[Belf-RP] Thalassian Skyguard 🐲

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

After a long time of putting off my chapter writing for Dev’s back story here is Chapter six! You can also read this and his other chapters on his argent archives page by clicking the pictures featured in his background section!

Chapter Six: The Luck of the Outrunner

It is strange, that following an aftermath of great loss, we still flock together like magnets unable to keep away from one another. Even though it would take just another small attack for us to be wiped out clean from the history of Azeroth, not even having to search for the colony of Blood Elves. The name still seemed foreign to me.

A sense of strange normality had taken to the region of Quel’thalas, as though separated from the rest of the world, ‘life’ had begun once more and people were being guided by the renewed focus of the soldiers and the governance instated by Kael’thas. Those whose families carried the name of respected workers and soldiers swiftly became more well off than those of us whose family names meant little or worse were known for the traitor exiles who did not follow the new ideology of Sin’dorei. Segregation began with work being readily available for those who were recorded to have a trade or a military career, the rest of us had to paddle just to keep our heads above water.

It was becoming more common for people to move about in the early hours again, in spite of my doubt on how wise a choice this was. The blanket of night feels like a protection to me and the light of the day seemed far more sinister. Because in the light it lays everything bare, naked, free for all to witness what was done to our people and the effects it has had on us all.

Rumours had begun to surface of markets starting again, a place to trade as an effort to band-aid the cracks of grief and horror. The idea of so many people in one place filled me with a sense of dread, but still it would be useful wouldn’t it? As I set out for Falconwing from my makeshift refuge which was an upturned row boat with a hole in its side, the world was mostly grey filled only by the sounds of what wild creatures had returned to the high home. Slowly the watery morning light made the sky blue and next to my patchwork of grey and black clothes I had salvaged to cover my constantly growing body, my skin looked ghostly pale and willowy thin. I was sure once my nerves settled I would enjoy these days out in the warm rays that evoked memories of Lorilae’s smile, softly radiant and her light floral dress tusselled by the wind with the first flowers of spring. But in that lone walk all the light offered was a gleam of fractured hues to identify the cold sweat peppering my skin.

Inside of Falconwing people had begun to flow like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but swirling around them in a colourful dance. On those wide avenues of pop-up stalls with wilted trees as neighbours, their leaves curled and blackened in the august heat with the crowd taking on a life of its own. Vibrant clothes shone in the morning light and people moved like enchanting shoals of fish, drawn to stalls like algae and moving away in steady groups. A great roaring, like the rush of water down the Elrendar falls flooded into my ears and the sights of unbroken windows decorated the buildings in a great glimmer that hurt my eyes.

It was hard to think that barely a year ago Falconwing Square had been pretty, with golden lights on white architecture, built by the hands of those cruelly taken from us. Hard to think that just two years ago imagination birthed the curves and design that in today’s jaded eyes seemed superfluous. Even the street-lamps were dreamt up by an artist, built by an engineer following the teachings of arcanists and science. Falconwing had been the centre of a metropolis, surrounded by the housing districts and trades avenues, it was the place to go for your every day trade and to get the latest in Azerothian fashions, fresh from the big city itself. Now it was a shadow.

To say I feel drowned in crowds makes as much sense as a raindrop protesting to join the ocean… but I do. I feel the energy of bustling movement and I want to find a quiet tree in a quiet spot to feel serenity once more. I’m the raindrop that falls on the beach, sits on a pebble and adores the ocean from close by, savouring the salty aroma and the motion of the waves. On days like this, crammed in with more bodies than I could count even in a painting, I tilt my head to the sky. The empty blue gives me the strength just to walk at the pace of the crowd and bottle my claustrophobia inside my chest. A courage that was sorely needed, for I had one goal in mind today, and that was to obtain a job and to do that, I would have to pass for someone a lot older than I was.

I pass by the stalls with packs of small unhealthy looking fish and thin slabs of ropey meat, wilted and strange looking fruit. Others host fabrics taken from found and reused clothing, washed and laced to give the false impression that it is new and expensive. You know that saying ‘Another one’s trash is now in fashion’ - people had become very creative with how to appeal to that inherent obtuse heart at the core of the upper echelons of society. The aroma of ripe piss, ancient cabbage, dead and rotting rats lingered on peoples skin, in their hair and in the fibres of their clothes. I inhaled that scent like a penance, aware of it even beneath the currents of roasting nuts, leaves in the sun and burning fat from the oil lamps. Pressing myself into the crowd I angled my arms like spears to carve and divide between people, opening and fanning in gentle pushes to create enough space for me to squeeze between.

I was tall enough now that I was able to see with just a small jump over the heads of those around me, which helped me greatly in circumventing having to go around the entire market. The recruitment post sat at the far back of the square just in front of the inn - which I will tell you for free was no coincidence. Spun about like a rotisserie chicken I was spat out of the crowd whirling my arms to remain upright, regurgitated just before the large oppressive flag of Silvermoon hoisted on a wooden poll over a long marble table stolen from within the tavern. A single male elf sat at the desk with his right hand holding a quill and his left clutching an overstuffed coin purse. He was a stout looking fellow in the armed uniforms of the city guards, though a little dressed down like a wilted flower that spent too long in the sun. His face steamed with blotches of reds on the surface of a tanned hide and his hair sprouted out from a leather band in great plumes of exhausted yellows. Surrounding his seat, of which was an empty barrel, were many more empty casks of drink and a few drunken looking women from the tavern.

As an adult I am sure the sight might make me question the integrity of this recruitment post, but right here and now? It was all I wanted to be. That soldier, that guard! He had it all. Look at him! Armour! Coin! That weird drink that makes the adults act like they are five! Rugs in the shape of women! I could barely contain my excitement as I struck a straight back pose, rolled my shoulders and sauntered forwards, wiping my hands discreetly on the backs of my trousers. My voice had not dropped yet, so I had been practising back home in speaking lower like the gravelly undertones of a lynx, hissing and giving guttural growls or grunts like some of the men I saw after drinking the silly drink.

“Good morning there good sir, I was hoping to enqui-”

My voice faltered in its false bravado as I watched the recruitment officer’s body lul in a great big drawn out circle like he was captured by waves, churning and then standing in a spritely manner. He leaned forwards, his eyes brooding beneath his gilded helmet searching a few levels above my head for the man that had addressed him. Several enquiring grunts drew out of his closed maw until an accusing mumble followed by a moment of eureka findings punched the air like morse code.

“Hnrgh? Hmm- ahah- what did you say to me boy?”

The elf leaned a muscled hand on the table and I couldn’t help thinking how wide-spanned it was that he’d likely be able to ring my neck like a dishcloth if he got hold of it. Clearing my throat I did my best to not stammer.

“Boy? I am no boy! I will have you know I am in fact a fully grown man who suffers with the affliction of shrunken bone…syndrome…”

I narrowed my eyes as I reached the end of my sentence, improvising my narrative and trying to read the officer’s face to see how well it was landing.

He seemed to pause a moment and I thought for sure he was going to call my bluff, but as quickly as he had roused, he dropped back to his barrel chair and pressed his hand to his mouth releasing an acidic burp and a pained groan.

“Shrunken bone syndrome? My uncle died of that. Terrible alement. Just terrible. What is it you want, Shrimpy? I am a-… Eur-s’cuse me… Oh my head. I’m a busy man”

He finished with a kicking of the table as he wrapped one leg over the other. Blinking like an owl I wetted my lips and pressed on.

“I was hoping to put my name forward for the Outrunner position that was recently posted.”

The swimming eyes of the officer tried to focus on me for a moment and then dropped to his table where he fanned some parchments around and picked up a curled piece with a yellow ribbon binding it.

“Mm, says here you got to be able to run, follow orders - mm not a nice job that one. You know the risks involved do you?”

I did know them. There had been a noticeboard placed up advertising for Outrunners to carry messages through the leftover ruins of the ransacked half of Silvermoon, down dawning lane and even possibly down past the Dead scar. This wasn’t a very sought after job as it kind of took your life expectancy down from triple digits to two knowing you will have no combat experience and come across the shambling undead as well as, if rumours were to be believed, the winnowed.

“I do know them, and I am fast, I don’t grumble and I will work hard” I answered back with the slightest puff of my chest, I wanted to appear brave, older, war ready. It was about as effective I think as a popped balloon trying to inflate and I saw it on the officer’s face that he could practically smell the green in my belly. After what felt like an age of him staring at me, he finally replied.

“Prove it.”

“You- what? What do you -mean- prove it?”

“You heard me shrimp. I said prove to me you are all of them fancy nice things. Saying it is all well and good but I’m not looking to hire words am I?”

I blanched and looked around and tried a nervous chuckle as an answer, surely he was jesting.

“Are you just going to stand there and waste my time? Start running!” His face suddenly turned a bright puse like a berry ready to pop and his voice barked so loudly it rose above even the market. I jumped on the spot, my skeleton trying to rip out of my skin as my heart thumped hard in my chest.

“Run? Run where?!”

“To the sky. Where do you think I want you to run, around the bleeding fountain you vertically challenged ape. Now move!”

And so I ran. For four straight hours I ran, round and round the fountain watching the Officer go back to his drink and the latest round of female workers from the tavern stopping only to engage in a private laugh at my expense. A little embarrassment I can take, it’s like rain in the summertime and my internal furnace can take care of it, Baesh used to tell me it was how we seal in a good life and how we become our own quiet heroes. But right there and then the embarrassment was immense, the humiliation that the child within me wanted to hide away from. But that child had gone when Baesh, it was my time to own it, to make apologies and show that I was more grown up than all that. That I had inner strength. Remember the embarrassment is temporary, tomorrow they’ll be onto another thing, so walk as if it is right in your world and soon it will be. I found myself thinking over and over again as I fought the stitch that was developing in my side and the exhaustion that my meagre dinner I had been rationing for the last week wasn’t prepared to reimburse me for.

Eventually he had his amusement and called me back over clapping a hand down my sweaty back.

“Well you proved it kid; so let me reward you. First, some advice. If you ever need to work off a lot of pent up aggression and distress, do some running, unless you can have sex, both are relaxing, running is the beggars sex. Second, your job.”

My confusion at his first statement washed away suddenly as soon as I realised what he had said. Job! I had done it! This was it. I was going to become an Outrunner. It was the golden opportunity I had wanted.

“You’re going to take this parcel down Dawning lane and to Sunstrider Isle and hand it to the Ranger Captain stationed there. You keep running and you look out for the wretches that hunt the shadows, you understand?”

He pressed a large satchel into my hand with which the parcel had been stowed.

I looked down to the satchel and felt my stomach lurch at the mention of the wretched, my mind fell into the darkness as it so often did lately and I saw the ghost of Lorilae and her moon haunting smile. People like her, elves that had fallen victim to their addiction, were being disposed of into the ruins as a place to contain and cull them. Sometimes you’d catch elves on their last legs jumping fences to get into the ruins to join ‘tapping parties’, where the attendees had captured Mana Wyrms and started to tap into them and their blood like a drug. “Winnowed”

“Yeah, that’s what they’re calling them these days. You just run and don’t look back and there won’t be any problems, alright? If you head off now you’ll avoid their active times which tend to be more around nightfall.”

I nodded mechanically and brought up the satchel around my clavicle and started a little jog towards Dawning lanes barricades that were still manned to keep out any opportunity attacks. Realising the satchel was a little long on me still, I paused to tie a knot to it and noticed the yellow embroidery on the canvas that was the mark of an Outrunner. A warm blossom of pride bore fruit in my chest and I stood up a little straighter and with a little more confidence. Imagine the food I would be able to procure with my first pay? I’d be able to eat properly!

It was breaking into the middle of the day when I set off down the path of Dawning Lane, I figured they’d be less likely to lurk on the path that the Guards would be regularly seen upon during the daytime, when patrols were more often. As I began to run, I felt a kind of power I had not known before, it was a freeing feeling - like I could leave anytime I needed to, to escape the confines of the white washed walls of Silvermoon and feel the open road. It was like a dance, the way my spirit chose to fly, to weave itself into the uplifting natural would and find the peace I needed. My feet kissed the land, as light as the paws of a Lyx, breathing steady, heart strong.

I had ran for about half an hour before the sight of the first gate came into view ahead of me and my elation suddenly hit a giant wall as my eyes spotted a slumped over shadow on the pathing slabs. A familiar coldness gripped my heart and my voice whispered in my head - It’s a body. It’s a body. Someone’s body. An Outrunner’s body. The outline of the slumped figure was an all too familiar reminder of the many bodies I had seen already and I found myself frozen in place. There slumped over the dead body of the Outrunner stood a creature with a back hunched as though carrying a backpack, hands deep within the chest cavity of the corpse. The sound of bones breaking and flesh tearing echoed eerily across the empty lane. I knew what it was - it was what he had warned me about. A winnowed. Seeing it in the actual light of day compared to the night’s pale shimmer over Lorilae, was like watching the development of rotting food.

They had become worse, much worse than a haunting nightmare. The creature had green bulging eyes, a black rot-like mouth almost like someone had punched a decaying hole in its face and strings of mulch hung loosely around it. That mulch I realised with dismay, was black drool mixed with blood, it had been feasting on the flesh of the Outrunner. All I could make out was the back of the creature and its side profile as it feasted, my eyes scanned over the pulsating green growths that hung like spores on its balding head and along its hunched back, I could feel bile rising in my throat. It used its hands and feet alike to tear at the carcass, nails on each digit long like claws, ripped and sliced its meal that sent slithers of ribboned flesh that caught on thick wire like fur that covered its arms in patches.

I caught sight of small holes where parts of the growths on its skin had popped and the outline of its chest that no longer followed the structure of a ribcage, instead sucking inwards. Curiously, I found myself unphased by the dead Outrunner and the state of its corpse, but instead it was the vision of the winnowed itself that caused my breath to suddenly come out like I was breathing through a straw. It would have been easier if it looked like a monster. But despite all of its growths and distorted features, it was still distinctly an elf.

It turned itself from its meal and fixed me with dark black opals for eyes framed with small slits in its skin. It’s head pulled backwards and a horrific clicking sound tracked in the depths of its throat before it inhaled deeply and rasped “More. I must have more. MORE!” Fear speared me like a full kodo drawn cart and I turned to run, dropping my satchel as it weighed me down, the sound of a baying scream echoing to the beat of my heart. I turned my head as I pegged it down the lane, the winnow took chase flying at me with the clicking of its claws blood splattering onto the ground below. My voice caught in my throat as I tried to scream for help, it charged smashing into the fence as it lunged towards my flank. My lungs burned raw as I picked up my pace, I couldn’t tell if the clacking of its claws were close or just behind me, the flashes of the ruins around me became a kaleidoscope of blurred colours.

I spotted my salvation up ahead, the barricade manned at the entry to falconwing square, rangers began collapsing forward knocking arrows to their bows and pointing them in my direction. Blind faith struck me as I squeezed my eyes shut and kept running hoping they could see I was just a scared kid and that I was the one being chased. Suddenly I felt a heavy hand clap hard onto my shoulder, a scream tore from my mouth as I was thrown forwards onto the hard slabbed stones, rolling and skidding to a stop with my arms torn up. I opened my eyes only to see the backs of the rangers as they formed up ahead of me firing down the lane, each arrow released filling the air with a twang and a whoosh. Then I heard a thud and the rangers turned back grim faced but undisturbed.

I pushed myself up and waited to see if any of the Rangers would approach me, but I was only met with their backs. So I turned with shame to the recruitment officer who had given me my job and I didn’t even have to go far for him to smell the shame on me.

“Lost my package, did you shrimp? And here you told me you could do it.”

“But there was-…”

“But there was. There always is. I warned you. You had a job to do and you instead brought a danger back towards other people. There’s a lesson here kid, you might be piss scared, you might be about to die, but you see your job to the end or you buck up the consequences.”

The officer threw a copper coin towards me and gave me the one look I had seen far too often. A look of pity.

“Here. For your effort. Now go on and get going, try growing up before you take on real work again.”

I could feel the humiliation beginning to creep in. The sense that I had yet again failed at something and that I wouldn’t amount to anything. My eyes roamed the square, its market stalls had begun to pack away and the crowds had headed back to their families. My eyes turned to the single coin in my hand and I could see the world become greyer and the colour bleed like the tears that made my vision prickly. I curled my hand around the coin… Baesh had taught me one other thing.

There’s nothing like a drink to drown your sorrows.

If I could fake the age of an Outrunner, what else could I lie and act my way into?

[Anizah-argent-dawn]

@Illuriel-argent-dawn

[05.06.]

ohhh my Goodness. That Blue Dragonhawk is maginificent!

wish such a color existed in-Game.

so far ive collected 4 dragonhawk pets in 4 different colors.

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

The Skyguard are kicking things off this week with an interview for two new prospective fliers before hitting back into a swing of full blown events. We are also looking for open chances to do other events with horde and alliance guilds alike! If you want to team up for a day drop me a message!

[Treiller-argent-dawn]

Can’t wait to hop on a campaign with these elves soon again. Maybe this time my horse will be spared.

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

The Skyguard have finally caught the Inquisitor of the Crucible of light, having spent a year unravelling his plans and trying to put a stop to him, but the question lingers on the units minds… was the cost too much?

Taking to rest, we look forward to an event with the new and upcoming Horde guild Order of the Sun as well as the Campaign of the Eight Winds this August!

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

The Skyguard and the Order of the sun enjoyed a sparring evening getting to know one another and ending in the possibility of a new establishment of a friendly alliance.

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

The Thalassian Skyguard look forward to now heading out into a new Campaign with the Ashen Bulwark collective.

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

The Bulwark made some just decisions in their first heat of the campaign whittling two of our factions away from the running. We now head into the new leg of their journey to meet four new tribes!

[Lightwhisper-argent-dawn]

Those reports are the best thing that happened for entire campaign

[Ará-argent-dawn (Ará)]

BE’s and flying what’s not to love?

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

[Ará-argent-dawn (Ará)]

I was rewatching Parks and rec and of course it was the one where Drones are delivering parcels… Does Skyguard run a currier service?

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

I’m afraid we do not offer a courier service, we are primarily a military fighting force!

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

[Ará-argent-dawn (Ará)]

Ohh well , I suppose I’ll have to find another way to get my Worgen his BE GF…
Mayhap a raiding party into SMC ?

[Morinaica-argent-dawn]

A story I have written for my character, Lariadelle, starting her new development towards… well, that remains to be seen. Hope you enjoy it, it’s quite the read. More to come later! (As a side note: I had to censor some profanity so use your imagination for those bits).

Chapter 1

Enchanter’s Avenue 24, Court of the Sun

Irzia Vollicus’ address was vexing to look at. The Court of the Sun, the most guarded place in Silvermoon, swarming with over-tuned golems, meddling guards, nosy magisters, and — worst of all — magic-snorting spellbreakers. Laria looked at the note again, squinting, hoping it would magically change the address, scared of her angry eyes.

Enchanter’s Avenue 24, Court of the Sun

“F—!”

“No swearing in this house!” the voice of her mother came from below, still thinking Laria is thirteen years old, as mothers do — worse so if they’re over a thousand years old. Unless your age boasts triple digits, you might as well be a toddler.

“I’m sorry! It’s just— F—!”

“Lariadelle!”

“Sorry!”

There was no other way around this conundrum but to face it head on. She’d faced worse odds a thousand times already, after all. And — ninety-five percent of the time — her reckless acts went swimmingly; the other five percent usually ended in some catastrophe where she nearly died, someone else nearly died, or she got another harrowing scar her mother had to magic away. She’d have to listen to the catapult that was her mother’s voice, bombarding her walls for ears with a salvo of I told you so’s. The very thought made her shrink.

Laria was no statistician — truly, the only maths she ever did was counting the syllables in her poetry — but she still liked these made-up odds. With a flamboyant flourish she secured her full backpack, strapped on her sword belt, realised she should’ve done that before putting on her backpack, struggled some more, and stormed out of her bedroom.

Unlike her messy bedroom, the rest of the apartment was pristine. Within a chandelier above an ornate table burnt eight identical flames, each dancing to the same tune, its chaos tamed by a delicate hand. Every plate, every bit of cutlery, every cup and every glass, was stacked exactly in the right order, spaced evenly apart, in a glass cupboard so crystal clear you might think there were no windows in it at all.

Everything was in perfect order. So, of course, when Laria pounced through, she somehow managed to catch her foot on the rug, mess that symmetry up, bump against a chair to put it out of place, somehow kicked a cushion to the other side of a fauteuil as she stumbled on, and finally caught herself on the wall at the other end of the room, forcing the painting of her half-sibling to hung ever so slightly ajar.

Even so much as unbalancing the perfectly still air with a fart would summon the hostess of the house and have her leering at you disappointingly, so the look her mother gave when she swooped into the room were made of daggers. Daggers the size of swords. Also called swords.

“Where are you going?” A cold whisper, accompanied by a hand flourished with all the flamboyance of a guard construct, as every bit of furniture, every inch of rug, every paintings’ angles were set right again. Laria was her mother’s mirror — at least in looks. Aerezahn looked slightly older, perhaps, and favoured dresses over Lariadelle’s more practical wear, but the two looked otherwise identical. In personality the two were the complete opposites, which made living together quite the painful thing to do. More so since the two had never done so before, not since last year. Laria was practically raised by her grandparents in Dalaran, allowing her mother to chase her own grand ambitions. Ambitions that had, apparently, netted her only a small apartment in the middle of Murder Row.

“I’m… going to Farstrider’s Square!” Laria lied effortlessly.

“Why?”

“For work? I work there? Have you forgotten?”

“I have not forgotten, no.” It was her mother who suggested she join the Skyguard, after all. Pulled the necessary strings for it, whatever those might have been. Laria still didn’t know exactly why. “You have a day off, however.”

“I do? Oh… yes, but— Wait, how do you even know that?”

“I know things.”

“… did you raid my bedroom?”

“I cleaned it.”

“You cleaned it…”

“Yes. And I find things.”

“… am I going to find some weird stuff in the basement in a box called ‘lost and found’?”

“Stop being ridiculous, Lariadelle. What is in that backpack?”

“That’s none of your business,” Laria huffed and made for the door, nearly bumping into an ornate bust of her mother’s first husband — a man that looked ever the picture of an arrogant snob. She almost hoped she had bumped into it, sending it flying to the ground to bust open his sneering face. Not that it’d make any difference. He was long dead. Her father was never home too. She hadn’t seen her half-siblings in years either. There were just the two of them.

She opened the door, the rank smell of Murder Row greeting her like an old friend — wasted alcohol, wasted piss, the wasted smell of wasted people lying in the gutters. An old friend, but not one she had ever a mind of reconnecting with. She looked over her shoulder one last time to see her mother’s sneering face, but there was only uncharacteristic sadness on her, brows twisted upwards. A rare sight.

“Just be careful, Lariadelle,” another whisper, but without the coldness. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“I’m just getting some information about something, mom. I won’t be long. It’s just work.”

“I know it is, but—”, the words never came. Laria could see her mother stealing a glance at the backpack. She made no illusions about the fact her mother knew exactly what was in it, even though she’d tried to hide it to her best ability. Still, her mother was being her usual self again, always worrying too much, too paranoid for her own good. She’d kill whichever god had invented shadows just so she could sleep better at night, if she could.

“You worry too much, mom. Two hours, at most. You can raid my bedroom while you wait,” she said with a little more venom than she had intended, but there was no point taking it back. The door closed behind her and off she went, pacing through the shadows of Murder Row.

An apt name, if the rumours were true. The guards liked to patrol just about every district but this one, going so far as to make the long route around the whole city just to avoid it. And if by some happenstance they had to patrol here — one they would surely call an injustice to their prestigious work — they stuck only to the main road, leering at every shadow but never straying the path, unless there was some vagrant to beat up for no reason. Laria had been to many cities — Orgrimmar, Stormwind, Dalaran, and even Boralus — and guards were the same in each one, yet somehow she disliked the ones in Silvermoon the most. Maybe because she hoped her own kin were better. Quite the opposite.

She’d been stopped countless times before. Random searches, as they called it, but they didn’t do a lot of searching and it never seemed random. For a while she’d wondered why they targeted her, but it seemed obvious enough: her Thalassian accent was undoubtedly foreign, laden with Common words, pronunciations, intonations — the elven tongue wasn’t her first language, after all. Couple that with a face that screams ‘I just pickpocketed a rich noble and got away with it’ and you’ve got the favoured recipe in the guard cookbook. She’d taken to wearing her Skyguard tabard even on off-days, just to get them off her back. Somehow that didn’t always work.

Today she couldn’t afford being searched, not with her unusual prize in her backpack, and Enchanter’s Avenue was located at the very opposite end of Murder Row’s exit. “Just play it cool, Laria,” she said to herself, breathing slowly in and out, calming herself down. In theory, anyway; her heart was still hammering in her ears.

The ones to avoid were undoubtedly the few veteran spellbreakers and the arcane golems. Both sniffed out magic like a hound would bloodthistle, and patrolled the Court of the Sun frequently. There was one such big, magical machine pacing the southern part of the courtyard just now. It towered even above a passing trio of mounted blood knights, its arcane gems humming a sickening tune that made her — and any good mana-loving Thalassian — drool with longing. Fortunately it walked the other way Laria was headed, passing without care through a throng of magisters who grumbled their discontent at the arcane symbol of Lor’themar’s police state. Voices that wouldn’t think twice about using such a golem themselves could they afford it.

Laria saw her opportunity: a haggle of merchants dressed in a motley of clothes, carting their goods from the Row to Farstrider’s Square. The carts were loaded with freshly polished weapons, unstrung bows, and quivers of arrows, guarded by a procession of bought guards that made a contest out of looking the ugliest of the bunch, and were in a fierce leering competition with Silvermoon’s. When you wanted to be quiet and unnoticed, shadowing the loudest and most conspicuous people was always the safe bet.

The cart itself made an awful clatter, like hundreds of pieces of cutlery dropped to the ground at once, several times. Yet somehow the guards were even louder, grunting their disapproval of everything elven, from the way the sun bounced from the marble walls to the gentle humming of arcane crystals that permeated the air. They disliked how human the knight’s chargers were, how frail striders looked, and from the way they called every dragonhawk flying above a shrimp, one could guess they didn’t like those either. That, of course, drew the intention of every guard that overheard it, and soon the cart was stopped by three guards that clearly had nothing better to do than to delay commerce.

Laria made a break for it, slow enough not to look suspicious, but quick enough that she could reasonably ignore anyone calling for her. No such call came, fortunately. She passed a duo of giggling magisters, past the great fountains that dominated the center of the Court, and up the stairways which separated the upper section from the lower one, where all the fancy stores were.

She’d never really gone shopping here. It was simply too expensive. The cheapest shops were in Murder Row, the middling sort at the Bazaar, a few dotted along the other districts. Here however, at the Court of the Sun, were the most expensive and luxurious boutiques, all lined up opposite of the great Spire that loomed ever-threateningly down, one giant hand struck upwards as if to reach the Gods themselves. A monument to Thalassian hubris — the very quality that had led her people here, across the pond, so far away from their ancestral homeland.

Here were the finest enchanters, peddling their trade from their houses like marble blocks, every facet covered in a kaleidoscope of different magics. Here were the finest tailors, showing off their newest clothes, beautiful embroideries stitched painstakingly together, the most exotic colours chosen to add to the rainbow that was their étalage — so long as that rainbow consisted primarily of red and gold, of course. But Laria didn’t need either of those. She needed a scribe.

The house numbers flew past. Two. Four. Six. The shops were not very busy, relying on big sales from wealthy clients, which made her stand out all the more. A duo of guards near the Spire saw her, pointed out by a spellbreaker who quietly talked with them. She didn’t dare to look back, but felt their stares like needles in her neck. Kept walking, faster, never running but dropping the pretence of the innocent shopper all the same. She dared to look over her shoulder, saw the two coming for her, which only made her heart beat quicker. Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen. The further she went the less opulent the shops became, the less familiarised she was with the area. She never had a reason to go this far.

Another look back. The guards were jogging up to her, double-glaives in one hand and a shield in the other. “No, no, no—” She darted sideways, made for the first door and barged inside, didn’t even check what sort of shop it was, if it were one at all. She closed the door behind her, hid behind it until she heard the muffled footsteps of the guards fade away.

“Oh Light—”, she blinked, realizing she wasn’t alone in the shop. The walls were lined with books of all shapes and sizes, and many more floated cutely on decorated saucers through the air. Tucked behind a comfortable looking reader’s corner was a small counter, behind which a confused proprietress stared at Laria.

“Can I… help you?” she chirped, head cocked sideways, a bemused smile on her lips. She was tall, but thin as a cattail, half-moon spectacles completing that typical librarian look.

“Oh! Er—… I was looking for Irzia Vollicus?” Laria slid forward, taking another good look at the shop. It looked more a bookstore, but in the corner behind the counter, she saw a desk with scribe’s tools cluttered across it — quill pens, magical inks, stacks of vellum paper. She realised that, by pure happenstance, she had sought refuge in the exact place she had meant to find. Enchanter’s Avenue, 24, Court of the Sun. A wave of relief washed over her, warm winds where there had been cold dread.

“She is I! Oh, just a moment,” and the woman slipped into the backroom, reemerging a few seconds later with an enormous, leather-bound tome in hand, the size of her chest. When she put it on the counter, it made an audible thump, and flickered open as if by itself, words dancing above the pages, leaping from them like salmon at the falls. “I was not expecting customers today! Nonetheless, uhm, here you can browse all my services available, what items you can buy, the reagents—”

“Yes, yes, I won’t be needing any of that,” Laria waved a dismissive hand to shut her up, not quite in the mood to be a decent guest and let the hostess do her useless routines. With a heavy grunt, she hoisted her backpack onto the counter, unlaced the top and slid out its contents, a mass of black hair, sinew, and coagulated black blood presented without fanfare.

“Oh Light!” Irzia nearly fell backwards as she stumbled, staring wide-eyed at the thing. “By the Sunwell, what is that?!”

“This,” and Laria slapped the thing for good measure. “Is a worgen’s foot! Or was, rather. As you can see, it is no longer attached to said worgen. Sliced off by a portal, actually. Hence the clean cut.”

The cut at the very end was the only clean thing about it. The foot was still attached to half a leg, covered in matted black hair, pinkish skin shaven off in strange patterns. Where the skin showed, there were red tattoos inked, still pulsing with latent arcane magic. From the cut-off top oozed blood as viscous as caramelised syrup, and had the same black-red sheen to it. There was the unmistakable smell of wet dog and rust, but no rot, fortunately. By all means, the leg seemed still alive, though fortunately never moved on its own.

“Uhm— I… I am a scribe? I do not research, uhm… legs. Or feet. Paws? That… thing. That, yes, I do not research that. I’m sorry.” The jittery scribe still stayed well away from Laria’s prize, but that hardly mattered.

“Yes, but notice these patterns,” and Laria traced them, felt the magic still burning within. Raw arcane, undiluted, unchanged, carved so well into the skin you could hardly feel where the magic started and where the skin began. “That’s what I need you for! I’ve tried to study them, but I can’t make any progress. I’ve seen hundreds of different runic languages, but never this one, and the libraries don’t have any information on them that I can find. I’ve got an inkling of what it does, but… I need more information. I’m willing to pay, of course. Whatever you ask.” That wasn’t entirely true, per her horribly empty wallet, but she’d find it somewhere, eventually, she was sure. She wasn’t above theft, even if that would prove the guards right.

“Could you not… uhm… have transcribed it? On some paper?” Irzia had edged closer already, curiosity winning over caution, clearly doing her best to avoid noticing the grizzly trophy for what it was, and focusing on the writings instead.

“And lose the details? No! Besides… I need you to do more than just look at it. I need to know what it does, where it’s from, who wrote this, roughly.”

“Is this… legal?”

“Of course!” She lied effortlessly. Smuggling in magical contraband was highly illicit, of course, especially should they still be attached to the foot of a previous enemy. Worgen were hardly liked among the denizens of the Horde, let alone Quel’Thalas. “It’s totally safe. Still… I wouldn’t bother the guards with it, of course. Means I’ve got to fetch all the permits again and you know how that goes. Bureaucracy.”

“Alright… alright,” Irzia sighed, slipping into the backroom again and coming back with a set of tools to use — magnifying glass, pen and paper, needles and scoops — looking a smidge more confident than before. Not much, though. “Where did you find this? What is the story? It might help in figuring out what uhm… well, what this is.”

“You know leylines?”

“Of course! The very first inscription patterns were based on them, back when. You found it at a leyline?”

“Yup! I wanted to show my student it, let her learn the patterns there, the feel of the magic, but this big, black worgen was there, along with a highborne. From what I could tell they were syphoning the magic out of the leyline, depleting it. We had a little tussle, but they escaped before we could end them.”

A little tussle was more than an exaggeration. They’d nearly lost that fight, and Laria had spent half of it unconscious, thrown against a jagged cliffside by the monstrous strength of the foot’s former owner. Her only memories of it were the angry snarl of the half-woman half-beast, her red, burning eyes, and a black dream filled with pain that followed.

“Huh…”

“Interesting thing is, this worgen,” and Laria slapped the foot again, causing one of its claws to snap forward, much to the dismay of Irzia’s wilting confidence. “Was practically unkillable. Every slash was healed immediately. We even cut off a hand and it grew right back! I’ve had this foot for… three weeks? Four? As you can see, it still hasn’t rotted.”

“Is this not rot?”, Irzia asked, dabbing a smudge of black blood onto a piece of cloth.

“No, it’s looked like that since the start; she bled black when we fought her. I ran it by an alchemist, who claimed it to be a mixture of troll and worgen blood, and a few other reagents. Too thick to live on, apparently, but… here we are. The worgen was very much alive.”

“Well…”, Irzia had dared to come closer now, writing down the patterns on a piece of vellum and frowning down at her findings. “This is not Gilnean, that is certain. Not elven either. It is too early to guess, but I do believe this might be draconic.”

The word struck Laria like a hammer would a gong, and the sound was just as deafening. Dragons. She had a history with them, and a bad one at that. The Nexus War, one of the Kirin Tor’s lowest moments, shadowed only by the Fall of Dalaran and the Sunreaver Purge. The things she had done in Borean Tundra still haunted her to this day. Most days it was enough to tell herself she only acted on orders, but torture was torture no matter who she could point the finger to. She’d paid a heavy price for her sins: a cycle of vengeance that had brought her twice into Coldarra, and each time she came out colder.

“It can’t be,” she hissed, locking eyes with Irzia, who wasn’t about to challenge her back for it, rather looking away instead. “I know what draconic looks like. This isn’t it.”

“It is not… uhm… it is not modern draconic, no,” Irzia wilted, quickly retreating into her backroom and appearing a moment after with an enormous tome in her hands. There was nothing exciting about it, a simple leather-bound tome, filled with little, coloured notes sticking from its pages, its title boring but descriptive: Liber Arcana, Volume XII: Runic Languages, by Lord Magister Beleonthar. Laria recognized the author’s name, a Silvermoon sorcerer who specialised in runes and glyphs — a man she had read much about in her earlier years, and had formed her, among others, into the master of glyphs she was today. Yet, somehow, this particular volume had eluded her.

Irzia continued, opening the tome to a particular note sticking out: “There is a more, uhm… ancient kind of draconic. Possibly proto-draconic, or… well, we are not really sure. It is a language older than any dragon, but some still use it! Especially the oldest Azures.”

The bad news just kept piling up. Dragons. Azures, at that. She’d stumbled right back into old miseries she thought she’d buried well and good, but the wounds opened easily, Irzia’s words like a dagger across her skin. Scars long healed tight burnt again with cold fire, and an icy chill washed over her skin and set it prickling as if with needles. Maybe she didn’t stumble at all. Maybe this was all predetermined. That just made her angrier.

“Miss? Are you alright?”

Laria blinked, looked back up at Irzia. The scribe had closed the book again, had went on about dragons and magic and runes, but she hadn’t listened to any of it.

“Yes, yes… I’m alright,” she waved a dismissive hand. Focus, Laria. “Can you figure out these marks? I assume they gifted the worgen her regenerative abilities, but I want to be sure. I want to know how these were made.”

“Of course! Of course. I’ve transcribed the patterns, and,” with a flourish the scribe brandished a little scalpel, and began to work scraping into one of the tattoos, a bit of marked skin flayed off and stored neatly on a piece of vellum. Not quite the scientist’s setup, but it would do, Laria supposed. “There we go! I will see what sort of reagents were used as well. Think you can give me two weeks to figure it all out? You are quite lucky I am not so busy this time around. And that this thing proposed a very curious challenge.”

“Two weeks,” Laria nodded. Two weeks of stress, no doubt. At the same time, two weeks she could use to prepare. But for what? A dragon she didn’t know, when and where they might strike, what their goal was — and that’s assuming it was a dragon at all. Perhaps she was already leaping to conclusions on that one. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You are… going to take this thing with you, right? It looks a bit unseemly in my shop, I think.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, of course,” she managed a half-smile as she tucked the leg back into her backpack. “Thanks though, for the help. Bit of an unusual request, I realise.”

“Unusual, yes. Interesting too! I will get to work immediately. Come back anytime if you want a progress update.” If nothing else, Irzia had become all giddy smiles, instead of the trepid, nervous thing she had been when first presented with the grizzly trophy. Quite the opposite to Laria’s progression, she realised.

Without wasting more words, she slipped out the fron tdoor, squinting at the sunlight that reflected from the marble walls of the Spire in front of her. As she hid her eyes with a hand she caught the armoured shape of a guard approaching, and realised with mounting horror it was a spellbreaker, who looked none too happy.

“Citizen!” he called, and Laria froze in place. She’d completely forgotten about the guards who had hunted her, and already looked around for a way out. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to do but simply run, and with how many guard patrols she’d no doubt had to pass by, her chances didn’t seem great.

“Ah, er—… I think you might have the wrong person?” She showed her most innocent smile — one that wasn’t terribly convincing, for all she tried. “You see, I’m actually, er—… a Skyguard, you know—”

“I don’t care what you are, the Avenue is being cordoned off. Go home, now. If you live in this street, I suggest you wait near the fountains until the danger has subsided.”

“What? Danger?” She blinked, a wave of relief washing over her, realising this wasn’t about her. Looking over across the streets, she saw a haggle of guards that had gathered near the end of it. There was a hiss of magic she felt across her skin, and her instinct was to reach out, to scry, to see what it might be, and what danger it posed. Instead she was pushed back, and met with the angry snarl of the breaker.

“Move! Go home, citizen, don’t let me catch you loitering about!” And off he stomped, from home to home, shop to shop. She heard a surprised yelp from Irzia’s place, but decided to take the chance and get away as fast and far as possible, her heart still beating with… with what? All manner of emotions, truly. Anger at exhumed memories, fear of being caught, curiosity for the magical danger in the street, and relief she might just get home unscathed. She longed for nothing more than to give her mother a firm hug and explain to her all she had learned; surely she knew how to proceed with this business.

Before she knew it she was already at the fountains, pushing past a throng of people who had gathered anxiously to await the outcome of the guards’ business. She paid little mind to it all, seeing Murder Row’s shadowed streets greeting her again like that old, hated friend. Somehow they looked all the better this time around; like an ex when you’re horny. When she reached it, even the acrid smells of it were somehow like rose petals and lavender, and she found a smile had settled on her lips.

The usual gathering of drunkards, thistleheads, rogues, and illicit merchants had all faded, no doubt joining the others at the Court of the Sun, eager to gossip and sightsee and push the boundaries of the guards’ tempers. The only one she could see was a white-haired high elf — if his eyes were any indication — watching her behind an impassive mask. She could feel the magic he was wielding, not so dissimilar from the one she felt at Enchanter’s Avenue.

Before she could make sense of it, she heard footsteps behind her, coming at her quiet but fast. She dodged just in time, watching a dagger flash by her cheek, a glint of magic catching her eye, settled in the pommel of the blood. The second one came fast behind it, but Laria’s sword was out already, caught it on the guard and sent the assailant sprawling backwards. Another high elf, white hair. What the hell’s going on.

Before she could so much as retaliate, the man was already on her, mace in one hand and a magic spell in the other. She duck below his swipe, reached her empty hand for the magic in his, and unmade it with a snap of her fingers, like snuffing a candle. There was no time for celebration, feeling a sudden kick in her side, the woman back up already and sending her sprawling on the ground. As she did, she saw a third shape flash behind her, white hair again, the gleam of a sword coming at her, a sharp pain in her shoulder that followed and her eyes went flashing with stars.

She summoned magics of her own, a whirl of flame that sent the trio staggering backwards, but it hardly gave her time to stand up. They were at her again, warded with runes, snarling wordlessly as they stabbed and slashed and swung at her. She dodged the sword, nearly spearing her gut, but the mace crashed into her leg, and the dagger nicked a good chunk of flesh from her thigh on the backswing. Before she knew it, she was stumbling towards a wall, kicked into it and stabbed in the back, feeling the cold steel slither through her guts.

She couldn’t make any sense of it. Three people she’d never seen, coming at her without purpose. She yelled something, but she couldn’t hear what, already forgot what it was, her heart thumping in her ears, warm blood washing over her leg as she crumbled to the ground, warm tears down her cheeks, her backpack sliding off her shoulders. “It’s yours!” she sobbed, kicking uselessly at nothing in particular with her good leg. The worst part of it all was that they were silent as the night. Not even a good monologue before they finished her off. A cold, silent death. No fanfare. What a sorry way to go.

They lifted their sword, their dagger, their mace, and Laria shut her eyes tight, so tight it hurt. But there came no more pain, only a sudden flash of fury hot fire that blinded her further. She felt hands grab her shoulders; familiar hands, soft and black as hers, and her amber eyes met her mother’s furious snarl. Before she could blink, darkness took her, the sharp pain in her legs, her back, her shoulder fading into nothing.

[Devontae-argent-dawn]

After some much needed respite the Skyguard are heading into the last leg of this expansion full swing with our casual raiding team charging for their mounts, our Cadets facing their Hawkrider trials and the final storyline of the Shadowlands being teased onto their screens and not to forget the Skyguard birthday!