynn led the forces of the Alliance to the fallen kingdom of Lordaeron in retaliation and breeched the city with Genn Greymane and Alleria Windrunner.

… but without Jaina Proudmoore. For whatever reason, in this timeline, the Daughter of the Sea was not present for the battle.

They fought their way through to the throne room of the late King Terenas to confront the Banshee Queen, who revealed that it was a trap set for them. Sylvannas transformed into her banshee form and unleashed a series of plague-bombs to flood the room with noxious fumes that spelled death for all who were inside.

In our timeline, Jaina Proudmoore teleported them to safety before the fumes could harm them… but she wasn’t there.

Instead, King Wrynn called upon the Light and dove towards the Banshee Queen, driving Shalamayne into her before she could escape. The power of the Light poured into Sylvannas and she cried out in agony as it consumed her, body and soul… but her final death scream blasted apart the throne room and the three heroes within it, killing them as well.

The King of Stormwind was dead without a heir, and the Warchief of the Horde was destroyed.

The reaction from both sides was immediate.

The Horde’s leadership changed to Baine Bloodhoof, who attempted to appeal for peace… but the Alliance would have none of it.

Tyrandae Whisperwind had been denied her prey by these events. The Night Warrior was furious and called upon the leadership of Stormwind to join her in wiping out the Horde forever. Without a king the rulership of the city fell to a hastily formed council of noblemen, many of whom saw the various races of the Horde as nothing but savage monsters worthy only of extermination.

To make matters worse, when Jaina heard of Anduin’s death she immediately sided with Tyrandae. She was still seething with the loss of her own home of Theramore Island, the wounds of that war still fresh in her mind and losing Anduin left her with very little else to care about losing.

The war raged across the lands of Azeroth for many months with neither side gaining ground… but the nobles of Stormwind had been working in secret. Aided by Lady Proudmoore and a cabal of likeminded mages, they managed to recreate the Mana Bomb used by Garrosh Hellscream during the days leading to the war in Pandaria, but much much more powerful.

They unleashed it upon Orgrimmar… but the devastation was beyond even what they had expected.

The resultant blast was a force unlike any seen since the Sundering itself. It annihilated the city and most of the eastern coast of Kalimdor, and the resultant shockwave disrupted the very ley lines of the planet causing a tremendous calamity worse even than the Cataclysm had been.

Storms tore across the land, earthquakes shattered the ground, it was as if Azeroth herself was rebelling against the destruction that had been wrought and was trying to rid herself of her inhabitants in disgust.

Hidden wells of Azerite ignited all over the world, causing ecological devastation on a global scale, and when the dust finally settled… that was all that remained of most of the world. Dust, and ruins.

By the end there was no Horde or Alliance, just the few survivors who managed to eke out an existence in what remained.

Year 2, After Last War, the land that was once known as Westfall.

Once it had been the breadbasket of the Kingdom of Stormwind, rows and rows of fields and farmland covered the region like the pattern of a giant quilt and the bounty of them had fed people from here all the way to Redridge.

Now, those fields lay farrow, nothing but cracked and dried dirt with the occasional hardy plants that still managed to survive somehow, and bones scattered about as well. Some were farm animals who had been left to starve as the farmers abandoned the fields, some were the farmers themselves who didn’t abandon them fast enough.

A pair of feet made their way through the desolate landscape, a nose sniffing at the air.

A worgen woman stood there, wearing armor that was piecemeal leather and metal strapped together, along with a tattered cloak over her shoulders. In her hand was a makeshift spear made of scrap metal strapped securely to a sturdy length of wood. “Hmm…” she murmured, then she glanced up at a loud cawing sound, holding out her arm.

A raven flapped down from the sky and landed there, cocking its head at her. “Find anyfin’ ta eat Morri?” she asked, her voice raspy.

The crow cawed at her, the worgen chuckled, “Eh, thought not…” she frowned, “I think Westfall’s ‘bout had it. We should ‘prolly ‘ead south aye? Mebbe some o’ Stranglethorn still got some life left…” she nodded as another bird flapped down next to her.

This one was different however. While the first one was an ordinary raven, this bird was an owl with feathers as white as snow and oddly enough a pair of long thin antlers growing from it's head… though it had clearly seen better days. They all had. The worgen, raven, and owl all looked close to starvation… barely hanging on only by hunting together.

The worgen stroked over the owl’s head gently, then she paused as she noticed something.

Flecks of sand were drifting off the raven’s wings, the bird having not noticed them yet.

“Oi, Morri? Yez been diggin’ in th’ beach again?” she grunted, reaching out to brush them off its feathers… then froze.

Sand was falling off her as well, the worgen noticing that her claws were trailing a rain of the small grains as she moved. The owl hooted in alarm as it flapped it’s wings, sand drifting off them as well!

“Wot th’ fel?! This some sorta magicky shite?!” she growled as her bird cawed loudly, sensing her agitation as she looked around. “WHO’S TRYIN’ TA DO SOME SPELLIN’ ON ME! SHOW YERSELF SO I CAN GUT YEZ PROPER!” she snarled.

But there was nobody around, at least, nobody alive… but then, nobody undead either. She and the birds were alone and within moments the sand was swirling around them!

The worgen cursed and tried to flail it away with her spear, but in a burst of sand the trio vanished… but nobody saw them go, there was nobody left to see it.

Next Story (Coming Soon!)

Previous Story

[huntress-cori-voidchaser]

Daughter of the Void (Pt.1)

The high elves of Silvermoon had never been lenient when it came to voidmancy, Sintalla knew that, but she'd been curious, she'd always been curious. The others knew this of her, but they hadn't known what exactly the extent of her curiosity had been.

When the Silvermoon guards had come for her, Nathanos and Sylvanas weren't quite sure what to do, so, they started with reciting the facts.

Number one, their wife had just been dragged away, probably to her death, for studying the void.

Number two, there was a baby currently hidden in their home, a baby that was, very distinctly, not human or high elven.

And number three, neither of them were very good with children.

"I could take it to the stead, raise it there- it'd be hidden," Nathanos was the first to speak,  the two of them had agreed the child should be allowed a chance to survive, for now.

"She's not an it, Nathanos, she's a girl." Sylvanas responded, her expression conveying an aura that was miles away from their current location.

"My point still stands, if she's found here they'll kill her, if I take her to the stead she'll be able to hide in the cellar if anyone comes snooping around," Nathanos continued, giving Sylvanas' hand a squeeze.

There were two rings, on each of their hands, though only one was recognized in Silvermoon.

"That. . . that would make sense, we could train her, she could learn to defend herself, if she's ever caught on her own," Sylvanas muttered.

"Are we going to give her a name?"

"I. . . suppose we should, I would've preferred if Sintalla could've named her, but. . ."

"Don't think about that now, it's. . . it's too late to do anything about it,"

"There. . . there was- one- name- that she'd mentioned. . ."

"And that would be?. . ."

Cori Voidchaser grew up with a very complicated family dynamic. She lived with her father, in a cellar, not because he didn't want to give her a real room, hopefully, but to keep her safe. She had two mothers, one who was dead, and one who visited every so often, to make sure her training was going well.

She felt distant from the two of them, she wished it was different, she wanted to like them, she wanted to like them so so so much, because they were all she really had.

But. . . she didn’t, the night she heard the undead overtake her father. . . she did nothing.

She already knew she had lost another mother, too, her father would’ve put up a better fight if he’d thought she would be waiting.

But, just Cori wasn’t enough.

Just the last remaining piece of Sintalla Windrunner, meant nothing.

She was just a weapon to them, why else would she have spent more time practicing with a bow and arrow than playing with other children?

Was she even a child anymore? She didn’t know, she’d never had a way to keep track, other than perhaps the cycles of day and night peaking through the wood of the cellar doors.

She’d stayed in that cellar for quite a while, even after Nathanos’ death. It was safe, it was comfortable, and it was the only thing she’d known for much of her life.

Cori awoke that morning, fifteen, she was quite certain she was fifteen, and the world was ending.

It had to be ending, didn’t it? The ground was shaking like mad, as though something were hatching from inside of the earth.

Cori tried to steady herself as the ground shook from underneath her, the sun had just begun peaking through the cracks of the cellar as she approached it, pushing on the door with all the strength she could muster.

She kept quiet, so as not to alert the undead that littered the remains of the Marris stead.

The stead had been the only home she’d ever known, but the quaking of the ground around her told her that perhaps an underground cellar was no longer a fit place to live.

Then again, nowhere around her seemed to be a good place to live anymore, what with the undead swarming all over the place.

Cori made her way down the hill upon which Marris stead rested, bow and arrow quiver strapped tightly to her back.

She’d heard stories of the many paladin factions that existed across Azeroth, so she thought, perhaps, she could scout one out.

Maybe if she posed as a slightly emaciated night elf they wouldn’t question her presence. . .

As Cori contemplated what it was she should do, she came across a road, dropping to the ground, she let herself adjust to the surroundings, the tremors of the earth had finally begun to ease themselves.

“Well, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s happened to me,” Cori muttered to herself.

Cori looked around as she stood, eyes resting on a nearby sign, she approached it, keeping an eye out from the corners of her vision for anyone approaching.

“Crown Guard Tower, keep right. . .” Cori read aloud “Well. . . it would be nice to have something to eat that I didn’t have to snatch off of a corpse. . .” Cori  murmured, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head.

She took a deep breath, searching for something inside herself, images of wildcats flooded her mind as she began to rush forward, stopping only when she reached the steps of the outpost.

Only to find herself out of luck, the tower was crumbled and old, bricks falling off, long abandoned.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it, the Argent Crusade has plans to rebuild it, though,” a voice spoke from behind Cori, causing the girl to turn on her heel, drawing her weapon and readying an arrow.

The human in front of her took a few steps back, they were dressed in paladin’s clothing, yellows and whites, though they had no crest or tabard to declare an affiliation. Their hands were raised slightly, an apologetic look visible behind their gold-rimmed glasses.

“Hey hey- easy now- I’m not here to cause any harm, there’s no need for weapons,” said the human, Cori stood with her bow still notched for a short while. The human didn’t move, their hands still raised, feet still in a position to back up further.

Finally, Cori began to lower her weapon, though her eyes were still wide and alert.

“Quite the reflexes you’ve got there- I’m sorry for whatever caused them,” said the human, clearing their throat “Darcy Whitemane- I- patrol this area to look for people who need my help,” Darcy said, cautiously offering their hand.

Cori stared at it for a few seconds before realizing what Darcy was expecting of her and shaking it.

“I can get you to Light’s Hope Chapel if you need, no offense, but you look famished,” Darcy said, letting out a low whistle.

Cori watched as a horse approached the two of them, stopping beside Darcy, who swung their leg over the gold-embroidered saddle and sat atop the steed. They offered a hand out to Cori, this time with their palm facing upward, an invitation to sit behind them.

Cori accepted silently, her eyes still searching for any sign that the human in front of her might pose a threat.

“We don’t get many elves like you around here- or any- really- I’ve never seen anything like you before if I’m honest,” Darcy said with an awkward laugh.

“You. . . know what I am?” Cori murmured, narrowing her eyes.

“Well- not exactly- but I know you aren’t like any other elves I know, which is fine, you don’t seem like you’d pose a threat on purpose,” Darcy said.

“How can you tell?” Cori asked.

“Because if you wanted to kill me, you would’ve shot me earlier,” Darcy stated matter-of-factly.

“I could still drive an arrow through your head if I wanted,” Cori responded, though she made no moves toward her quiver.

“But you aren’t, because I’m not a threat to you either,” Darcy said.

The horse came to a stop as the two reached the chapel, Darcy sliding off of its back and assisting Cori in dismounting as well.

“Another refugee?” another human said, looking up from where he’d been working.

“Yep, battle-worn too- looks a bit young for it though,” Darcy replied, Cori raised an eyebrow.

The two of them approached the chapel, Cori pulling down the hood of her cloak hesitantly.

“Jessica! Any extra rations? This one’s in need of some serious attention,” Darcy said as they walked into the building, gesturing for Cori to sit down.

“Of course General Darcy- she’ll be taken good care of,” said the woman Darcy had spoken to.

“So, are we gonna get a name for you, or do I get to make one up?” Darcy said with a laugh.

Cori paused for a moment, muttering a quiet thank you to the innkeeper as she placed a bowl of stew and a loaf of bread in Cori’s hands.

“Cori. . . Cori Voidchaser,” she responded, flinching slightly as she waited for these champions of The Light to come at her with their swords drawn.

“Well Cori, we’ll get you patched up and ready to head back to the safety of Stormwind in no time,” Darcy said, smiling.

Cori supposed, maybe, that being raised in a cellar had interfered slightly with her people skills.

[kkpxcoy]

Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson

EPUB & PDF Ebook Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) | EBOOK ONLINE DOWNLOAD

by Brandon Sanderson.

Download Link : DOWNLOAD Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4)

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Ebook PDF Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) | EBOOK ONLINE DOWNLOAD Hello Book lovers, If you want to download free Ebook, you are in the right place to download Ebook. Ebook Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) EBOOK ONLINE DOWNLOAD in English is available for free here, Click on the download LINK below to download Ebook Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) 2020 PDF Download in English by Brandon Sanderson (Author).

 Description Book: 

The eagerly awaited sequel to the #1 New York Times bestselling Oathbringer, from an epic fantasy writer at the top of his game.After forming a coalition of human resistance against the enemy invasion, Dalinar Kholin and his Knights Radiant have spent a year fighting a protracted, brutal war. Neither side has gained an advantage.Now, as new technological discoveries begin to change the face of the war, the enemy prepares a bold and dangerous operation. The arms race that follows will challenge the very core of the Radiant ideals, and potentially reveal the secrets of the ancient tower that was once the heart of their strength.At the same time that Kaladin Stormblessed must come to grips with his changing role within the Knights Radiant, his Windrunners face their own problem: As more and more deadly enemy Fused awaken to wage war, no more honorspren are willing to bond with humans to increase the number of Radiants. Adolin and Shallan must lead the coalition?s envoy to the honorspren

[glittercleric]

We'll be busy with Curse of Strahd for quite a while yet, but I'm already thinking about what I want to run after that. Top contenders right now are Rime of the Frostmaiden and Hoard of the Dragon Queen / Rise of Tiamat.

[alteredphoenix]

Every time I think about the Three Sisters comic, I’m reminded of how much of a wasted opportunity it was for Sylvanas to not bring up Vereesa’s involvement in the Purge of Dalaran to Alleria’s face.

Now that would’ve been an interesting reaction to see, coming right off of Vereesa’s remark about the blood elves finding true redemption by rejoining the Alliance (I guess she forgot, or doesn’t care, M’uru gave it to them upon restoring the Sunwell in TBC).

(Honestly I think Alleria wouldn’t believe Sylvanas and have a much more incendiary response, but Vereesa? Vereesa would squirm.)

[eighthdoctor]

Did Alleria always prefer partners who took the lead?

...Oh interesting phrasing, because while she would never have had the opportunity to be the submissive (Windrunner name and military rank) before Turalyon that's not quite the same thing here.

I don't think it was as key for her before the whole "thousand years in the Twisting Nether" thing. She was probably always a switch, and I don't have a strong impression of which way she leaned, but it wasn't emotionally critical for her to hand over responsibility before uh. The psychosis.

Once she started having hallucinations, some-but-not-all-of-which are true visions, she didn't trust herself to dom anyone, and she began to very badly need someone to take control.

Note that neither Turalyon nor Calia is actually any good about doing this in a healthy manner but there u go.

[tiefsterwinter]

Sylvanas in Shadowlands be like: "I was told there were Milfs near my area"

Why she was sent to the Maw in the first place

[originalcontent]

Connect 4: Knights Radiant style

This is the worst thing I’ve ever made.

[warwaged-archive]

hello this is your friendly reminder a.lleria loves syl.vanas