Original Thread:
https://eu.battle.net/forums/en/wow/topic/9051735720
The Commandant stood before the podium in the ‘fliers mess’. He looked outside, through the window, blazing sunshine “It should have been raining”, he thought. He leant on his cane for a moment, a relic of the Redridge conflict and sternly looked over the elves before him. Like most veteran fliers his gaze was predatory, searching. Not quite…’elven’. He looked to his side, where Lieutenant Emberfury stood, her one blank eye staring blindly into the darkness, her other turned on him, she nodded slowly.
He started, his voice booming, bombastic even.
“Four years almost to this day ago, I was accorded a singular honour. To command a Wing of Fliers, the First Escadrille of Quel’danas, known as the Sun Hawks. It was not easy, our people were sorely tired of war, sorely tested, and yet, I would say, never bested. They came, from the noble homesteads, from the farmers pastures, from the bazaar, from, aye, even the gutters and the slums. They came with one thing, one defining thing!”
He rapped on the lectern.
“They came here looking at the skies and dreaming of being eagles”
He huffed in a breath and sighed through his nose “Those noble elves are now mostly dead, dead or retired, you will see their names engraved on The Wall.”
“None regrets their loss more than I, save obviously their families, but for the defence of a nation, patriots are needed, Solid resolve and firm determination to stand against -any- invader, and say “No! This is Mine! Not Yours!” and with fire and spear and spellcraft to repel them, to remind them that the sons and daughters of Quel’thalas do not, and have never, went quietly into combat, but with Fire and Fury!”
His exclamation roused a cheer from the Rookies. He glared at them, as if they had come into his home and urinated on his rug.
“You have not earned the right, to acclaim others deeds. You will...oh you will, with your battle brothers and sisters, the Dragonhawks we ride to battle, you will assuredly do great deeds together to the utmost advantage of our nation, and then! Then will your names ring out upon the streets, your deeds be spoken on in taverns, your ‘Ace’ names be spoken of in corners and nooks like household names, familiar and common on every tongue. “I Flew, alongside ‘Flicker’ they will say, or tell tales of how with ‘Bandit’ they downed a foe, or how with ‘Magni’ they both downed an enemy. These tales you will tell to your advantage, and you will do so when you have earned the right to do so. Until then, you will be so observant, learn and be tutored by those savage and skilled in the air, remember always our creed”
He raised his spear.
“Only the Brave inherit the Skies!”
“Only the Brave” the returning chorus.
OOC
The idea of the Sun Hawks is to establish a kind of World war I fighter squadron vibe. The Wing Commander, Brigante, is obviously the boss, but he sees himself as a ‘first amongst equals’ On Informal affairs, he is not immune to the joshing and joking of the unit.
Advancement:
Advancement actually happens in three ways.
Formal promotion.
Becoming an Ace
Getting Medals’Gongs’.
The Ranks are simple.
A ‘Rookie’ is probationary Rank. You screw up, you’re binned.
Hawk: Once a Rookie is deemed worthy they will be asked to sign the papers and become a Hawk. This is full membership, it also means you can become an Ace
These are what are sometimes referred to as ‘Enlisted’ Fliers. As in, they’re on a list.
Next up is Subalterns ( To those with a military background, don’t overthink this, just think NCO)
Scout Hawk: Generally the most common ‘field’ rank. Closest to Corporal in most armies. This is the first rank that has command authority ( Hawks cannot give Rookies orders) Generally chosen from the ranks, for skill or expertise, or simply sometimes for being the sort of person who -could- give orders.
War Hawk: A Much much rarer Field Rank, easiest to think of ‘Sergeants’. A War Hawk is a rare beast, there is one per Escadrille ( Squadron) and they report directly to the Wing Commander. They are sterner, but also skilled to look out for those who could become Scout Hawks. They walk a knife edge, they are on the brink of either failure, or falling to hubris.
Blood Hawk: An almost mythical beast, there are but three Blood Hawks at any time. They answer only, and interestingly, -only- to the Lieutenant, and not the Wing Commander.
They are stern beyond belief, and are sources of fear to all right thinking fliers.(Think Regimental Sergeant Major). To most of them, this is the apotheosis of their career, and so they do not give a tinker’s cuss about offending people, such can regularly be observed.
Those are Subalterns.
Officers.
Lieutenant: If the Wing Commander is God, the Lieutenant is his Prophet. They are an Officer, and as such, a signature either from Anastarien or Kael’thas, or Lor’themar Theron will have endorsed their promotion. They will likely not have met such a notary, but by thunder, they have been ordained as such by them, which means their word is law. A Lieutenant is an Officer, the second highest ranking, so can absolutely give commands and dish out punishments should they not be obeyed. To refuse an Officer a rightful order is an act of Treason, for it is acting against the authorithy that invested them.
Wing Commander: The Boss. Again an Officer, and likely ordained by one of three notaries. The Wing Commander is of sufficient rank that they can dole out Capital Punishment. To question their orders is fine, under unit regulations, to refuse them if explained, likewise counts as Treason. They are however, to all intents and purposes. The Boss.
2.’Becoming an Ace’
You do that after meeting two criteria.
1.Making Hawk Rank
2. Getting Ten air to air Kills
Ace gives you certain prestige rights. You can use other Ace’s names, even Officers. That sounds silly, but in a social environment it becomes all the more telling, who is an Ace and who is not.
You also get a Tankard, with your ‘Ace’ name engraved on it. This is generally a great source of hilarity to your fellow fliers, as ‘Ace’ names tend to be slightly mocking….
3.Gongs! Aka Medals.
We have several.
The Phoenix Banner in Bronze/Silver/Gold
The Wounded Skies award ( Think the purple Heart)
The Order of the Red Banner ( a contentious one, a medal awarded to those who have served the Horde but not necessarily the Sin’dorei)
The Silver Star of Anasterian: A Medal for -extreme- heroism
The Golden Sun of Dath’remar: A medal given in the most extreme of circumstances, Only once before to a living reciprocant.
OOC rules:
1. No Public ERP or Torture
2 .No Griefing Events on -Either- side.
3. Keep Gchat civil
4.No OOC Drama
5. No bad mouthing other guilds in Gchat, we all have alts.
6. After a month of inactivity you will be demoted to OOC or removed from the guild depending on how your activity's been.
7. Please note that we don't use OOC in /s /e /y.
When correcting typos you should use /g or /i.(edited)
Pretty much it...
Chief Bhalneath sighed at the new elf at the Armouries.
“Alright, lets try this again”
“Whats this” He tapped with his baton, tipped with a golden plated Imp skull, at a leather contrivance.
The Elf nodded.
“Mark Five ‘Defiance’ Nine Point Flight Harness, the Mark Five differs from the Mark Four as it is now made with new material available to us since joining the Horde, the leather is Kodo Hide, the buckles are Thorium”
Bhalneath nodded “Good, and which flier uses this particular one?”
“None Chief, its a test rig, every Flight Harness is crafted separately for every Elf, to match both Dragonhawk and Rider. It is called a Nine Point Harness because it has nine buckles, Fliers often call it their ‘Nine’”
“Why is it important?”
“Well, aside from the state secrecy bit, it keeps them in the saddle, allows them to fly inverted, connects to the Dragonhawks Saddle, and it has a parachute bundle at the back Chief”
“And?”
“And it has the connector cords for them to release the various munitions, Chief”
“Good, good,” He moved on and picked up an arrow, twirling it in his fingers, the air made a mournful song as he did so, “And This?”
“‘Shrike’ ammunition Chief, standard arrow, but when loosed it spins and the holes in the arrowhead means that it makes a screaming sound, it is supposed to be unsettling, Chief”
“Ever heard one?”
Bhalneath nodded slowly as the rookie elf looked nonplussed, “Hope you never do, I have, it is a hideous sound designed to cause panic”
Bhalneath slapped his hand on a lance, well, a lance with a halberd blade. “And this?”
“Mark One ‘Revenger’ Chief, an arcane imbued halberd that is the primary weapon of the Hawkrider, designed to both pierce and slash, and enchanted”
“Good, good” He moved on to a shelved spear, blue flights on it, a glowing blue speartip, around three feet in length.
“This?”
“Mark two ‘Falcon’ Arcane Javelin Chief, It discharges an arcane blast when it lands, roughly a twenty feet diameter, best used against mass personnel targets”
Bhalneath nodded and snatches up a small ovoid metal contraption “And this here is a standard Grenade, why do they load up with ‘Falcons’, they do the same thing?”
“Reminds them they are fighting Elves Chief, and we rule magic.”
“Good, good, now this….”
Bhalneath taps his baton on a large munition, the size of an elf in length, unintelligible writing upon it.
“Mark Three ‘Wyrmbreaker’ Chief, manufactured by the Goblins of Gearfist IBS, it is an armour piercing bomb of steel, with a thorium and Seaforium tip. Its unusual shape is so that the bomb hits, delivers the tip, which pierces, and only -then- explodes inside the target. It is rocket propelled to ensure maximum force, the impact rocks the foe, the Thorium warhead then penetrates and detonates”
“Good, now the new toys..”
Bhalneath tapped a circular metal disc, the size of a dinner plate.
“Wasn’t briefed Chief?”
“No, its a new thing, this is the Mark One Psychological Warfare unit, catchily named the ‘Heartracer’ A Siren, that is timed to match the heartbeat of the shorter lived races...initially...it then slowly speeds up, the theory is that their heart rate speeds up in time, basically it induces a panic attack in our enemies, any Human, Dwarf or Gnome going up against this, gets an involuntary adrenaline spike, but one keyed to fear, not ability.”
Bhalneath tapped another device, three feet long, with two metal balls on the end. “The Hamstringer’, again, Mark One, The cruder folk call them ‘Aerial Shackles’. It is a fired pair of Bolas, Like a gun, but when the two balls are fired, they fling through the sky, and when they hit a target, they wrap around, until the two balls are slammed against each other, and when that happens….They explode”
Bhalneath spreads his hands “And when that happens...down will come baby, cradle and all, the game is over”
The new Elf paled at the next weapon on the shelves “Thats not….”
Bhalneath nods “No, thats a dummy. A realistic one, but a dummy. That is what a Mark Four Tactical Mana Bomb, the ‘Annihilatrix’ looks like. You ever see one of those and I am not supervising its transport you drop everything and run and find me, because those things do -not- move without my say-so. It is not that they are destructive, I mean they are, but you could do more with a bigger bomb, it is the psychological effect, A lot of Alliance remember Theramore, hells, the Commandant remembers Theramore, which is why if you see this on the load-out list, you know something serious is afoot. You won’t ever see them like that, they’ll always be in crates, that can only be unlocked by two elves in unison.”
“They’re..so small”
“And yet so terrible”
Both elves looked at the small cannister, so ...innocuous.
Bhalneath nodded “You got it right, that's their load out list, what were you sentenced here for?”
The new elf shifted uncomfortably “Arson, Chief”
“How long you got to serve?”
“Twenty years left, been inside for twenty already”
“Let me tell you this Firebug, you smoke or so much as think about smoking around these ‘toys’, you won’t have to worry about finishing your sentence. If the bombs don’t kill you….I will. Now, you in, or you out and back to your comfortable cell?”
“I’m in”
“Good Elf. You get a wage, and a death in service pension, once you’ve served your sentence, the Commandant writes a nice letter saying how trustworthy you are, and how you deserve a second chance to any employer, I heard he even turns up as a character reference for people of good character, so keep your nose clean, and those twenty years will pass in no time”
Around them the dread munitions of death were handled and loaded.
“Chief, you think these will be needed?”
Bhalneath laughed and spread his arms wide “Didn’t you hear the Commandant’s latest speech? The War is over, the Legion War, the War to end all Wars….Peace in our time”
“This is the armouries at Peace?”
“You don’t want to see it when its busy, but unlike the Commandant I am a pessimist. I reckon you will…”
“Alright, lets try this again”
“Whats this” He tapped with his baton, tipped with a golden plated Imp skull, at a leather contrivance.
The Elf nodded.
“Mark Five ‘Defiance’ Nine Point Flight Harness, the Mark Five differs from the Mark Four as it is now made with new material available to us since joining the Horde, the leather is Kodo Hide, the buckles are Thorium”
Bhalneath nodded “Good, and which flier uses this particular one?”
“None Chief, its a test rig, every Flight Harness is crafted separately for every Elf, to match both Dragonhawk and Rider. It is called a Nine Point Harness because it has nine buckles, Fliers often call it their ‘Nine’”
“Why is it important?”
“Well, aside from the state secrecy bit, it keeps them in the saddle, allows them to fly inverted, connects to the Dragonhawks Saddle, and it has a parachute bundle at the back Chief”
“And?”
“And it has the connector cords for them to release the various munitions, Chief”
“Good, good,” He moved on and picked up an arrow, twirling it in his fingers, the air made a mournful song as he did so, “And This?”
“‘Shrike’ ammunition Chief, standard arrow, but when loosed it spins and the holes in the arrowhead means that it makes a screaming sound, it is supposed to be unsettling, Chief”
“Ever heard one?”
Bhalneath nodded slowly as the rookie elf looked nonplussed, “Hope you never do, I have, it is a hideous sound designed to cause panic”
Bhalneath slapped his hand on a lance, well, a lance with a halberd blade. “And this?”
“Mark One ‘Revenger’ Chief, an arcane imbued halberd that is the primary weapon of the Hawkrider, designed to both pierce and slash, and enchanted”
“Good, good” He moved on to a shelved spear, blue flights on it, a glowing blue speartip, around three feet in length.
“This?”
“Mark two ‘Falcon’ Arcane Javelin Chief, It discharges an arcane blast when it lands, roughly a twenty feet diameter, best used against mass personnel targets”
Bhalneath nodded and snatches up a small ovoid metal contraption “And this here is a standard Grenade, why do they load up with ‘Falcons’, they do the same thing?”
“Reminds them they are fighting Elves Chief, and we rule magic.”
“Good, good, now this….”
Bhalneath taps his baton on a large munition, the size of an elf in length, unintelligible writing upon it.
“Mark Three ‘Wyrmbreaker’ Chief, manufactured by the Goblins of Gearfist IBS, it is an armour piercing bomb of steel, with a thorium and Seaforium tip. Its unusual shape is so that the bomb hits, delivers the tip, which pierces, and only -then- explodes inside the target. It is rocket propelled to ensure maximum force, the impact rocks the foe, the Thorium warhead then penetrates and detonates”
“Good, now the new toys..”
Bhalneath tapped a circular metal disc, the size of a dinner plate.
“Wasn’t briefed Chief?”
“No, its a new thing, this is the Mark One Psychological Warfare unit, catchily named the ‘Heartracer’ A Siren, that is timed to match the heartbeat of the shorter lived races...initially...it then slowly speeds up, the theory is that their heart rate speeds up in time, basically it induces a panic attack in our enemies, any Human, Dwarf or Gnome going up against this, gets an involuntary adrenaline spike, but one keyed to fear, not ability.”
Bhalneath tapped another device, three feet long, with two metal balls on the end. “The Hamstringer’, again, Mark One, The cruder folk call them ‘Aerial Shackles’. It is a fired pair of Bolas, Like a gun, but when the two balls are fired, they fling through the sky, and when they hit a target, they wrap around, until the two balls are slammed against each other, and when that happens….They explode”
Bhalneath spreads his hands “And when that happens...down will come baby, cradle and all, the game is over”
The new Elf paled at the next weapon on the shelves “Thats not….”
Bhalneath nods “No, thats a dummy. A realistic one, but a dummy. That is what a Mark Four Tactical Mana Bomb, the ‘Annihilatrix’ looks like. You ever see one of those and I am not supervising its transport you drop everything and run and find me, because those things do -not- move without my say-so. It is not that they are destructive, I mean they are, but you could do more with a bigger bomb, it is the psychological effect, A lot of Alliance remember Theramore, hells, the Commandant remembers Theramore, which is why if you see this on the load-out list, you know something serious is afoot. You won’t ever see them like that, they’ll always be in crates, that can only be unlocked by two elves in unison.”
“They’re..so small”
“And yet so terrible”
Both elves looked at the small cannister, so ...innocuous.
Bhalneath nodded “You got it right, that's their load out list, what were you sentenced here for?”
The new elf shifted uncomfortably “Arson, Chief”
“How long you got to serve?”
“Twenty years left, been inside for twenty already”
“Let me tell you this Firebug, you smoke or so much as think about smoking around these ‘toys’, you won’t have to worry about finishing your sentence. If the bombs don’t kill you….I will. Now, you in, or you out and back to your comfortable cell?”
“I’m in”
“Good Elf. You get a wage, and a death in service pension, once you’ve served your sentence, the Commandant writes a nice letter saying how trustworthy you are, and how you deserve a second chance to any employer, I heard he even turns up as a character reference for people of good character, so keep your nose clean, and those twenty years will pass in no time”
Around them the dread munitions of death were handled and loaded.
“Chief, you think these will be needed?”
Bhalneath laughed and spread his arms wide “Didn’t you hear the Commandant’s latest speech? The War is over, the Legion War, the War to end all Wars….Peace in our time”
“This is the armouries at Peace?”
“You don’t want to see it when its busy, but unlike the Commandant I am a pessimist. I reckon you will…”
2 Likes
Let the Story-thon begin again....
A bump for our brothers in arms.
The eagle riders of the mountain endorse these people.
10/10 would have a hostile work environment with them again.
“She’s awake, She’s Lucid” The Hood said. Brigante had not paused, but had sprinted to the Spire, there to use his rank to demand a portal to the Island of Quel’danas.
And so he went.
He was apprehended by a doctor “Commandant, you must be aware, she is…” Brigante snarled “There has been an improvement in her condition, that is what I am told, are you telling me such is not true?” Despite the fact the other elf was taller by several inches, there was something in the horrible, unpleasant eyes that the Dragonhawk rider turned on him that gave the Doctor pause… He had ...heard of the phrase “Fliers Eyes” but now seeing them, he knew what was meant. There was nothing Elven in that stare...nothing that any normal elf would recognise...The Doctor shuddered, everyone had the same colour eyes these days, but those….He made much use of the enhanced glass lenses to see things small, he understood the Gnomes called them ‘Microscopes’ They always had a catchy way with words….
That stare. That...what it made him feel was the stare that something at the bottom of a microscope might see, from the eye looking down upon them.
He broke the gaze, he could not look at those eyes. He could not understand how anyone could, and still think that the person with those eyes had a shred of empathy or compassion.
He shook his head “Commandant, she is not at danger of becoming Wretched, but...She still has ...issues”
The voice was easy, low, and calm “Doctor, will you show me to my fiancee, or not?”
He nodded “Yes, of course”
It was a cell. Of course it was, She had been a danger...Still a shackle held her to the wall. Her hair lank and hanging over her face, a horrid feral grin crossing her features as he came in “Here for your weekly Guilt trip?” She snarled from behind gnarled rats tails of hair.
He sat in front of her “Tarri, I..”
She lunged and snapped her teeth at him, and laughed as he flinched back.
She hissed “You know that’s not how Wretched work, you should know, of all people, or have you forgotten your little sister?”
She Shuddered and flinched “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that!”
Brigante just regarded the woman “ You are making a compelling argument for me to have you destroyed.” he said, in an attempt at dark humour.
He smiled sadly “Good job for both of us that I know the real you. Inside what is going on there” He gestured with a hand towards her head and nodded “Makes me wonder how many times we miss out on potential benefits to our nation”
The Woman looked up at him, with venom in her voice “YOU made me this!”
Brigante shook his head “No, no, I asked you to-”
He stopped. “No. You are right...I made you this”
He hung his head “And I will set things right”
The woman lowered her head, and murmured “Kiss me”
Brigante was mindful of the caution, how she had only just recovered from approaching a Wretched state, but despite the stink of sweat in the cell, the corded rats tails of hair hanging lankly from her head, her pallor, this was still Tarrithael. His affianced, his...the mother of their child, still in her womb. He nodded and moved closer, a hand reaching out tenderly to her cheek.
She spat in his face, and howled.
She snarled, tugging at the shackle “How? How will you do that? How will you put things right? You know only one thing! How to destroy! How to Kill! Thats all you are, Brigante Summerisle! Thats all thats left of you! A Murderer who smiles and claims to have honour, a mass murderer who will happily sacrifice -anyone- to get your way. I worshipped you as a child, you know that? You shone so bright, even amongst all the Fliers...But now I know...Oh yes, now I know… You weren't shining. Oh no, you weren’t shining. You were burning. Everyone else? Your fliers, your enemies, your Son? Your last wife? Me? We were just the fuel to make you burn brighter!”.
Brigante closed his eyes and shook his head, inches from the howling woman.
“Look at me!” She snarled. He growled and opened his eyes, trying to find anything to cling to.
Tarrithael hissed “Yes, thats the eyes...To think I ever saw anything of passion, of love in them! You are a predator, You hunt, you kill, you move on to the next target, you hunt, you Kill. That is all you are!” she screamed at him.
“Tarri...no, that is not… I am a soldier...I serve my country”
“Lies! Lies you tell yourself so that you can sleep at night!” She snarled and looked him square in the eyes “You know what I see?”
“Tarri, you’ve had a tough time, you’re not yourself, you-”
“Don’t tell me what I am! I’ll tell you what you are. You’re Him. Well done. You made it. You’re the King of All Skies! Azeroth didn’t -need- that Nathrezim Mikaneth to come here and proclaim he was King of All Skies. Because He was ...already Here! Thats you, Mikaneth Summerisle, The Murdering King of Azeroth’s Skies! I hope you get what you want. I hope you become a God, a Saint, a Metaphor, I hope you die in the blaze of glory you have sought your entire life, and become a Story! I hope that happens, so that I never have to see you again, but instead only tell our child that their father was Purest Evil, and nevermore should the name Summerisle be heard without a shudder, and a sign to ward off Evil! I Hope -That- is your Legacy, King of the Skies!”
And then the last, the cruellest.
“It is well for Asharion, your Son, that he died so young, and did not See the truth of you. So go! Go, return to your ‘church’, the Blue Skies and the dreaming of Eagles. Go to your pretty lies, Go and Kill, because that is all you are good for!”
Without a word, Brigante stood and left, the door clicking behind him, then locked by the doctor.
Inside the cell, the woman wept bitterly, her free hand wiping at her eyes “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry”
An hour later, in his office on Quel’danas, Brigante closed his eyes as he cradled a glass of brandy, he murmured, eyes wet with tears “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean it..I’m sorry”
In the Skies over Aszuna, the Nethership ‘De Regli Caeli’ hung in the skies. The Burning Legion’s crusade had failed. Sargeras was...gone? The Dreadlord, the Nathrezim Mikaneth, ‘King of All Skies’ tapped at the table,
He smiled, even though their Lord was gone, his plan was still working. He could rule here.
A Wrathguard approached him “King Mikaneth, there is word”
He opened a hand and graciously waved the lesser Demon to speak.
“The Enemy has possession of the Wings of Sky-Captain Hishalno Cloudspear, I appreciate this is a great setback, but….”
The Nathrezim laughed. “ A Setback?, to set one of the Aerial defenders of Azeroth to doubting himself and becoming -me-? To letting them take the very item that will make even his closest allies doubt his intentions?. To -allow- his pitiful espoused to survive so that poison drips in his ear and brings him closer?”
The Nathrezim laughed. “This was not a setback”
The Demon gently rested a hand on the map of Azeroth.
“This was not a setback….This was according to my Plan”
And so he went.
He was apprehended by a doctor “Commandant, you must be aware, she is…” Brigante snarled “There has been an improvement in her condition, that is what I am told, are you telling me such is not true?” Despite the fact the other elf was taller by several inches, there was something in the horrible, unpleasant eyes that the Dragonhawk rider turned on him that gave the Doctor pause… He had ...heard of the phrase “Fliers Eyes” but now seeing them, he knew what was meant. There was nothing Elven in that stare...nothing that any normal elf would recognise...The Doctor shuddered, everyone had the same colour eyes these days, but those….He made much use of the enhanced glass lenses to see things small, he understood the Gnomes called them ‘Microscopes’ They always had a catchy way with words….
That stare. That...what it made him feel was the stare that something at the bottom of a microscope might see, from the eye looking down upon them.
He broke the gaze, he could not look at those eyes. He could not understand how anyone could, and still think that the person with those eyes had a shred of empathy or compassion.
He shook his head “Commandant, she is not at danger of becoming Wretched, but...She still has ...issues”
The voice was easy, low, and calm “Doctor, will you show me to my fiancee, or not?”
He nodded “Yes, of course”
It was a cell. Of course it was, She had been a danger...Still a shackle held her to the wall. Her hair lank and hanging over her face, a horrid feral grin crossing her features as he came in “Here for your weekly Guilt trip?” She snarled from behind gnarled rats tails of hair.
He sat in front of her “Tarri, I..”
She lunged and snapped her teeth at him, and laughed as he flinched back.
She hissed “You know that’s not how Wretched work, you should know, of all people, or have you forgotten your little sister?”
She Shuddered and flinched “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that!”
Brigante just regarded the woman “ You are making a compelling argument for me to have you destroyed.” he said, in an attempt at dark humour.
He smiled sadly “Good job for both of us that I know the real you. Inside what is going on there” He gestured with a hand towards her head and nodded “Makes me wonder how many times we miss out on potential benefits to our nation”
The Woman looked up at him, with venom in her voice “YOU made me this!”
Brigante shook his head “No, no, I asked you to-”
He stopped. “No. You are right...I made you this”
He hung his head “And I will set things right”
The woman lowered her head, and murmured “Kiss me”
Brigante was mindful of the caution, how she had only just recovered from approaching a Wretched state, but despite the stink of sweat in the cell, the corded rats tails of hair hanging lankly from her head, her pallor, this was still Tarrithael. His affianced, his...the mother of their child, still in her womb. He nodded and moved closer, a hand reaching out tenderly to her cheek.
She spat in his face, and howled.
She snarled, tugging at the shackle “How? How will you do that? How will you put things right? You know only one thing! How to destroy! How to Kill! Thats all you are, Brigante Summerisle! Thats all thats left of you! A Murderer who smiles and claims to have honour, a mass murderer who will happily sacrifice -anyone- to get your way. I worshipped you as a child, you know that? You shone so bright, even amongst all the Fliers...But now I know...Oh yes, now I know… You weren't shining. Oh no, you weren’t shining. You were burning. Everyone else? Your fliers, your enemies, your Son? Your last wife? Me? We were just the fuel to make you burn brighter!”.
Brigante closed his eyes and shook his head, inches from the howling woman.
“Look at me!” She snarled. He growled and opened his eyes, trying to find anything to cling to.
Tarrithael hissed “Yes, thats the eyes...To think I ever saw anything of passion, of love in them! You are a predator, You hunt, you kill, you move on to the next target, you hunt, you Kill. That is all you are!” she screamed at him.
“Tarri...no, that is not… I am a soldier...I serve my country”
“Lies! Lies you tell yourself so that you can sleep at night!” She snarled and looked him square in the eyes “You know what I see?”
“Tarri, you’ve had a tough time, you’re not yourself, you-”
“Don’t tell me what I am! I’ll tell you what you are. You’re Him. Well done. You made it. You’re the King of All Skies! Azeroth didn’t -need- that Nathrezim Mikaneth to come here and proclaim he was King of All Skies. Because He was ...already Here! Thats you, Mikaneth Summerisle, The Murdering King of Azeroth’s Skies! I hope you get what you want. I hope you become a God, a Saint, a Metaphor, I hope you die in the blaze of glory you have sought your entire life, and become a Story! I hope that happens, so that I never have to see you again, but instead only tell our child that their father was Purest Evil, and nevermore should the name Summerisle be heard without a shudder, and a sign to ward off Evil! I Hope -That- is your Legacy, King of the Skies!”
And then the last, the cruellest.
“It is well for Asharion, your Son, that he died so young, and did not See the truth of you. So go! Go, return to your ‘church’, the Blue Skies and the dreaming of Eagles. Go to your pretty lies, Go and Kill, because that is all you are good for!”
Without a word, Brigante stood and left, the door clicking behind him, then locked by the doctor.
Inside the cell, the woman wept bitterly, her free hand wiping at her eyes “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry”
An hour later, in his office on Quel’danas, Brigante closed his eyes as he cradled a glass of brandy, he murmured, eyes wet with tears “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean it..I’m sorry”
In the Skies over Aszuna, the Nethership ‘De Regli Caeli’ hung in the skies. The Burning Legion’s crusade had failed. Sargeras was...gone? The Dreadlord, the Nathrezim Mikaneth, ‘King of All Skies’ tapped at the table,
He smiled, even though their Lord was gone, his plan was still working. He could rule here.
A Wrathguard approached him “King Mikaneth, there is word”
He opened a hand and graciously waved the lesser Demon to speak.
“The Enemy has possession of the Wings of Sky-Captain Hishalno Cloudspear, I appreciate this is a great setback, but….”
The Nathrezim laughed. “ A Setback?, to set one of the Aerial defenders of Azeroth to doubting himself and becoming -me-? To letting them take the very item that will make even his closest allies doubt his intentions?. To -allow- his pitiful espoused to survive so that poison drips in his ear and brings him closer?”
The Nathrezim laughed. “This was not a setback”
The Demon gently rested a hand on the map of Azeroth.
“This was not a setback….This was according to my Plan”
1 Like
He offered her the battered carton of cigarettes; she took two, tucking one behind her ear and lighting the other from the flame he held cupped in his remaining hand. Twin plumes of smoke spiraled upwards, twisting around each other, as the Lieutenant and Scout Hawk huddled on the deck of the Bloodied Spear; the silence between them would have been companionable, if not for the palpable sorrow of the ship's crew as they worked around these two intruders on their grief. Above them stretched the night sky, vast and dark and peppered with long-absent stars.
“... it looks empty.” Yasmyr said, at last, peering up. “How long's it been? Since Blackrock, right?”
Dae'anneth nodded. “Almost as long as you've been with the unit.”
“Feth, pretty much forever then.” she laughed. Not long enough for her to have forgotten, though; it had been a night a lot like this, the same terror at seeing Aiechi fall, the same desperate search in the chaos that followed. That night, though, he'd been warm and laughing when she'd found him. She hadn't had to fight against the creeping cold and dark, to curse and beg and coax those first few faltering breaths from his battered flesh. He slept now, in the cabin below (she told herself he slept, though his dull moss-green eyes stared blankly); he'd wake, he'd feed, and he'd be fine.
She remembered with equal clarity the day she'd enlisted; the Lieutenant had been a lowly Hawk then, left alone with the grieving mother to answer her questions about the 'reality' of service, without the prying eyes of the Commandant. He'd asked, frankly, if this was a death wish thing. She hadn't considered her response a lie at the time.
---
Flying, it was well established, changed a person; sooner or later even the meekest recruit developed 'flier's eyes', a certain vicious cast that Handlers were warned not to lock with and civilians tended to flinch from. That Brigante, with his centuries as Red Death, should have such eyes was not surprising, but this? This was different. He'd ordered her to look, and no stubborn set of jaw or grinding in of heels could make her hold that gaze for long. There was, it seemed, nothing left of 'elf' in there at all, only of 'predator', and all he looked upon were now his prey.
“I think I need to take those Wings back now, sir.”
They were such a small thing, to have cost them so much; a golden hippogryph above a brilliant pearl, engraved with an inscription identifying the wearer as Azeroth's Aerial Defender. Far too small to have caused such a change in the Old Man as he pinned them to his belt, and yet it was easier by far to think there had been a trigger, a moment when it all clicked into place, than to admit that he'd been waltzing to Mikaneth's tune for months already. Suddenly the memory of the Hawks laughing in Hishalno's cellar, asking if they were sure this wasn't Brigante's summer retreat, made her stomach twist and bile rise in her throat.
“Unfortunate; you won't be taking them. Who else can shoulder this burden, if not me?”
---
She tapped ash from her cigarette, glancing across at the Lieutenant, her lip curling in the beginning of a crooked smile. “Do you ever regret not telling the Old Man I was too crazy to serve?”
“I don't think you're crazy”. Dae'anneth puffed a stream of smoke, regarding her cooly, ignoring her disbelieving cackle. “Even back then, under all the rage and grief, there was a certain Steel. It just needed to be tempered into a blade. Forged in fire and fury.”
---
“You don't win this as a King, sir. You win as Wing Commander, with the full fury of the Escadrille behind you.”
She shouldn't have come back, and yet she couldn't not; this was a dance they'd done a hundred times before, the Bandit who never knew when to shut up pushing and prodding until the Wing Commander admitted the thing they both knew he wanted to do but had convinced himself was somehow not an option. The difference this time was not only the destination – she'd never tried to talk him out of those desires before – but the music; she had a horrible feeling it was a sonata composed entirely of mortal screams and demonic chuckling.
“It takes a King to kill a King.” The Laughing Prince regarded her; it took every ounce of willpower not to cringe further. “Mikaneth calls himself King of -All- Skies. I only want to be King of -These- Ones.”
She dragged her gaze to meet his, for as long as she could stand the glare - “... yeah, you sound like a King, alright” - before pinching her brow, sighing deeply. “You know what? You're not the scariest thing I've seen this week, sir. Only the most infuriating. Fine. You want us to trust you not to become Hishalno? Fine. But you trust us to kill you if you Fall.”
---
It seemed impossible, now, that those same skies that stretched above the Bloodied Spear had once contained the screaming face of an angry titan, that the sea had burned and the island they'd been forced to call home sunk beneath those flames, or that Captain Lysus lay broken and cooling on her bunk and wasn't about to appear and chastise them for smoking on Her Boy's deck.
“It'll be alright. When we get home-”
“- If.” she interjected, for who was to say the rest of the world had fared any better than that small island?
“If.”
He slipped his arm around her; she rested her head on his shoulder.
“You know the stupid thing about all this, if it really is the End of the World?" She glanced up at him. "It's the first time in... feth, I don't know how long. Since Redridge, at least, that I've been scared to d- scared what happens next. I thought I was done, but... I'm not ready to go. Not yet.”
“... it looks empty.” Yasmyr said, at last, peering up. “How long's it been? Since Blackrock, right?”
Dae'anneth nodded. “Almost as long as you've been with the unit.”
“Feth, pretty much forever then.” she laughed. Not long enough for her to have forgotten, though; it had been a night a lot like this, the same terror at seeing Aiechi fall, the same desperate search in the chaos that followed. That night, though, he'd been warm and laughing when she'd found him. She hadn't had to fight against the creeping cold and dark, to curse and beg and coax those first few faltering breaths from his battered flesh. He slept now, in the cabin below (she told herself he slept, though his dull moss-green eyes stared blankly); he'd wake, he'd feed, and he'd be fine.
She remembered with equal clarity the day she'd enlisted; the Lieutenant had been a lowly Hawk then, left alone with the grieving mother to answer her questions about the 'reality' of service, without the prying eyes of the Commandant. He'd asked, frankly, if this was a death wish thing. She hadn't considered her response a lie at the time.
---
Flying, it was well established, changed a person; sooner or later even the meekest recruit developed 'flier's eyes', a certain vicious cast that Handlers were warned not to lock with and civilians tended to flinch from. That Brigante, with his centuries as Red Death, should have such eyes was not surprising, but this? This was different. He'd ordered her to look, and no stubborn set of jaw or grinding in of heels could make her hold that gaze for long. There was, it seemed, nothing left of 'elf' in there at all, only of 'predator', and all he looked upon were now his prey.
“I think I need to take those Wings back now, sir.”
They were such a small thing, to have cost them so much; a golden hippogryph above a brilliant pearl, engraved with an inscription identifying the wearer as Azeroth's Aerial Defender. Far too small to have caused such a change in the Old Man as he pinned them to his belt, and yet it was easier by far to think there had been a trigger, a moment when it all clicked into place, than to admit that he'd been waltzing to Mikaneth's tune for months already. Suddenly the memory of the Hawks laughing in Hishalno's cellar, asking if they were sure this wasn't Brigante's summer retreat, made her stomach twist and bile rise in her throat.
“Unfortunate; you won't be taking them. Who else can shoulder this burden, if not me?”
---
She tapped ash from her cigarette, glancing across at the Lieutenant, her lip curling in the beginning of a crooked smile. “Do you ever regret not telling the Old Man I was too crazy to serve?”
“I don't think you're crazy”. Dae'anneth puffed a stream of smoke, regarding her cooly, ignoring her disbelieving cackle. “Even back then, under all the rage and grief, there was a certain Steel. It just needed to be tempered into a blade. Forged in fire and fury.”
---
“You don't win this as a King, sir. You win as Wing Commander, with the full fury of the Escadrille behind you.”
She shouldn't have come back, and yet she couldn't not; this was a dance they'd done a hundred times before, the Bandit who never knew when to shut up pushing and prodding until the Wing Commander admitted the thing they both knew he wanted to do but had convinced himself was somehow not an option. The difference this time was not only the destination – she'd never tried to talk him out of those desires before – but the music; she had a horrible feeling it was a sonata composed entirely of mortal screams and demonic chuckling.
“It takes a King to kill a King.” The Laughing Prince regarded her; it took every ounce of willpower not to cringe further. “Mikaneth calls himself King of -All- Skies. I only want to be King of -These- Ones.”
She dragged her gaze to meet his, for as long as she could stand the glare - “... yeah, you sound like a King, alright” - before pinching her brow, sighing deeply. “You know what? You're not the scariest thing I've seen this week, sir. Only the most infuriating. Fine. You want us to trust you not to become Hishalno? Fine. But you trust us to kill you if you Fall.”
---
It seemed impossible, now, that those same skies that stretched above the Bloodied Spear had once contained the screaming face of an angry titan, that the sea had burned and the island they'd been forced to call home sunk beneath those flames, or that Captain Lysus lay broken and cooling on her bunk and wasn't about to appear and chastise them for smoking on Her Boy's deck.
“It'll be alright. When we get home-”
“- If.” she interjected, for who was to say the rest of the world had fared any better than that small island?
“If.”
He slipped his arm around her; she rested her head on his shoulder.
“You know the stupid thing about all this, if it really is the End of the World?" She glanced up at him. "It's the first time in... feth, I don't know how long. Since Redridge, at least, that I've been scared to d- scared what happens next. I thought I was done, but... I'm not ready to go. Not yet.”
The Elf stalked to Sunspear, he buckled his Flight harness in, aided by Forenth, the veteran soldier looked him in the eyes. “Boy...You’re not right”
Brigante smiled wolfishly “I’m fine”
“Your fliers….they’re worried”
“I’m -Fine” he insisted.
Forenth shook his head “I don’t think you are, I think you are about as far from -fine- as can be”
Brigante snarled “You are my doctor now?”
“No Boy, but you’re losing the fight”
“My Resolve has never been stronger”
Forenth stamped his cigar under his foot “Thats what worries me Boy. Its not that I fear that you have lost your nerve, its the opposite. You’ve become -Too Certain-”
“You say that like it is a bad thing”
Forenth looked at him levelly “Who dressed you this morning?”
Brigante growled “You know I live alone now, that Tarri is in hospital”
Forenth nodded “So who put those wings on you, ‘Azeroth’s Aerial defender’ that how you see yourself is it?”
Brigante looked down at the wings on his pectoral, and laughed bitterly “And if not me, who other would be able to carry this burden”
Forenth nodded, and made an exaggerated bow of obeisance, “Who am I to argue with such a great and noble King… I just trust you will remember thy good and faithful Squire!”” He frowned as Brigante kicked his heels to Sunspear and they launched into the skies.
A presence at his side, one of the ‘younger’ Handlers, not yet assigned, a woman of ‘only’ two and a half thousand years. “He didn’t listen to you, Handler Sergeant?”
Forenth shook his head “He did, you just have to know how to deal with Fliers. If you -tell- them something, they will fight it to the end. You have to plant the idea in their heads, and let them come round to the fact. You’ll learn, when I assign you to a Flier.”
“But...you’re worried, Handler-Sergeant?”
Forenth shaded his eyes, a hand over his brows as he watched Brigante and Sunspear on their training flight, looping in the sun of Quel’danas.
“I’m worried there is one war he can’t win.”
“The Legion is defeated? Surely?”
“Defeated, far from it, there are still the Netherships, and thats what worries me”
The woman nodded “There is a particularly dangerous one? ‘Nightmare Green’ yes?”
Forenth spat out some tobacco juice and nodded “There’s that” He grunted “But thats not it, thats not the War I’m worried about him fighting”
Overhead Brigante soared, here he was King, he was the sovereign of all he saw….Here...here at least he was in control.
Here he could forget the mess that was his life on the ground, the horror that was his fiancee, the terror that could be in her womb. He could forget all of his responsibilities, and just be -himself- and Sunspear, together, arcing through the skies.
His eyes focussed and then he realised the horror...He could -forget- Tarri? He could -Forget- his Fliers?
Had he gone that wrong? That people were -things- to him? That even a woman who had shared his bed, who carried his -child- was a -thing-?
He had always maintained that was the difference between themselves and the Legion, that the instant you started thinking of people as ‘Things’ you had lost the Fight. So now, so now, at the very last, why had this...how had this….
He gasped and looked down at the ‘Wings’ on his pectoral.
“It makes you a King…” he muttered.
“It makes you a King of these Skies”
He recalled the angry, frightening mess that was Tarri, her shrieked words at him. Him sitting and listening. He murmured “That was me”
He recalled the soldiers screaming in panic as the Mark Four Tactical Mana Bombs rained down in Redridge. He murmured “That was me”
He recalled every Flier’s funeral, every wake, every send off, and murmured “That was me”.
He recalled Tarrithael looking at him “This is a dangerous one Sir, I might not come back” And his words “I need you to go”
He murmured”That was me”
A Battlefield, blazed blue, mostly burned, mostly ash and skeletonized bones, no matter where he flew, he saw the same. Endless in number, dead soldiery, destroyed machinery, Alliance smashed and in disarray, the dread forces of the Forsaken marching over the dead bodies. In the distance, vast carrion birds circling the field of the dead, one of them flew close, in his mind….It had his face.
“That...that was me”
In his mind Tarri shivered in her shackles “I’m so Cold….”
Brigante had nodded “I’ll get you whatever you need, anything”
Tarri had shook her head, in a period between her invectives she just looked at him “Promise me something? That you won’t become -Him-.”
“I Promise you” He said, and he meant it.
Over the Skies, he wheeled, he soared, “I could make things so right” he muttered.
“People are too timid to take the chances given to them, to reach out and grasp what fate offers….No, no, not this time”
He opened his eyes and stared, he did not mutter, he spoke out loud “THIS IS ME!”
Far down below, Handler-Sergeant Forenth Whitehaze closed his eyes. “Thats the War.”
The other Handler looked at him in askance. “There was one war he could never win. The War with his own ego. That’s not as humorous as it sounds...that’s one of the least humorous things ever, when dealing with a person who can authorise the use of tactical Mana Bombs”
The Woman looked at him in horror “He can, just on a whim?”
Forenth shook his head “Of course not, needs a two elf key to release them, but trust me, my Boy is clever enough and sweet talking enough to make it happen”
The Dragonhawk came in to land. Forenth stood ready.
“Thats what we do lass, we stop our boys and girls from blowing up the world just because they had a crappy day”
The Unassigned handler looked back at Forenth “That all we do?”
Forenth shook his head “On thursdays we have cocktail evening, you should come, its a blast”
As Brigante landed Forenth strode forwards “Whatever you’re thinking! No! Be Told!”
Brigante snarled, his mind full of the image of Tarri. “I could put...things...right!”
Forenth shook his head, “no, No you can’t put everything right lad, thats not how it works, you are not a king, you are not a god, you can’t….Oh Swive me….” The elf turned round to regard the elf smiling with a maniacal grin at him.
“Boy, you’re not a God, You’re not a King”
Brigante smiled, a horrible smile, and just laughed. “Get in the Skies and Shoot me down and prove me wrong”
That moment, was when Forenth Whitehaze realised that as much as he had made mention of it, more than one war was being fought, and that indeed, one of them had been lost.
Brigante smiled wolfishly “I’m fine”
“Your fliers….they’re worried”
“I’m -Fine” he insisted.
Forenth shook his head “I don’t think you are, I think you are about as far from -fine- as can be”
Brigante snarled “You are my doctor now?”
“No Boy, but you’re losing the fight”
“My Resolve has never been stronger”
Forenth stamped his cigar under his foot “Thats what worries me Boy. Its not that I fear that you have lost your nerve, its the opposite. You’ve become -Too Certain-”
“You say that like it is a bad thing”
Forenth looked at him levelly “Who dressed you this morning?”
Brigante growled “You know I live alone now, that Tarri is in hospital”
Forenth nodded “So who put those wings on you, ‘Azeroth’s Aerial defender’ that how you see yourself is it?”
Brigante looked down at the wings on his pectoral, and laughed bitterly “And if not me, who other would be able to carry this burden”
Forenth nodded, and made an exaggerated bow of obeisance, “Who am I to argue with such a great and noble King… I just trust you will remember thy good and faithful Squire!”” He frowned as Brigante kicked his heels to Sunspear and they launched into the skies.
A presence at his side, one of the ‘younger’ Handlers, not yet assigned, a woman of ‘only’ two and a half thousand years. “He didn’t listen to you, Handler Sergeant?”
Forenth shook his head “He did, you just have to know how to deal with Fliers. If you -tell- them something, they will fight it to the end. You have to plant the idea in their heads, and let them come round to the fact. You’ll learn, when I assign you to a Flier.”
“But...you’re worried, Handler-Sergeant?”
Forenth shaded his eyes, a hand over his brows as he watched Brigante and Sunspear on their training flight, looping in the sun of Quel’danas.
“I’m worried there is one war he can’t win.”
“The Legion is defeated? Surely?”
“Defeated, far from it, there are still the Netherships, and thats what worries me”
The woman nodded “There is a particularly dangerous one? ‘Nightmare Green’ yes?”
Forenth spat out some tobacco juice and nodded “There’s that” He grunted “But thats not it, thats not the War I’m worried about him fighting”
Overhead Brigante soared, here he was King, he was the sovereign of all he saw….Here...here at least he was in control.
Here he could forget the mess that was his life on the ground, the horror that was his fiancee, the terror that could be in her womb. He could forget all of his responsibilities, and just be -himself- and Sunspear, together, arcing through the skies.
His eyes focussed and then he realised the horror...He could -forget- Tarri? He could -Forget- his Fliers?
Had he gone that wrong? That people were -things- to him? That even a woman who had shared his bed, who carried his -child- was a -thing-?
He had always maintained that was the difference between themselves and the Legion, that the instant you started thinking of people as ‘Things’ you had lost the Fight. So now, so now, at the very last, why had this...how had this….
He gasped and looked down at the ‘Wings’ on his pectoral.
“It makes you a King…” he muttered.
“It makes you a King of these Skies”
He recalled the angry, frightening mess that was Tarri, her shrieked words at him. Him sitting and listening. He murmured “That was me”
He recalled the soldiers screaming in panic as the Mark Four Tactical Mana Bombs rained down in Redridge. He murmured “That was me”
He recalled every Flier’s funeral, every wake, every send off, and murmured “That was me”.
He recalled Tarrithael looking at him “This is a dangerous one Sir, I might not come back” And his words “I need you to go”
He murmured”That was me”
A Battlefield, blazed blue, mostly burned, mostly ash and skeletonized bones, no matter where he flew, he saw the same. Endless in number, dead soldiery, destroyed machinery, Alliance smashed and in disarray, the dread forces of the Forsaken marching over the dead bodies. In the distance, vast carrion birds circling the field of the dead, one of them flew close, in his mind….It had his face.
“That...that was me”
In his mind Tarri shivered in her shackles “I’m so Cold….”
Brigante had nodded “I’ll get you whatever you need, anything”
Tarri had shook her head, in a period between her invectives she just looked at him “Promise me something? That you won’t become -Him-.”
“I Promise you” He said, and he meant it.
Over the Skies, he wheeled, he soared, “I could make things so right” he muttered.
“People are too timid to take the chances given to them, to reach out and grasp what fate offers….No, no, not this time”
He opened his eyes and stared, he did not mutter, he spoke out loud “THIS IS ME!”
Far down below, Handler-Sergeant Forenth Whitehaze closed his eyes. “Thats the War.”
The other Handler looked at him in askance. “There was one war he could never win. The War with his own ego. That’s not as humorous as it sounds...that’s one of the least humorous things ever, when dealing with a person who can authorise the use of tactical Mana Bombs”
The Woman looked at him in horror “He can, just on a whim?”
Forenth shook his head “Of course not, needs a two elf key to release them, but trust me, my Boy is clever enough and sweet talking enough to make it happen”
The Dragonhawk came in to land. Forenth stood ready.
“Thats what we do lass, we stop our boys and girls from blowing up the world just because they had a crappy day”
The Unassigned handler looked back at Forenth “That all we do?”
Forenth shook his head “On thursdays we have cocktail evening, you should come, its a blast”
As Brigante landed Forenth strode forwards “Whatever you’re thinking! No! Be Told!”
Brigante snarled, his mind full of the image of Tarri. “I could put...things...right!”
Forenth shook his head, “no, No you can’t put everything right lad, thats not how it works, you are not a king, you are not a god, you can’t….Oh Swive me….” The elf turned round to regard the elf smiling with a maniacal grin at him.
“Boy, you’re not a God, You’re not a King”
Brigante smiled, a horrible smile, and just laughed. “Get in the Skies and Shoot me down and prove me wrong”
That moment, was when Forenth Whitehaze realised that as much as he had made mention of it, more than one war was being fought, and that indeed, one of them had been lost.
1 Like
The Elf stood before the grave.
He had said his words, it was not even a combat death, but a Handler who had been found, dead, in their bed, they were old, it was not...so unusual. Handlers were old, it was a thing. It happened. They all got a wake, they all got a pension, they all…
Got a funeral.
Like almost every Thalassian body, it had been burned, a tradition all the more observantly followed since the Scourge invasion. Whilst the plot of land was the traditional six foot long, Six foot down hole, and the Elves around it, in Reds and Golds.
He snapped off a swift salute. Turned, and signalled the band to begin the “Wounded Skies Lament”. Handlers got that too. They might not fly, but they saw the skies and the trauma when they cradled their Fliers as they sobbed and vomited, they saw the Skies every time they entered their ‘Boy’ or ‘Girl’s tent to wake them, and found a waxen corpse, with a knife either driven into its heart, or drawn across their throat or wrists. Even worse, the ones huddled in a corner, naked and shaking, crazed and resistant to any contact. The Handlers knew alright. They probably knew best…
They knew the Glass Mountain.
It was a surprise, at first, as he saw the woman approach, gay of demeanour, ash blonde hair, in a summer dress, his brows knitted in anger, to intrude on such a moment…. Then his face relaxed, but adopted confusion rather than anger. It was his mother. Who had been dead a thousand years.
He looked to either side, no one else could see her. He coughed “I need a moment”. He nodded and headed to the apparition.
He stalked sternly towards the figure, his bone cane giving a firm punctuation. The madness of the situation striking him even then, his resolved attitude to frankly put up with none of this.
She smiled brightly “Mothers Hero”
He looked evenly at her “you’re dead”
She smiled “So are you! Mothers Hero” who I bounced on my knee? He’s dead. He’s gone”
Brigante snarled “So what am I then?”
The woman looked at him, and made to wipe an involuntary tear from his cheek.
“You’re still Mothers Hero”
“Come, see”
She strode strongly across the grass, to the graves, as they did, as he followed her, he -knew- he was dreaming. He changed, he grew shorter. Even shorter…
He stood in front of a grave, a short elven child with a tuft of hair on his head, he was around seven again.
The Grave had a headstone “Here lies Brigante Summerisle, let his name be a curse, and never remembered with favour”
He shook his head. “Thats my name mother!” His voice childlike and shrill.
The last he felt, his mother’s hand pushing him into the grave “And Die There! Better than become what you Are!” As the clods of earth started landing on him and he started screaming, no one gave mercy.
He had said his words, it was not even a combat death, but a Handler who had been found, dead, in their bed, they were old, it was not...so unusual. Handlers were old, it was a thing. It happened. They all got a wake, they all got a pension, they all…
Got a funeral.
Like almost every Thalassian body, it had been burned, a tradition all the more observantly followed since the Scourge invasion. Whilst the plot of land was the traditional six foot long, Six foot down hole, and the Elves around it, in Reds and Golds.
He snapped off a swift salute. Turned, and signalled the band to begin the “Wounded Skies Lament”. Handlers got that too. They might not fly, but they saw the skies and the trauma when they cradled their Fliers as they sobbed and vomited, they saw the Skies every time they entered their ‘Boy’ or ‘Girl’s tent to wake them, and found a waxen corpse, with a knife either driven into its heart, or drawn across their throat or wrists. Even worse, the ones huddled in a corner, naked and shaking, crazed and resistant to any contact. The Handlers knew alright. They probably knew best…
They knew the Glass Mountain.
It was a surprise, at first, as he saw the woman approach, gay of demeanour, ash blonde hair, in a summer dress, his brows knitted in anger, to intrude on such a moment…. Then his face relaxed, but adopted confusion rather than anger. It was his mother. Who had been dead a thousand years.
He looked to either side, no one else could see her. He coughed “I need a moment”. He nodded and headed to the apparition.
He stalked sternly towards the figure, his bone cane giving a firm punctuation. The madness of the situation striking him even then, his resolved attitude to frankly put up with none of this.
She smiled brightly “Mothers Hero”
He looked evenly at her “you’re dead”
She smiled “So are you! Mothers Hero” who I bounced on my knee? He’s dead. He’s gone”
Brigante snarled “So what am I then?”
The woman looked at him, and made to wipe an involuntary tear from his cheek.
“You’re still Mothers Hero”
“Come, see”
She strode strongly across the grass, to the graves, as they did, as he followed her, he -knew- he was dreaming. He changed, he grew shorter. Even shorter…
He stood in front of a grave, a short elven child with a tuft of hair on his head, he was around seven again.
The Grave had a headstone “Here lies Brigante Summerisle, let his name be a curse, and never remembered with favour”
He shook his head. “Thats my name mother!” His voice childlike and shrill.
The last he felt, his mother’s hand pushing him into the grave “And Die There! Better than become what you Are!” As the clods of earth started landing on him and he started screaming, no one gave mercy.
1 Like
The Woman played piano, She had, for a long time, it was a battered old instrument, a Sunshine 603, but what could you expect in a brothel. She didn’t care, it was the -playing- that was important. It was the connection to being the musically talented little twelve year old kid she had been. There was no danger, the bouncers, the bar staff, hells most of the clientele knew the rule. The Pianist was -off- limits. Not one of the male or female !@#$%s to be procured, there had been an incident, three years ago, where a male client had tried to press his suit, she had glared in his face, and just -screamed-, enforcing it with her magic. The Brothel had emptied. Even the bar staff fled in terror, for she could not control the fear magic, it was for -all- to feel.
She had sat down and carried on playing, to an empty tavern, when the manager came stumbling down, wondering what had caused such furore she just smiled at him sweetly, puffed on her cigar. “They needed to learn the rules. And now so do you”. She had crocked her head at him funny at that point. “You think I -need-this job?...I am doing you a favour, not the other way around.” She smiled around the cigar “Oh sweetling...I could -buy- you, and this whole place” She carried on playing. “Fix me another Gin, this last one is broken. You do that, or I summon a Wrathguard to do it for me”
An idle threat, to do so would have broken the terms of her parole as a Sunfury War Criminal.
It was three years on. She still played at the same dive, she got all her drinks for free, and nobody, nobody messed with the Pianist. Not Ever.
She played popular tunes, nothing demanding, ‘Goodnight Silvermoon’, ‘Fairbreeze Sunsets’ the ‘Thorondril Rag’, ‘Rising Dawn’, ‘Her eyes stole the Sun’ and such classics. Background music that people -wanted- to hear.
It was a normal piano….so what happened next made no sense...that was...Black Eminence nonsense, but it happened, she tugged off her boots, drew a knife across her toes, and fingers and carried on playing. No one noticed. Her blood traced the pedals and the keys.
Oh no..
She could feel it happening again. Like an epileptic expecting a fit, she felt it. That ozone smell... But this was a -Normal- Piano! This was not….the Black Eminence…. Yet her toes played, blood slick upon the pedals, as her fingers did, trailing crimson upon the white keys. “You Made us Things! You made us Tools!” She growled, before her eyes rolled back in her head and she played in a trance. People later said her voice had shifted, sounding both male and female, but then she was a skilled singer, and had range, that could have been choice….
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IN4tIyVI4o
She had sobered the clientele she was told, later, not the least in which her voice had shifted to both male and female parts of the same song. She had sung a duet. With herself, whilst in a trance. Garbehal Windscale had come over “Whatever you’re doing, ‘Pianist’” That was a rule she had set down, she was the ‘Pianist’ no other name given “Whatever you’re doing! Keep doing it!, they’re going crazy and Its giving that end of the world feel, its good for business!”
The man -was- an idiot, a being the size of the -planet- had driven a sword into the world, what precisely was one elf with a piano meant to do to make the world feel more apocalyptic?
So she kept on playing the end of the world in the face of people who just wanted their world to end that evening, just for one short while, whilst they stuttered out their lust in a hopeless end of their own world, until they had enough Silver for next time.
She felt -Him-. The Satyr, Hishalno, he had been a hero once, He could...perhaps...be again?
Oh…
No…
That wasn’t the plan at all.
That wasn’t it in the slightest!
This was worse...
She saw a totem pole, similar to the ones the Tauren used.
By ‘gearing up’, the Alliance had made them do the same, More and more arcane weapons to resist and counter the Alliance ‘threat’ because that was the only way her people understood how to escalate.
She couldn’t tell this to the Sun Hawks, because it involved the ‘Old Man’.
Mikaneth wasn’t the threat to the world, he never wanted to be. He never intended to be.
He didn’t -need- to be. Not when he could make someone else that threat.
And she saw that now….she saw it clearly, the threat was never Mikaneth.
It was the King of the Skies.
Their own Skies.
She saw the totem pole, and at the top, over series of depictions of destruction, there it was. At the top. Riding high.
A Dragonhawk and rider looking below on the ground.
The Legion never needed to send Mikaneth, when Azeroth had its own.
She tugged on her boots and nodded “I’m done, we’ll sort out pay later” She puffed on her cigar. How much could she tell them?
It Depended…
How much did the world need Thalassian Gods?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53vRKhygMEY
She had sat down and carried on playing, to an empty tavern, when the manager came stumbling down, wondering what had caused such furore she just smiled at him sweetly, puffed on her cigar. “They needed to learn the rules. And now so do you”. She had crocked her head at him funny at that point. “You think I -need-this job?...I am doing you a favour, not the other way around.” She smiled around the cigar “Oh sweetling...I could -buy- you, and this whole place” She carried on playing. “Fix me another Gin, this last one is broken. You do that, or I summon a Wrathguard to do it for me”
An idle threat, to do so would have broken the terms of her parole as a Sunfury War Criminal.
It was three years on. She still played at the same dive, she got all her drinks for free, and nobody, nobody messed with the Pianist. Not Ever.
She played popular tunes, nothing demanding, ‘Goodnight Silvermoon’, ‘Fairbreeze Sunsets’ the ‘Thorondril Rag’, ‘Rising Dawn’, ‘Her eyes stole the Sun’ and such classics. Background music that people -wanted- to hear.
It was a normal piano….so what happened next made no sense...that was...Black Eminence nonsense, but it happened, she tugged off her boots, drew a knife across her toes, and fingers and carried on playing. No one noticed. Her blood traced the pedals and the keys.
Oh no..
She could feel it happening again. Like an epileptic expecting a fit, she felt it. That ozone smell... But this was a -Normal- Piano! This was not….the Black Eminence…. Yet her toes played, blood slick upon the pedals, as her fingers did, trailing crimson upon the white keys. “You Made us Things! You made us Tools!” She growled, before her eyes rolled back in her head and she played in a trance. People later said her voice had shifted, sounding both male and female, but then she was a skilled singer, and had range, that could have been choice….
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IN4tIyVI4o
She had sobered the clientele she was told, later, not the least in which her voice had shifted to both male and female parts of the same song. She had sung a duet. With herself, whilst in a trance. Garbehal Windscale had come over “Whatever you’re doing, ‘Pianist’” That was a rule she had set down, she was the ‘Pianist’ no other name given “Whatever you’re doing! Keep doing it!, they’re going crazy and Its giving that end of the world feel, its good for business!”
The man -was- an idiot, a being the size of the -planet- had driven a sword into the world, what precisely was one elf with a piano meant to do to make the world feel more apocalyptic?
So she kept on playing the end of the world in the face of people who just wanted their world to end that evening, just for one short while, whilst they stuttered out their lust in a hopeless end of their own world, until they had enough Silver for next time.
She felt -Him-. The Satyr, Hishalno, he had been a hero once, He could...perhaps...be again?
Oh…
No…
That wasn’t the plan at all.
That wasn’t it in the slightest!
This was worse...
She saw a totem pole, similar to the ones the Tauren used.
By ‘gearing up’, the Alliance had made them do the same, More and more arcane weapons to resist and counter the Alliance ‘threat’ because that was the only way her people understood how to escalate.
She couldn’t tell this to the Sun Hawks, because it involved the ‘Old Man’.
Mikaneth wasn’t the threat to the world, he never wanted to be. He never intended to be.
He didn’t -need- to be. Not when he could make someone else that threat.
And she saw that now….she saw it clearly, the threat was never Mikaneth.
It was the King of the Skies.
Their own Skies.
She saw the totem pole, and at the top, over series of depictions of destruction, there it was. At the top. Riding high.
A Dragonhawk and rider looking below on the ground.
The Legion never needed to send Mikaneth, when Azeroth had its own.
She tugged on her boots and nodded “I’m done, we’ll sort out pay later” She puffed on her cigar. How much could she tell them?
It Depended…
How much did the world need Thalassian Gods?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53vRKhygMEY
1 Like
A great guild with a great GM! Can't recommend them enough.
They had seen their sins, made manifest, it was a Nightmare, the Nightmare Drake, or Dam, whatever the female of a Drake was, Misericorde, caught in her breath, and cast down into the Nightmare. One by one, his Hawks had their failings, their past transgressions laid before everyone to see, to be confronted, to be bested. Loved ones they had failed to save, crimes of war, those they had wronged.
He had tried to be strong, every time, to attack them, to drive the conflict, He had ran, under a Dire Troll’s arm, he and Starglow saving the child. He had fought the devilish swift Cavel. The Felstalkers Highflame had summoned as a Sunfury, he stood and braced against.
All the while, one imposing thought….
Whats mine?
They knew, they knew it was a dream, no, a Nightmare, they had been cast into the NIghtmare by Misericorde, and were reliving moments of their past or of doubts, why did he feel this misgiving?
He knew…
Oh he knew…
It was always -Her-.
Not any of his lovers or wives, it was -Her-.
Cloud haired, waiflike, angry, so angry.
Tarri was closest, to what she looked like in his mind. Perhaps that was why.
The Skies.
His one and only True Love.
Cloud haired, pale, angry, so angry, as furious as a tornado, as raging as a storm.
He had dreamt of her, before he graduated. In a white robe, which she rent with her hands, blood spraying across it, even as he saw Dragonhawks and Batriders cross crossing across it, back then, no Wyverns, and the Gryphons were on their side, certainly no Gyrocopters to sully her.
He had glared furiously, he was what, nineteen, still untouched by a woman.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he wanted no other.
Never…
He remembered her words, as she kissed him in his dream, and said “One day, you will die...in me”
He had thought nothing more pleasant than such idea, at nineteen.
“Gladly!” He had childishly answered.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53vRKhygMEY
One thousand Four Hundred and three year old Brigante limped along on his cane “There has to be something more, we have to get out of this place! We must have missed something, Come on people, think smart”.
Lieutenant Silverflare looked at him, There’s one left Sir, I think you need to...I think we all need to face it”.
Brigante scowled and huffed, he had seen ‘The Skies’ again last night, in his sleep. Cloud haired, so pale, so angry, so very angry, but her eyes careworn as his were by all accounts, wrinkled, but still as beautiful to him as the first time, and every time since... but her voice, her voice full of fury…”I told you! From the start, just how this would end, when I get, what I want, and I never want it again…”
He frowned, was this the end? In a strange dream world, then he saw a sight that gave him joy.
“See that lads and lasses! A stockpile!”
He grinned, “And you thought it all lost? The Old Man will see you through…. No Spectres of Sins here, you see!”
“Done all my sinning a while back” he grinned as he rushed forwards, not even aware, that his Hawks were stood in horror, because they could see what he did not. He rushed over the bones over so many, so very many, as he looked at the crates of munitions. “We’ve Falcons here, and Standard munitions” He looked up the pile of weapons, as if a totem to aerial destruction, unaware that around him lay the bodies of Orcs and Alliance soldiers. He traced a hand over a crate “Mark Three Wyrmbreakers, they’lll see good usage!” He traced a hand higher “Mark Fours...Tactical Mana Bombs, they’ll put things right!”. Atop the obscene totem of aerial destruction a woman howled and screamed as she saw Brigante eagerly cataloguing the destruction he could rain. Pregnant and lank haired she could only watch as he spread his arms wide “See? No Sin here?” Brigante span, arms still outstretched as he stood, beatifically, in front of a shrine of mass destruction. “No Sin”.
He genuinely seemed unaware of the piles of bodies around him, that may as well have had his signature on, and the howling woman, her voice inchoate at the top of the vile shrine.
His gaze faltered, as he saw his Hawks weapons trained on him.
“What is this?”
“Don’t you see this?”
He waved his hand over the sexy, dangerous, seductive weapons of War.
He turned back, hands outspread “There is no sin Here?”
His elves looked at him, and shook their heads “Don’t you get it Sir?”
“You didn’t need a representation of your sins...They were already here...we bought them with us…”
Dae’anneth nodded “There won’t be a representation of your Sins, Sir.”
“Its you”
He heard the mocking voice in his ears “I told you, from the start, just how this will end, when I get, what I want, and never want it again”
“Is this how it always has to end?” he muttered.
Dae’anneth strode forwards with a dagger, reversing it.
“It can end a different way Sir”
He had tried to be strong, every time, to attack them, to drive the conflict, He had ran, under a Dire Troll’s arm, he and Starglow saving the child. He had fought the devilish swift Cavel. The Felstalkers Highflame had summoned as a Sunfury, he stood and braced against.
All the while, one imposing thought….
Whats mine?
They knew, they knew it was a dream, no, a Nightmare, they had been cast into the NIghtmare by Misericorde, and were reliving moments of their past or of doubts, why did he feel this misgiving?
He knew…
Oh he knew…
It was always -Her-.
Not any of his lovers or wives, it was -Her-.
Cloud haired, waiflike, angry, so angry.
Tarri was closest, to what she looked like in his mind. Perhaps that was why.
The Skies.
His one and only True Love.
Cloud haired, pale, angry, so angry, as furious as a tornado, as raging as a storm.
He had dreamt of her, before he graduated. In a white robe, which she rent with her hands, blood spraying across it, even as he saw Dragonhawks and Batriders cross crossing across it, back then, no Wyverns, and the Gryphons were on their side, certainly no Gyrocopters to sully her.
He had glared furiously, he was what, nineteen, still untouched by a woman.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he wanted no other.
Never…
He remembered her words, as she kissed him in his dream, and said “One day, you will die...in me”
He had thought nothing more pleasant than such idea, at nineteen.
“Gladly!” He had childishly answered.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=53vRKhygMEY
One thousand Four Hundred and three year old Brigante limped along on his cane “There has to be something more, we have to get out of this place! We must have missed something, Come on people, think smart”.
Lieutenant Silverflare looked at him, There’s one left Sir, I think you need to...I think we all need to face it”.
Brigante scowled and huffed, he had seen ‘The Skies’ again last night, in his sleep. Cloud haired, so pale, so angry, so very angry, but her eyes careworn as his were by all accounts, wrinkled, but still as beautiful to him as the first time, and every time since... but her voice, her voice full of fury…”I told you! From the start, just how this would end, when I get, what I want, and I never want it again…”
He frowned, was this the end? In a strange dream world, then he saw a sight that gave him joy.
“See that lads and lasses! A stockpile!”
He grinned, “And you thought it all lost? The Old Man will see you through…. No Spectres of Sins here, you see!”
“Done all my sinning a while back” he grinned as he rushed forwards, not even aware, that his Hawks were stood in horror, because they could see what he did not. He rushed over the bones over so many, so very many, as he looked at the crates of munitions. “We’ve Falcons here, and Standard munitions” He looked up the pile of weapons, as if a totem to aerial destruction, unaware that around him lay the bodies of Orcs and Alliance soldiers. He traced a hand over a crate “Mark Three Wyrmbreakers, they’lll see good usage!” He traced a hand higher “Mark Fours...Tactical Mana Bombs, they’ll put things right!”. Atop the obscene totem of aerial destruction a woman howled and screamed as she saw Brigante eagerly cataloguing the destruction he could rain. Pregnant and lank haired she could only watch as he spread his arms wide “See? No Sin here?” Brigante span, arms still outstretched as he stood, beatifically, in front of a shrine of mass destruction. “No Sin”.
He genuinely seemed unaware of the piles of bodies around him, that may as well have had his signature on, and the howling woman, her voice inchoate at the top of the vile shrine.
His gaze faltered, as he saw his Hawks weapons trained on him.
“What is this?”
“Don’t you see this?”
He waved his hand over the sexy, dangerous, seductive weapons of War.
He turned back, hands outspread “There is no sin Here?”
His elves looked at him, and shook their heads “Don’t you get it Sir?”
“You didn’t need a representation of your sins...They were already here...we bought them with us…”
Dae’anneth nodded “There won’t be a representation of your Sins, Sir.”
“Its you”
He heard the mocking voice in his ears “I told you, from the start, just how this will end, when I get, what I want, and never want it again”
“Is this how it always has to end?” he muttered.
Dae’anneth strode forwards with a dagger, reversing it.
“It can end a different way Sir”
1 Like
(1/3)
This is not how it happened.
And yet this is exactly how it happened – the stench of blood and sewage, the screams of fallen elves and hawks, the endless walls of ragged limbs and grasping claws. And worst of all, the knowledge that what they face is a tiny fraction of the endless horde which rolls onwards towards Silvermoon itself. A token effort, a footnote in the great and weighty tome of quel’dorei tragedies.
One by one they fall. Silverflare, with his wife’s name on his lips. Heartforge, shielding a younger elf and speaking calm promises that they’ll see home again. Highflame, summoning great storms of fire even as the restless dead tear him apart. The Starglows back-to-back, the pure righteous fury of the Light sustaining them though their limbs bend at impossible angles and their organs spill into the dirt at their feet. And finally, his sword raised to the skies, the blood-soaked Laughing Prince himself. They fall, and yet they do not die, waking beneath the press of corpses, crawling back to the burned earth of the Dead Scar, vomiting into the dirt.
Wake up! Phaedra cries, half-forgotten. You’re dying, wake up! What more could you have done?
To the north the sky flares orange. Silvermoon is burning, and though they spit venom at the collaborator with his corpse-cart (he laughs, even as they lynch him for his treachery he laughs, telling them this is the new Quel’thalas; soon ‘they’ will come, soon ‘the harvest’ will begin) they are helpless to change anything.
“Think!” says Brigante, Phaedra’s desperate, distant screams echoing through all their minds. “Could we have stopped this happening?”
“What the feth do you want me to say, Magni? No. We couldn’t. Nobody could”
The Nightmare shatters.
---
“Hishalno’s drake, Misericorde. She doesn’t breathe fire”
“Of course not.” Yasmyr sighs, stubbing out her cigarette on the table, almost immediately lighting another. “So bearing in mind I’m a - what did you say? ‘Bargain Bin Hawk’, right? Use your little dumb-dumb flier words. What happens if we go swimming in raw Nightmare?”
Agent Maestro looks at the Scout-Hawk with withering pity, draining her flagon of whiskey. “You play the Game Of You. Relive your greatest tragedies, and see how they could be worse. Better pray you wake up before you hit the ground, too, because it won’t just be the fliers dreaming.”
“Fething hells.”
The Witch stands to leave, and for a moment Yasmyr dares to think that maybe the well of bad news has finally run dry, forgetting for a moment quite how bad the Escadrille’s luck has been of late.
“… the thing is,” – and here it comes; the parting shot, the final twist of the blade between her ribs – “it’s His theme that started all this. Each of you has your own tune, you know, and his... it's all nation and unit, hunt and kill, signed off with a regal flourish. No elf in it at all."
---
The walls of the hallway shudder, shimmering red and black; the shadows roil, condensing into a hulking mass of green-furred muscle, striped with ink and scar tissue and studded through with shards of bone, reeking of blood and sweat and fear. Brigante roars – “To arms!” – and the beast roars back, drowning out the fragile, desperate cries of Wake Up! niggling at the back of all their minds but not the wailing of the child in the crib behind it. Impossibly large, as it must have seemed to the ten year old Aiechi, its tusks are each as long as an elf is tall, its yellow eyes full of naught but hate. Its hands are vast, lifting Hawks as if they were little more than dolls. Its hide is thick, harmlessly turning blows away, barely noticing the arrows peppering it.
The darkness creeps ever closer to the crib; Yasmyr is the first to reach it, Brigante hot on her heels as she scoops up the child – its features vague, shifting constantly, blurred by the uncertainty of Aiechi’s memories - holding it close as the shadows surge over them. The scene vanishes. The walls continue to pulse, bruised flesh shot with veins of crimson, mauve and jet.
None of this is Real, of course, but all of it is True.
This is not how it happened.
And yet this is exactly how it happened – the stench of blood and sewage, the screams of fallen elves and hawks, the endless walls of ragged limbs and grasping claws. And worst of all, the knowledge that what they face is a tiny fraction of the endless horde which rolls onwards towards Silvermoon itself. A token effort, a footnote in the great and weighty tome of quel’dorei tragedies.
One by one they fall. Silverflare, with his wife’s name on his lips. Heartforge, shielding a younger elf and speaking calm promises that they’ll see home again. Highflame, summoning great storms of fire even as the restless dead tear him apart. The Starglows back-to-back, the pure righteous fury of the Light sustaining them though their limbs bend at impossible angles and their organs spill into the dirt at their feet. And finally, his sword raised to the skies, the blood-soaked Laughing Prince himself. They fall, and yet they do not die, waking beneath the press of corpses, crawling back to the burned earth of the Dead Scar, vomiting into the dirt.
Wake up! Phaedra cries, half-forgotten. You’re dying, wake up! What more could you have done?
To the north the sky flares orange. Silvermoon is burning, and though they spit venom at the collaborator with his corpse-cart (he laughs, even as they lynch him for his treachery he laughs, telling them this is the new Quel’thalas; soon ‘they’ will come, soon ‘the harvest’ will begin) they are helpless to change anything.
“Think!” says Brigante, Phaedra’s desperate, distant screams echoing through all their minds. “Could we have stopped this happening?”
“What the feth do you want me to say, Magni? No. We couldn’t. Nobody could”
The Nightmare shatters.
---
“Hishalno’s drake, Misericorde. She doesn’t breathe fire”
“Of course not.” Yasmyr sighs, stubbing out her cigarette on the table, almost immediately lighting another. “So bearing in mind I’m a - what did you say? ‘Bargain Bin Hawk’, right? Use your little dumb-dumb flier words. What happens if we go swimming in raw Nightmare?”
Agent Maestro looks at the Scout-Hawk with withering pity, draining her flagon of whiskey. “You play the Game Of You. Relive your greatest tragedies, and see how they could be worse. Better pray you wake up before you hit the ground, too, because it won’t just be the fliers dreaming.”
“Fething hells.”
The Witch stands to leave, and for a moment Yasmyr dares to think that maybe the well of bad news has finally run dry, forgetting for a moment quite how bad the Escadrille’s luck has been of late.
“… the thing is,” – and here it comes; the parting shot, the final twist of the blade between her ribs – “it’s His theme that started all this. Each of you has your own tune, you know, and his... it's all nation and unit, hunt and kill, signed off with a regal flourish. No elf in it at all."
---
The walls of the hallway shudder, shimmering red and black; the shadows roil, condensing into a hulking mass of green-furred muscle, striped with ink and scar tissue and studded through with shards of bone, reeking of blood and sweat and fear. Brigante roars – “To arms!” – and the beast roars back, drowning out the fragile, desperate cries of Wake Up! niggling at the back of all their minds but not the wailing of the child in the crib behind it. Impossibly large, as it must have seemed to the ten year old Aiechi, its tusks are each as long as an elf is tall, its yellow eyes full of naught but hate. Its hands are vast, lifting Hawks as if they were little more than dolls. Its hide is thick, harmlessly turning blows away, barely noticing the arrows peppering it.
The darkness creeps ever closer to the crib; Yasmyr is the first to reach it, Brigante hot on her heels as she scoops up the child – its features vague, shifting constantly, blurred by the uncertainty of Aiechi’s memories - holding it close as the shadows surge over them. The scene vanishes. The walls continue to pulse, bruised flesh shot with veins of crimson, mauve and jet.
None of this is Real, of course, but all of it is True.
(2/3)
“How many lives have you saved since?” Brigante asks “How many would have died, if that little boy with a breadknife had fought instead of hid?” But the Commandant is no God, not yet; absolution is not his to offer, try though he might. Death sentence or not, to fall protecting his baby sister was Aiechi’s duty, his failure a dark stain he’s spent the last century atoning for.
The rain falls over Grommash’s shrine, as if the sky itself weeps to hear its beloved sons and daughters in their misery; the earth remains implacable. A necessary sacrifice, this, hauling their deepest sins to the rugged altar, purifying the corruption the Keeper says will keep them from entering the Dream and finding Phaedra, and thus – if Maestro is to be believed (and there is no reason, however unpalatable the truths she offers, that she shouldn’t be) – from defeating Hishalno altogether.
The Chaplain steps back into line. His wife sets her jaw, straightens her spine, and strides forward.
--
Yasmyr rarely sleeps deeply enough to dream; cat-napping in foxholes, one ear pricked for the sound of movement, has left its mark on her. Her nights, curled next to Aiechi awaiting the terrible hunger that comes with dawn, are always fitful. But there are those moments when exhaustion pulls her under, and in such moments she inevitably finds herself here.
She’s younger, “here”, her stomach toned and tight beneath her armour, unmarred by tiger-stripes. Her hair is its natural blonde; this Yasmyr has no time for – no need for – the rituals of mourning. Sometimes many of her limbs are runed truesilver; sometimes, as tonight, none of them. On her chest sits the gleaming Wing Commander’s insignia. On her finger a heavy ring, humming with arcane power. The device in her hand is a perfect marriage of elven artistry and goblin efficiency.
There are figures, “here”, chained to the walls. Around their necks and wrists, familiar collars. Averdale is there. Harrow. Goodwhick. The gnome who struck down Solaneith, and the dwarf who ground Thoras to paste. But there are others, too. Longstride, skin purpled from the repeated impact of a subaltern’s baton, his mouth bloody where she’s torn his tongue out at the root. Aiechi, his features impossibly sharp, feral and hungry and snapping at the figures either side of him. Comrades past and present, living and dead. And furthest from her, wreathed in shadow, a seven year old girl in the Escadrille colours.
So far, so hideously familiar. What’s new, is that she has an audience, and that she can feel her lip curling in a dark mirror of her habitual smirk as she as she turns to greet them – a passenger in her own body, watching from behind impossibly-bright eyes; she spots her other self, staring in horror at the pressure plate she’s triggered, curling into a tiny ball and rocking as the others step forward to face the Nightmare. Dae’anneth’s arrow strikes true, burying itself in her chest; she hears herself laughing - “Contingency plans” - even as the hot crimson bloom spreads, cackling as her grip on the deadman’s switch relaxes and the sickening wet pops begin.
---
“You’ll be careful, right? I know. I know. Pot, kettle, relative levels of blackness. But you need to… someone’s got to be standing at the end, to pick up the pieces.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“It might.” She laughs, though there’s very little humour in it. “I’ve never killed a God before. Or a King. You think they’ll still put my name on the Wall after that?”
“It will not come to that, Yasmyr. For one very simple reason.” He leans close, his voice low. “I am better at it. Better placed, better experienced, better skilled. And like fething hells am I going to let you throw your life away in a hempen jig after what? A hundred years?”
“Ninety eight, next August” she replies, as if by rote, the sing-song cadence of a child insisting they’re seven and a half. Said cadence evaporating as she glances up at him. “And you’re right. You’re better at this than I will ever be. But you’re also the one stood to inherit the Escadrille when…”
He looks at her; the long, patient gaze of a parent to a child who has seemingly missed the entire point of a conversation. She looks back, the stubborn jaw-set of a frustrated child whose parent doesn’t seem to get why this one tiny thing is so important to them. He sighs, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Yes, Dae’anneth Silverflare stands to inherit the Escadrille.” Reaching up, his fingers brush along her jawline. “However, Cavel Varandeth is exceptionally good at providing unfortunate accidents to the deserving.”
“Cavel Varandeth had better not get Dae’anneth Silverflare killed.”
--
“No witnesses”
Cavel is stronger, faster, better than she could ever hope to be, even without his poison burning its way through her veins, filling her head with swirling red-black mist and turning her feet to lead. There is no doubt which of the two is predator, and which prey; soon, she will stumble, and the dance will end. It is a surprise, therefore, to find his throat beneath her blade, her fingers wound through braids that shift from dark to gold as she watches.
He shudders in her grasp as Brigante’s arrow slams into his shoulder – but not with pain, with laughter; the sharp cry, the rattling gasp, comes from behind her, where Dae’anneth (black spreading through his golden braids like blood seeping from a wound) sags in Aiechi’s arms, the Chaplain a radiant beacon amidst the darkness. Cogs turn; her stomach flips. She slips from one shadow to another with an ease her waking self could never hope to match, dispersing and coalescing, a shimmer of deepest purple.
“I’m sorry” she whispers, slamming her blade into Dae’anneth’s spine before either he or Aiechi can stop her; with a final smirk and a theatrical flourish, Cavel bows and is gone.
“How many lives have you saved since?” Brigante asks “How many would have died, if that little boy with a breadknife had fought instead of hid?” But the Commandant is no God, not yet; absolution is not his to offer, try though he might. Death sentence or not, to fall protecting his baby sister was Aiechi’s duty, his failure a dark stain he’s spent the last century atoning for.
The rain falls over Grommash’s shrine, as if the sky itself weeps to hear its beloved sons and daughters in their misery; the earth remains implacable. A necessary sacrifice, this, hauling their deepest sins to the rugged altar, purifying the corruption the Keeper says will keep them from entering the Dream and finding Phaedra, and thus – if Maestro is to be believed (and there is no reason, however unpalatable the truths she offers, that she shouldn’t be) – from defeating Hishalno altogether.
The Chaplain steps back into line. His wife sets her jaw, straightens her spine, and strides forward.
--
Yasmyr rarely sleeps deeply enough to dream; cat-napping in foxholes, one ear pricked for the sound of movement, has left its mark on her. Her nights, curled next to Aiechi awaiting the terrible hunger that comes with dawn, are always fitful. But there are those moments when exhaustion pulls her under, and in such moments she inevitably finds herself here.
She’s younger, “here”, her stomach toned and tight beneath her armour, unmarred by tiger-stripes. Her hair is its natural blonde; this Yasmyr has no time for – no need for – the rituals of mourning. Sometimes many of her limbs are runed truesilver; sometimes, as tonight, none of them. On her chest sits the gleaming Wing Commander’s insignia. On her finger a heavy ring, humming with arcane power. The device in her hand is a perfect marriage of elven artistry and goblin efficiency.
There are figures, “here”, chained to the walls. Around their necks and wrists, familiar collars. Averdale is there. Harrow. Goodwhick. The gnome who struck down Solaneith, and the dwarf who ground Thoras to paste. But there are others, too. Longstride, skin purpled from the repeated impact of a subaltern’s baton, his mouth bloody where she’s torn his tongue out at the root. Aiechi, his features impossibly sharp, feral and hungry and snapping at the figures either side of him. Comrades past and present, living and dead. And furthest from her, wreathed in shadow, a seven year old girl in the Escadrille colours.
So far, so hideously familiar. What’s new, is that she has an audience, and that she can feel her lip curling in a dark mirror of her habitual smirk as she as she turns to greet them – a passenger in her own body, watching from behind impossibly-bright eyes; she spots her other self, staring in horror at the pressure plate she’s triggered, curling into a tiny ball and rocking as the others step forward to face the Nightmare. Dae’anneth’s arrow strikes true, burying itself in her chest; she hears herself laughing - “Contingency plans” - even as the hot crimson bloom spreads, cackling as her grip on the deadman’s switch relaxes and the sickening wet pops begin.
---
“You’ll be careful, right? I know. I know. Pot, kettle, relative levels of blackness. But you need to… someone’s got to be standing at the end, to pick up the pieces.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“It might.” She laughs, though there’s very little humour in it. “I’ve never killed a God before. Or a King. You think they’ll still put my name on the Wall after that?”
“It will not come to that, Yasmyr. For one very simple reason.” He leans close, his voice low. “I am better at it. Better placed, better experienced, better skilled. And like fething hells am I going to let you throw your life away in a hempen jig after what? A hundred years?”
“Ninety eight, next August” she replies, as if by rote, the sing-song cadence of a child insisting they’re seven and a half. Said cadence evaporating as she glances up at him. “And you’re right. You’re better at this than I will ever be. But you’re also the one stood to inherit the Escadrille when…”
He looks at her; the long, patient gaze of a parent to a child who has seemingly missed the entire point of a conversation. She looks back, the stubborn jaw-set of a frustrated child whose parent doesn’t seem to get why this one tiny thing is so important to them. He sighs, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Yes, Dae’anneth Silverflare stands to inherit the Escadrille.” Reaching up, his fingers brush along her jawline. “However, Cavel Varandeth is exceptionally good at providing unfortunate accidents to the deserving.”
“Cavel Varandeth had better not get Dae’anneth Silverflare killed.”
--
“No witnesses”
Cavel is stronger, faster, better than she could ever hope to be, even without his poison burning its way through her veins, filling her head with swirling red-black mist and turning her feet to lead. There is no doubt which of the two is predator, and which prey; soon, she will stumble, and the dance will end. It is a surprise, therefore, to find his throat beneath her blade, her fingers wound through braids that shift from dark to gold as she watches.
He shudders in her grasp as Brigante’s arrow slams into his shoulder – but not with pain, with laughter; the sharp cry, the rattling gasp, comes from behind her, where Dae’anneth (black spreading through his golden braids like blood seeping from a wound) sags in Aiechi’s arms, the Chaplain a radiant beacon amidst the darkness. Cogs turn; her stomach flips. She slips from one shadow to another with an ease her waking self could never hope to match, dispersing and coalescing, a shimmer of deepest purple.
“I’m sorry” she whispers, slamming her blade into Dae’anneth’s spine before either he or Aiechi can stop her; with a final smirk and a theatrical flourish, Cavel bows and is gone.
(3/3)
“And so we’re back around to either preventing the coronation or dealing with its aftermath.”
The bottle contains something clear, and vicious; Yasmyr swigs from it as if it were no stronger than water, sat cross-legged beside Dae’anneth on the War Hawk’s bed. The room is oddly bare, his belongings packed into various crates in preparation for the move to nicer quarters; one of the few perks of the additional rubies, poor compensation for the burdens they’ve brought him. He sighs, a stream of smoke curling from between his lips and drifting towards the rafters as he lies there, feet on the pillows, hand trailing off the edge of the mattress. “In truth, I’m sincerely hoping it doesn’t come to it. Not just for Brigante’s sake, but for mine.”
“I don’t want to be making these plans either. Feth, he’s Brigante Fething Summerisle. It’s like imagining Blightcaller bedding down with Greymane, thinking he’d ever serve the Legion. But…”
From the doorway comes a flickering flare of Light, as Aiechi ignites one of his dwarven cigars, leaning back against the frame. “But better to have a plan, and not need one.” He takes a long draw. “So what else do we do?”
--
Atop the shrine, surrounded by the gorgeous and terrible Mark 4s, the pale lady screams; around them, the room fills with the fallen – orcs, and men, and elves, so very many, the butchers’ bill for a thousand years of war. And yet there is no monster here, save the one that they brought with them. The one stood before the terrible altar, oblivious.
“Where’s my Sin?”
They all know, of course, but none is eager to be the first to tell him; Brigante’s Nightmare isn’t what he was, or what he fears he will become. It’s what he is.
“Is this how it always has to end?” he asks, and her stomach flips, remembering the words scrawled in Hishalno’s cellar. All this has happened before. One life sacrificed for those of his fliers, an ancient bargain reframed, the first step towards ten thousand years as King. But what other choice is there? He pins the ancient wings to his pectoral, plunges Dae’anneth’s blade into his heart, smiles as he falls.
The Nightmare shatters.
---
They soar, the crimson and gold warriors of the First Escadrille, Knights of the Sky; beneath them, the lush forests of Moonglade shift to the bruised purples of Ashenvale, further still to the sparse grey plains of Desolace itself as they close on their prey. And then to roiling reds and purples, a thick mist that obscures the ground.
Brigante is the first to realise, barking the order to Rise! Get Clear! But by then it is already too late.
Eyes close, breath slows. Phaedra screams. Hawks and riders spiral, as one, towards the rocks below.
“And so we’re back around to either preventing the coronation or dealing with its aftermath.”
The bottle contains something clear, and vicious; Yasmyr swigs from it as if it were no stronger than water, sat cross-legged beside Dae’anneth on the War Hawk’s bed. The room is oddly bare, his belongings packed into various crates in preparation for the move to nicer quarters; one of the few perks of the additional rubies, poor compensation for the burdens they’ve brought him. He sighs, a stream of smoke curling from between his lips and drifting towards the rafters as he lies there, feet on the pillows, hand trailing off the edge of the mattress. “In truth, I’m sincerely hoping it doesn’t come to it. Not just for Brigante’s sake, but for mine.”
“I don’t want to be making these plans either. Feth, he’s Brigante Fething Summerisle. It’s like imagining Blightcaller bedding down with Greymane, thinking he’d ever serve the Legion. But…”
From the doorway comes a flickering flare of Light, as Aiechi ignites one of his dwarven cigars, leaning back against the frame. “But better to have a plan, and not need one.” He takes a long draw. “So what else do we do?”
--
Atop the shrine, surrounded by the gorgeous and terrible Mark 4s, the pale lady screams; around them, the room fills with the fallen – orcs, and men, and elves, so very many, the butchers’ bill for a thousand years of war. And yet there is no monster here, save the one that they brought with them. The one stood before the terrible altar, oblivious.
“Where’s my Sin?”
They all know, of course, but none is eager to be the first to tell him; Brigante’s Nightmare isn’t what he was, or what he fears he will become. It’s what he is.
“Is this how it always has to end?” he asks, and her stomach flips, remembering the words scrawled in Hishalno’s cellar. All this has happened before. One life sacrificed for those of his fliers, an ancient bargain reframed, the first step towards ten thousand years as King. But what other choice is there? He pins the ancient wings to his pectoral, plunges Dae’anneth’s blade into his heart, smiles as he falls.
The Nightmare shatters.
---
They soar, the crimson and gold warriors of the First Escadrille, Knights of the Sky; beneath them, the lush forests of Moonglade shift to the bruised purples of Ashenvale, further still to the sparse grey plains of Desolace itself as they close on their prey. And then to roiling reds and purples, a thick mist that obscures the ground.
Brigante is the first to realise, barking the order to Rise! Get Clear! But by then it is already too late.
Eyes close, breath slows. Phaedra screams. Hawks and riders spiral, as one, towards the rocks below.
The elf strode into the Council chambers, as ever, six robed and cowled elves, anonymous to him, sat at the table. His engraved bone cane clacked on the wooden boards as he limped to his seat at the Aerie Council, as its chairman and titular leader.
He set his hands down heavily on the table. “We are in Session.”
One of the familiar voices, a husky elderly male spoke first “Welcome back, Commandant, we understand your recent mission in Desolace was a success, if a testing and trying one?”
Brigante bit back a retort, he was the one that had insisted upon a Council, after all. “I would say ‘testing’ was a vast understatement Councillor”
Another spoke, a new voice, the Councillor who had replaced Magister Sunwood after his office had been the source of a leak, presumably, female, younger sounding than the others, possibly around his age, he filed the knowledge away for later, would she prove to be an ally, or another thorn in his side.
“We understand the spear Go’shandir, the ‘Uplifter’ is now fully cleansed. How soon can you begin operations against the remaining Legion Netherships, in particular De Regli Caeli?”
He tapped his chin. “I am already drawing up plans, Councillor, much depends upon the availability of our allies in this matter”
The cowled figure nodded “Ah, yes, the Queensguard. We hear that many at Conclave are not pleased with you about your association with them?”
He scowled “Frankly Madam Councillor, I care little whether they love me, loathe me, or scream my name during their nocturnal manipulations. Conclave discusses situations, it does not make national policy.”
He calmed, Desolace had been...tough. He needed to curb his natural hot-headedness.
“I have made my plan to resolve ‘Nightmare Green’ and I intend on seeing it through, however that is not why I called this meeting. I have called it to discuss the Ren’dorei problem”.
A councillor chuckled “It has rather thrown the cat amongst the pigeons”
Brigante allowed a wry smile “That is has, however in particular I wished to discuss their status as enemy combatants”
Another spoke “You fear your Fliers may shy from fighting former countrymen?”
He shook his head “Not at all, my fliers are disciplined, and absolute and utter patriots to Quel’thalas”
Another nodded “That has never been in question, Commandant, what is it that troubles you then pray tell?”
He blinked slowly. “You know, and have in the past endorsed my policy on what happens to Alliance Prisoners of War taken by my unit?”
The newest Councillor nodded “I have been brought up to date by my fellows, as I understand it, you heal them, feed them, forbid any abuse or torture of their person, and in time arrange their parole back to the Alliance. It is...humane of you. I doubt you would find the same treatment if you fell into Alliance hands”
Brigante nodded “There is an addendum however. If said Prisoners of War are guilty of what is vaguely termed war crimes, but most particularly, crimes against the Thalassian state, then I preside over a Court Martial. If they are found guilty, they face military justice, if innocent, they are treated the same as any other. The quandary I find myself in, is how does this apply to the Ren’dorei? That is what I seek your guidance on, Councillors. My position on traitors is simple. Traitors Hang. Does this apply to the Ren’dorei in your opinions?”
One spoke “The Regent Lord did not order their Execution, they were Exiled, much as the Quel’dorei were exiled, what is your current stance on the Quel’dorei, perhaps that will easier shape a decision?”
Brigante sighed “Previously, Quel’dorei prisoners were treated the same as any other Alliance prisoner. Since the massacre in Dalaran, Quel’dorei civilians and members of normal Alliance units are treated the same, any members of the Silver Covenant terrorist organisation face Court Martial for their actions in the mass murder and torture of civilians. Prior to the Butcher of Dalaran’s actions, they were handled the same as any other Quel’dorei”
An elder female spoke “Have you not considered being more ruthless, Commandant, and simply executing all Prisoners, or torturing information out of them then killing them?”
Brigante closed his eyes, in his minds eye seeming himself at twenty, as they bound the Amani to the four bent saplings held down with weights, one limb to each sapling...he remembered the pleading, the information gabbled out, as their translators took it down. All of the information they wanted to hear. None of it true. They had still cut the ropes from the weights, the four saplings swiftly straightening again, pulling the Amani limb from limb. He remembered being one of the four elves who cut the ropes. He had not slept well that night, or for many since.
He remembered a darkened cell, his arm broken, his eyelids puffy from beatings, after he had been shot down by the Iron Horde. He remembered the sizzle, and his own screams, and the smell, as they had branded his left bicep with his own white hot rank insignia, heated in their torture ovens..He remembered the hazy vision of one of the most cruel of the Iron Horde, Vartok the Stormbinder. “You did not break, your will is iron. You have nothing to tell us..you may go”, the sound of his shackles falling to the stone floor…
“Torture, Madam Councillor, is a base act. It demeans those both who buckle under it, and those who commit it, I have been on both sides of that coin, and I tell you this. There is no singularly more useless way of gathering information than torture. The information gathered is your own suspicions confirmed, whether or not they are true, and they almost always are not. The most successful interrogators do just that, they Interrogate. We have a wealth of alchemical potions, we have scryers, we have for the Sun’s sake a bottle of whiskey and pretending to be a sympathetic voice whilst they spill their guts. As for executing them out of hand, as Fliers, my unit is one of the most likely to be taken prisoner, shot down behind enemy lines. If by showing mercy to our enemies, I can garner that same leniency for any of my fliers shot down, then I will take it.”
Another Councillor huffed “Commendable indeed, however with regards the Ren’dorei, many would count them as traitors to the State?”
Brigante nodded “They were Exiled. They did not have to join the Alliance, they have willingly taken up arms against their country, they did not have to do this. Normally I would say that makes them Traitors, and Traitors Hang”
“But?” Another spoke.
He frowned, and ran a hand through his hair, the braids jangling with the arrowhead tokens in them.
“But they were Exiled first. At which point they are no longer Thalassian citizens. You cannot be a traitor to a state you do not belong to, might as well say that I am a traitor to Gnomeregan, or Ironforge. If they had simply deserted the State and joined the Alliance, then any prisoners we take would Hang, for that is Treason.”
The newest Councillor spoke “I see your dilemma, You can’t hang them for treason for acting against a state they no longer belong to, as by definition, for it to be treason, you need to belong to the state, but at the same time, they are our countrymen, taking up arms against us, but then so are the Quel’dorei, apart from the Silver Covenant of course, who were exiled”.
The cowled woman paused a moment, before continuing. “I suggest this. Give it time. Let us see what these so-called Ren’dorei do next. As unpalatable as it may be, if they act as other Alliance combatants, then treat them as you would a normal Quel’dorei.”
She paused, and even though he could not see her face, Brigante could swear she smiled.
“If however they commit a second Massacre of Dalaran, then I suspect there will not be enough trees in Eversong for you to hang them from when you catch them.”
One by one the Other Councillors laid their right hand flat on the table, a sign they agreed.
Brigante paused, before his own gauntleted hand too was placed flat against the wooden table.
“Then it is agreed” Brigante said without mirth. “We give them enough rope”
The Councillor laughed and nodded. He liked this new one.
“And then see if they choose to hang themselves with it”.
Brigante nodded and stood, picking up his cane.
“Meeting Concluded. My thanks Councillors.”
He set his hands down heavily on the table. “We are in Session.”
One of the familiar voices, a husky elderly male spoke first “Welcome back, Commandant, we understand your recent mission in Desolace was a success, if a testing and trying one?”
Brigante bit back a retort, he was the one that had insisted upon a Council, after all. “I would say ‘testing’ was a vast understatement Councillor”
Another spoke, a new voice, the Councillor who had replaced Magister Sunwood after his office had been the source of a leak, presumably, female, younger sounding than the others, possibly around his age, he filed the knowledge away for later, would she prove to be an ally, or another thorn in his side.
“We understand the spear Go’shandir, the ‘Uplifter’ is now fully cleansed. How soon can you begin operations against the remaining Legion Netherships, in particular De Regli Caeli?”
He tapped his chin. “I am already drawing up plans, Councillor, much depends upon the availability of our allies in this matter”
The cowled figure nodded “Ah, yes, the Queensguard. We hear that many at Conclave are not pleased with you about your association with them?”
He scowled “Frankly Madam Councillor, I care little whether they love me, loathe me, or scream my name during their nocturnal manipulations. Conclave discusses situations, it does not make national policy.”
He calmed, Desolace had been...tough. He needed to curb his natural hot-headedness.
“I have made my plan to resolve ‘Nightmare Green’ and I intend on seeing it through, however that is not why I called this meeting. I have called it to discuss the Ren’dorei problem”.
A councillor chuckled “It has rather thrown the cat amongst the pigeons”
Brigante allowed a wry smile “That is has, however in particular I wished to discuss their status as enemy combatants”
Another spoke “You fear your Fliers may shy from fighting former countrymen?”
He shook his head “Not at all, my fliers are disciplined, and absolute and utter patriots to Quel’thalas”
Another nodded “That has never been in question, Commandant, what is it that troubles you then pray tell?”
He blinked slowly. “You know, and have in the past endorsed my policy on what happens to Alliance Prisoners of War taken by my unit?”
The newest Councillor nodded “I have been brought up to date by my fellows, as I understand it, you heal them, feed them, forbid any abuse or torture of their person, and in time arrange their parole back to the Alliance. It is...humane of you. I doubt you would find the same treatment if you fell into Alliance hands”
Brigante nodded “There is an addendum however. If said Prisoners of War are guilty of what is vaguely termed war crimes, but most particularly, crimes against the Thalassian state, then I preside over a Court Martial. If they are found guilty, they face military justice, if innocent, they are treated the same as any other. The quandary I find myself in, is how does this apply to the Ren’dorei? That is what I seek your guidance on, Councillors. My position on traitors is simple. Traitors Hang. Does this apply to the Ren’dorei in your opinions?”
One spoke “The Regent Lord did not order their Execution, they were Exiled, much as the Quel’dorei were exiled, what is your current stance on the Quel’dorei, perhaps that will easier shape a decision?”
Brigante sighed “Previously, Quel’dorei prisoners were treated the same as any other Alliance prisoner. Since the massacre in Dalaran, Quel’dorei civilians and members of normal Alliance units are treated the same, any members of the Silver Covenant terrorist organisation face Court Martial for their actions in the mass murder and torture of civilians. Prior to the Butcher of Dalaran’s actions, they were handled the same as any other Quel’dorei”
An elder female spoke “Have you not considered being more ruthless, Commandant, and simply executing all Prisoners, or torturing information out of them then killing them?”
Brigante closed his eyes, in his minds eye seeming himself at twenty, as they bound the Amani to the four bent saplings held down with weights, one limb to each sapling...he remembered the pleading, the information gabbled out, as their translators took it down. All of the information they wanted to hear. None of it true. They had still cut the ropes from the weights, the four saplings swiftly straightening again, pulling the Amani limb from limb. He remembered being one of the four elves who cut the ropes. He had not slept well that night, or for many since.
He remembered a darkened cell, his arm broken, his eyelids puffy from beatings, after he had been shot down by the Iron Horde. He remembered the sizzle, and his own screams, and the smell, as they had branded his left bicep with his own white hot rank insignia, heated in their torture ovens..He remembered the hazy vision of one of the most cruel of the Iron Horde, Vartok the Stormbinder. “You did not break, your will is iron. You have nothing to tell us..you may go”, the sound of his shackles falling to the stone floor…
“Torture, Madam Councillor, is a base act. It demeans those both who buckle under it, and those who commit it, I have been on both sides of that coin, and I tell you this. There is no singularly more useless way of gathering information than torture. The information gathered is your own suspicions confirmed, whether or not they are true, and they almost always are not. The most successful interrogators do just that, they Interrogate. We have a wealth of alchemical potions, we have scryers, we have for the Sun’s sake a bottle of whiskey and pretending to be a sympathetic voice whilst they spill their guts. As for executing them out of hand, as Fliers, my unit is one of the most likely to be taken prisoner, shot down behind enemy lines. If by showing mercy to our enemies, I can garner that same leniency for any of my fliers shot down, then I will take it.”
Another Councillor huffed “Commendable indeed, however with regards the Ren’dorei, many would count them as traitors to the State?”
Brigante nodded “They were Exiled. They did not have to join the Alliance, they have willingly taken up arms against their country, they did not have to do this. Normally I would say that makes them Traitors, and Traitors Hang”
“But?” Another spoke.
He frowned, and ran a hand through his hair, the braids jangling with the arrowhead tokens in them.
“But they were Exiled first. At which point they are no longer Thalassian citizens. You cannot be a traitor to a state you do not belong to, might as well say that I am a traitor to Gnomeregan, or Ironforge. If they had simply deserted the State and joined the Alliance, then any prisoners we take would Hang, for that is Treason.”
The newest Councillor spoke “I see your dilemma, You can’t hang them for treason for acting against a state they no longer belong to, as by definition, for it to be treason, you need to belong to the state, but at the same time, they are our countrymen, taking up arms against us, but then so are the Quel’dorei, apart from the Silver Covenant of course, who were exiled”.
The cowled woman paused a moment, before continuing. “I suggest this. Give it time. Let us see what these so-called Ren’dorei do next. As unpalatable as it may be, if they act as other Alliance combatants, then treat them as you would a normal Quel’dorei.”
She paused, and even though he could not see her face, Brigante could swear she smiled.
“If however they commit a second Massacre of Dalaran, then I suspect there will not be enough trees in Eversong for you to hang them from when you catch them.”
One by one the Other Councillors laid their right hand flat on the table, a sign they agreed.
Brigante paused, before his own gauntleted hand too was placed flat against the wooden table.
“Then it is agreed” Brigante said without mirth. “We give them enough rope”
The Councillor laughed and nodded. He liked this new one.
“And then see if they choose to hang themselves with it”.
Brigante nodded and stood, picking up his cane.
“Meeting Concluded. My thanks Councillors.”
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1VJ39nVIBk
It was an ‘Aggressor’ flight, the Dwarves and Gnomes testing Horde aerospace. Standard. Both sides did it, it kept fliers sharp, tested kit and the most important part of kit. The mark One eyeball and the vessel that cased it. The Flier. It was an elaborate game, really, you pressed until intercepted, then you withdrew. No one died.
War without tears.
It was Casey Shufflebolt’s first flight, but Sky-Lieutenant Angar Firebeard was a veteran commander in the skies. He’d told her, before she flew “You got nothing to worry about rookie. Stick on my wing, you got nothing to fret over,” He slapped one of the Sky-Corvettes as he passed, “This thing, got cannon, got Laser technology courtesy of Gnomeregan, magic armaments, Thermal seeking missiles, armour plating. Might not be as fast or as maneuverable as a Batrider or Dragonhawk, but hells, “In this thing, you can shoot down the Red Death himself”
Casey swallowed and nodded “I sure hope so Lieutenant, its my kid sister’s birthday this evening, hate to disappoint her by turning up late by hanging under a parachute!”
Firebeard laughed, and clapped her shoulder.
“You’ll make that party!”
Another Flier assured her “Its an Aggressor mission, Shufflebolt, straight in, get seen, straight out, don’t sweat it, its a milk run, Horde always responds, we always pull out, no one dies, war without tears I tell you…”
An hour later, the Skies and clouds were thick over Southern Lordaeron...Thicker than usual.
The Elf looked dispassionately through the clouds of smoke his Dragonhawks had made “We ready to begin Testing Scenario ‘Heartrace?’ he asked, as he watched the Dwarven and Gnomish Sky-corvettes.
“Ready and waiting Sir”
“Commence”
Shufflebolt almost sprang out of her seat as the noise started, from all around, from the fog...were the Horde creating the Fog? Could they do that?
The two tone siren blared, ideally mimicking the pace of a human, gnomish or dwarven heartbeat, it spoke of urgency, of fear, and she looked around herself into the fog, as if
expecting an attack. There! No, it was a trick of the light, no, There! No...The sirens picked up their pace, and she felt her heart pulsing rapidly, meeting the pace of the sirens, She was panicking, fretting, looking everywhere at once, Still the Sirens ramped up her fears, and she realised thats what it was….thats why….
Firebeard said, his voice almost controlled “Use Thermal weapons, lock on and engage, its Dragonhawks, so you will get a track on their thermal glands”
Shufflebolt almost squeaked “My first engagement….its the Red Death!!”
She toggled the switch on the target acquisition module, and suddenly they showed, a host of rosy bodies against the clouds. With a clang each missile logged into place, and ready to fire, once all three had on both sides, she, like every other flier hung on the Lieutenant’s words.
“Sir, we doing this?”
“Do it. Weapons free!”
From each Sky Corvette six missiles streaked towards the Dragonhawks hidden in the clouds.
Then….
From each Dragonhawk fell fiercely burning flares, the missiles headed for them instead, harmlessly missing the Dragonhawks. As they got closer the Siren grew louder and more strident, and Shufflebolt could feel her heart racing. They looked so….big….and fierce as they got closer….
“Sir did we...fire first?”
Thats when she knew they would all die here….
“We still have magic and lasers!” The Lieutenant proclaimed.
The Dragonhawks bore in, the two tone siren shrieking a horrid refrain.
Because she was sure of one thing...if they were just flying straight in, it meant they had thought of everything they needed to counter…
“Now!” Firebeard roared, and the magic and wands flashed, but with with blue flares they bounced off the Elves, who had warded themselves. Future Air War would be fought by skill, and airmanship, not laziness. The Dragonhawks ploughed on, seemingly untouchable, their sirens driving the heartbeat to levels that would rupture any normal heart, the sound of aerial warfare now seemingly one of protracted terror.
Shufflebolt saw him. The red Banners trailing his Dragonhawk. She knew the story “Why advertise? Don’t you want them to be surprised?”
And the answer “No, I don’t want them to be surprised.”
“I want them to be afraid”
The Siren dogged her ears, she could not shift it!
The Red Death targetted her, he lowered a new weapon, which coughed black smoke…
Aerial Shackles flew from the gun, a spinning pair of aerial bolas that wrapped around her engine stanchion,and then as the two weights connected….
Exploded…
Her Corvette tilted and almost spilled her from the cockpit, she struggled to control the Corvette, as all she could hear as -He- got closer and closer was the Sirens blare on his Dragonhawk “I can’t do all this at once!” she snarled, then realised that was the point….
She jinked left, but saw him behind her, red banners flaring. Her First Flight.. She wept behind her goggles “Mercy” she muttered….But she could -feel- him getting closer, She twisted right into a gully, he followed, All the while, that siren blared in her ears, louder and louder as he got closer, her panic rose. She realised then. There was one thing she could do, to cheat him…
“Hells with you!” she roared, as she drove her Sky-Corvette into the walls of the Canyon, the last she saw as she tumbled, a dying wreck of a gnome into the floor of the valley was a forlorn salute as the Dragonhawk passed overhead.
The call came in “Sun Hawk Actual, This is Observer One, did you get any kills to be recorded?”
Brigante thought, for a faint moment, of the sheer guts of that gnome “Sun Hawk Actual, No, No Kills I would have recorded. But Observer One, Report back to the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, that their practices are approved of, and endorsed for military useage”
An Entire Alliance Aggressor Squadron had been eliminated.
Brigante grinned coldly “Take the swiving exiles in will you? Lets see what plays out next?”
It was an ‘Aggressor’ flight, the Dwarves and Gnomes testing Horde aerospace. Standard. Both sides did it, it kept fliers sharp, tested kit and the most important part of kit. The mark One eyeball and the vessel that cased it. The Flier. It was an elaborate game, really, you pressed until intercepted, then you withdrew. No one died.
War without tears.
It was Casey Shufflebolt’s first flight, but Sky-Lieutenant Angar Firebeard was a veteran commander in the skies. He’d told her, before she flew “You got nothing to worry about rookie. Stick on my wing, you got nothing to fret over,” He slapped one of the Sky-Corvettes as he passed, “This thing, got cannon, got Laser technology courtesy of Gnomeregan, magic armaments, Thermal seeking missiles, armour plating. Might not be as fast or as maneuverable as a Batrider or Dragonhawk, but hells, “In this thing, you can shoot down the Red Death himself”
Casey swallowed and nodded “I sure hope so Lieutenant, its my kid sister’s birthday this evening, hate to disappoint her by turning up late by hanging under a parachute!”
Firebeard laughed, and clapped her shoulder.
“You’ll make that party!”
Another Flier assured her “Its an Aggressor mission, Shufflebolt, straight in, get seen, straight out, don’t sweat it, its a milk run, Horde always responds, we always pull out, no one dies, war without tears I tell you…”
An hour later, the Skies and clouds were thick over Southern Lordaeron...Thicker than usual.
The Elf looked dispassionately through the clouds of smoke his Dragonhawks had made “We ready to begin Testing Scenario ‘Heartrace?’ he asked, as he watched the Dwarven and Gnomish Sky-corvettes.
“Ready and waiting Sir”
“Commence”
Shufflebolt almost sprang out of her seat as the noise started, from all around, from the fog...were the Horde creating the Fog? Could they do that?
The two tone siren blared, ideally mimicking the pace of a human, gnomish or dwarven heartbeat, it spoke of urgency, of fear, and she looked around herself into the fog, as if
expecting an attack. There! No, it was a trick of the light, no, There! No...The sirens picked up their pace, and she felt her heart pulsing rapidly, meeting the pace of the sirens, She was panicking, fretting, looking everywhere at once, Still the Sirens ramped up her fears, and she realised thats what it was….thats why….
Firebeard said, his voice almost controlled “Use Thermal weapons, lock on and engage, its Dragonhawks, so you will get a track on their thermal glands”
Shufflebolt almost squeaked “My first engagement….its the Red Death!!”
She toggled the switch on the target acquisition module, and suddenly they showed, a host of rosy bodies against the clouds. With a clang each missile logged into place, and ready to fire, once all three had on both sides, she, like every other flier hung on the Lieutenant’s words.
“Sir, we doing this?”
“Do it. Weapons free!”
From each Sky Corvette six missiles streaked towards the Dragonhawks hidden in the clouds.
Then….
From each Dragonhawk fell fiercely burning flares, the missiles headed for them instead, harmlessly missing the Dragonhawks. As they got closer the Siren grew louder and more strident, and Shufflebolt could feel her heart racing. They looked so….big….and fierce as they got closer….
“Sir did we...fire first?”
Thats when she knew they would all die here….
“We still have magic and lasers!” The Lieutenant proclaimed.
The Dragonhawks bore in, the two tone siren shrieking a horrid refrain.
Because she was sure of one thing...if they were just flying straight in, it meant they had thought of everything they needed to counter…
“Now!” Firebeard roared, and the magic and wands flashed, but with with blue flares they bounced off the Elves, who had warded themselves. Future Air War would be fought by skill, and airmanship, not laziness. The Dragonhawks ploughed on, seemingly untouchable, their sirens driving the heartbeat to levels that would rupture any normal heart, the sound of aerial warfare now seemingly one of protracted terror.
Shufflebolt saw him. The red Banners trailing his Dragonhawk. She knew the story “Why advertise? Don’t you want them to be surprised?”
And the answer “No, I don’t want them to be surprised.”
“I want them to be afraid”
The Siren dogged her ears, she could not shift it!
The Red Death targetted her, he lowered a new weapon, which coughed black smoke…
Aerial Shackles flew from the gun, a spinning pair of aerial bolas that wrapped around her engine stanchion,and then as the two weights connected….
Exploded…
Her Corvette tilted and almost spilled her from the cockpit, she struggled to control the Corvette, as all she could hear as -He- got closer and closer was the Sirens blare on his Dragonhawk “I can’t do all this at once!” she snarled, then realised that was the point….
She jinked left, but saw him behind her, red banners flaring. Her First Flight.. She wept behind her goggles “Mercy” she muttered….But she could -feel- him getting closer, She twisted right into a gully, he followed, All the while, that siren blared in her ears, louder and louder as he got closer, her panic rose. She realised then. There was one thing she could do, to cheat him…
“Hells with you!” she roared, as she drove her Sky-Corvette into the walls of the Canyon, the last she saw as she tumbled, a dying wreck of a gnome into the floor of the valley was a forlorn salute as the Dragonhawk passed overhead.
The call came in “Sun Hawk Actual, This is Observer One, did you get any kills to be recorded?”
Brigante thought, for a faint moment, of the sheer guts of that gnome “Sun Hawk Actual, No, No Kills I would have recorded. But Observer One, Report back to the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, that their practices are approved of, and endorsed for military useage”
An Entire Alliance Aggressor Squadron had been eliminated.
Brigante grinned coldly “Take the swiving exiles in will you? Lets see what plays out next?”
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Chief Bhalneath swaggered through the armouries, bare chested, his prison tattoos visible so all his workers could see he had shared their time, his long leather duster trailing around him as he lashed out with the iron baton, an Imp’s skull plated with gold as its head.
“Imperfect work”
“Good, keep it up”
“The Commandant would not be happy with that, and that makes me unhappy. What happens when I am unhappy?”
The worker paled in the sweltering heat of the Armouries. “I don’t want to find out Sir”
The gold imp head tilted the chin to him “What did you call me son?”
“I mean I don’t want to find out, Chief!”
Bhalneath turned, this was hard, stinking, hot, dreadful work, there was a reason that his staff, including him, were prisoners working off their second half of a sentence, or had been..He was now a free elf, but Summerisle had seen the right of it. This was -his- Kingdom, Chief Bhalneath’s Kingdom…. not his...this horrible pit of heat and steam and sweat. Storing, loading, maintaining the weapons the Sun Hawks and the other five Escadrilles used was dangerous. You had a one in a two hundred and fifty chance of dying each year, but you ate well, you lived as free elves, even if not allowed to leave the compound, except on missions, you even earned a wage, any elf who fled service was executed, even if their original crime was just pickpocketing. He rounded a corner to find two elves chatting, a Mark Three Wyrmbreaker munition between them. On it in chalk written “Happy Theramore day!” One of them eating a sandwich, the other -smoking-.
Without a hesitation Bhalneath brought his baton crashing down, feeling the crunch of bone, and grabbing the elf by the arm that had just been rendered useless by the smash, dragged the offender, through the grime and dirt, the hard working elves loading munitions “This Elf could have killed you ALL” he repeated as he dragged the elf, screaming in pain at his broken collarbone.
The multiple murderer that he had been closed his ears to the screams as he dragged the elf “Shut up, Swiving shut up and take it like a grown up, because where you’re going, its either back to the cells, or a hempen jig you idiot! Commandant gave you a chance, and you pissed it up the wall son”. He laid the elf to the door of the Armouries. Two Arcane Golems turned, but it was elves who looked at him “What recommendation, Chief?”
Bhalneath scratched the back of his head. “You know my personal feelings, but with things as desperate as they are, Operation Nightmare Green protocol is still in place...No mistakes. No Forgiveness.”
The maimed elf shuddered, “Wait, I ...I could go back to jail, I had that...I made a choice”
One of the elves loaded a convoluted looking contraption.
The elf screeched “Chief! Send me back to Jail! I’ll be a priest when I finish my sentence! I’ll be the most Holy elf ever!”
Bhalneath hissed. “You smoked near a Mark Three. You know-why- I have a no smoking policy in that place?” Because there is no Smoke without -Fire-, you !@#$! Know what happens when a Mark Three is ignited?”
The Elf begged “Chief, I don’t know!”
Bhalneath growled “Reason you don’t know, is that no one has been stupid enough to do it.or lived to the the tale afterwards.” He looked at the guards “No sense drawing this out, its cruelty at this point, and I won’t have that”
With a horrible ‘Blat’ sounding noise, the contraption was placed against the offending elf’s head, and he fell over, as if poleaxed, all life gone after the bolt had entered his skull.
Bhalneath turned, only for a voice to call him. He turned with a growl, but it was an Equerry. In the bright livery of the Aerie, they could only have been sent from an Officer of one of the Escadrilles, besides them a shabbily dressed young elf, looking downcast.
“Another one for me?”
“Indeed so Chief Sunvale”
Bhalneath growled at the Equerry “Good, Need a replacement” He pointed at the corpse on the floor, the young elf by the Equerry looked sick.
“If you can do better than that piece of kodocrap, then you’re fine. Whats your crimes?”
“Houseburglar Sir, three convictions now…”
Bhalneath advanced on the lad, raising his mace, who was clearly smarter than most “I mean ‘Houseburglar Chief! Three Convictions Chief!”
“What do they call you lad?” Bhalneath asked.
“Bomb-Bay Si-I mean Chief”
Bhalneath looked at him keenly “You taking the piss lad? Because I will knock it out of you surely as I do your teeth”
“No, Chief, honestly, they calls me that, from a silly drinking game we had ten years back”
Bhalneath frowned and nodded “then thats your name lad. Bomb-Bay, and how bloody apposite it is, alright got it from here, get inside the ‘Pit’.
Bhalneath growled “nnnheaagh! Every time!”
He turned at the footsteps, another Equerry “Chief. Order Shibboleth White Green Terminus” The Equerry held out a clay placard with two unmistakeable imprints .
He looked at the Equerry, who just nodded “Yes Chief...its...got to that point”
The Chief looked at the clay imprint, the imprints.
He looked up bitterly to the Equerry. “Welcome to the end of the world, lad”
“Imperfect work”
“Good, keep it up”
“The Commandant would not be happy with that, and that makes me unhappy. What happens when I am unhappy?”
The worker paled in the sweltering heat of the Armouries. “I don’t want to find out Sir”
The gold imp head tilted the chin to him “What did you call me son?”
“I mean I don’t want to find out, Chief!”
Bhalneath turned, this was hard, stinking, hot, dreadful work, there was a reason that his staff, including him, were prisoners working off their second half of a sentence, or had been..He was now a free elf, but Summerisle had seen the right of it. This was -his- Kingdom, Chief Bhalneath’s Kingdom…. not his...this horrible pit of heat and steam and sweat. Storing, loading, maintaining the weapons the Sun Hawks and the other five Escadrilles used was dangerous. You had a one in a two hundred and fifty chance of dying each year, but you ate well, you lived as free elves, even if not allowed to leave the compound, except on missions, you even earned a wage, any elf who fled service was executed, even if their original crime was just pickpocketing. He rounded a corner to find two elves chatting, a Mark Three Wyrmbreaker munition between them. On it in chalk written “Happy Theramore day!” One of them eating a sandwich, the other -smoking-.
Without a hesitation Bhalneath brought his baton crashing down, feeling the crunch of bone, and grabbing the elf by the arm that had just been rendered useless by the smash, dragged the offender, through the grime and dirt, the hard working elves loading munitions “This Elf could have killed you ALL” he repeated as he dragged the elf, screaming in pain at his broken collarbone.
The multiple murderer that he had been closed his ears to the screams as he dragged the elf “Shut up, Swiving shut up and take it like a grown up, because where you’re going, its either back to the cells, or a hempen jig you idiot! Commandant gave you a chance, and you pissed it up the wall son”. He laid the elf to the door of the Armouries. Two Arcane Golems turned, but it was elves who looked at him “What recommendation, Chief?”
Bhalneath scratched the back of his head. “You know my personal feelings, but with things as desperate as they are, Operation Nightmare Green protocol is still in place...No mistakes. No Forgiveness.”
The maimed elf shuddered, “Wait, I ...I could go back to jail, I had that...I made a choice”
One of the elves loaded a convoluted looking contraption.
The elf screeched “Chief! Send me back to Jail! I’ll be a priest when I finish my sentence! I’ll be the most Holy elf ever!”
Bhalneath hissed. “You smoked near a Mark Three. You know-why- I have a no smoking policy in that place?” Because there is no Smoke without -Fire-, you !@#$! Know what happens when a Mark Three is ignited?”
The Elf begged “Chief, I don’t know!”
Bhalneath growled “Reason you don’t know, is that no one has been stupid enough to do it.or lived to the the tale afterwards.” He looked at the guards “No sense drawing this out, its cruelty at this point, and I won’t have that”
With a horrible ‘Blat’ sounding noise, the contraption was placed against the offending elf’s head, and he fell over, as if poleaxed, all life gone after the bolt had entered his skull.
Bhalneath turned, only for a voice to call him. He turned with a growl, but it was an Equerry. In the bright livery of the Aerie, they could only have been sent from an Officer of one of the Escadrilles, besides them a shabbily dressed young elf, looking downcast.
“Another one for me?”
“Indeed so Chief Sunvale”
Bhalneath growled at the Equerry “Good, Need a replacement” He pointed at the corpse on the floor, the young elf by the Equerry looked sick.
“If you can do better than that piece of kodocrap, then you’re fine. Whats your crimes?”
“Houseburglar Sir, three convictions now…”
Bhalneath advanced on the lad, raising his mace, who was clearly smarter than most “I mean ‘Houseburglar Chief! Three Convictions Chief!”
“What do they call you lad?” Bhalneath asked.
“Bomb-Bay Si-I mean Chief”
Bhalneath looked at him keenly “You taking the piss lad? Because I will knock it out of you surely as I do your teeth”
“No, Chief, honestly, they calls me that, from a silly drinking game we had ten years back”
Bhalneath frowned and nodded “then thats your name lad. Bomb-Bay, and how bloody apposite it is, alright got it from here, get inside the ‘Pit’.
Bhalneath growled “nnnheaagh! Every time!”
He turned at the footsteps, another Equerry “Chief. Order Shibboleth White Green Terminus” The Equerry held out a clay placard with two unmistakeable imprints .
He looked at the Equerry, who just nodded “Yes Chief...its...got to that point”
The Chief looked at the clay imprint, the imprints.
He looked up bitterly to the Equerry. “Welcome to the end of the world, lad”
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hhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHnJp0oyOxs
Chief Bhalneath blew a whistle, and work ceased.. The oiled, the grimy, the sweaty and the exhausted paused in their labours, for a moment looking at the muscular elf, his long black braided hair, the prison tattoos. A ‘Lifer’. Yet unlike them, he did not wear the iron collar around his neck, and his wrists. He had served his time, and -still- remained here.
He slammed the baton, its gold encased Imps head against a pipe. “We had an incident! A break down of discipline! I will not have that. Not because of the fancy lads and ladies in their pips and ribbons, but because it looks bad on -Me-! I have to explain to his swiving Majesty Summerisle how I lost an Elf because someone got so stupid as to -smoke- near a Mark Three!”
Many of the elves, topless and oil smeared, male and female alike widened their eyes at that.
“Does that happen -again- in My Armouries?” Bhalneath roared, standing like an angry god, reinforced by the smoke and red haze behind him.
“NO CHIEF!” the roar came. All of the elves here were rightfully still supposed to be in prison cells, Summerisles ‘Philanthropy’ giving them a chance of rehabilitation. Or death as cheap labour, depending how you looked at it. The Jury was still out.
Chief Bhalneath nodded, “Listen. We’re on extra shifts. Bad side, means we work longer, good side, the King of the Aerie is paying us double. We’re going to be handling Falcons, so those of you with certification for Arcane weaponry, make sure you are assigned to a team loading them, I want no mistakes. We’re going to be handling Wyrmbreakers, the Mark Three variant, so by the -Sun- never let me catch you doing anything silly with them, those things are Goblin built...We’ve not had a mishap yet, but ‘better safe than sorry’ as my mother used to say when pocketting a set of prophylactics for her evening’s work. You want to chalk messages on the casings, do so, but they ain’t being used against the Alliance. This is the Big Push, the End. They’re being used on Demons, so unless you’re fluent in Eredun, just draw rude swiving pictures, right? Not like they’ll have time to see them.”
Bhalneath smiled.
“But I know it makes us feel better, so you crack on”
“This is the big Push, Ladies and Gentlemen, and the Old Man has promised me you will all get a pat on the head and a reward once the Legion is finally done. I don’t know what form that is going to take, could be pay, could be a party, could be he lays on hookers for us all, could be a shortening of your sentences, could be who knows what. Lets assume the best, and prepare for the worst, that way our !@#$%ing will be justified. Alright. We all know why we’re here! Back to work! Come on People!” Bhalneath slammed his mace against the pole. He turned to the new guy “You’re on ^-*! duty”
“I just got here si-Chief”
Bhalneath laughed as he moved through the sweating masses transporting weaponry “Sometimes, son, Quel’thalas does some naughty things in the name of...you smell that?”
Bhalneath ran to the entranceway, A ‘Wyrmbreaker’ had fell from its casing, two elves running to try and grab it, He smashed one of them aside and grabbed the other by the shoulder “It’s going to go live!”
He grabbed both elves and hurled themselves to one side, turning and looking agonisingly at the haulage teams “run...please run” he muttered, as the Gearfist designed rocket fired, scorching the floor of the Armouries. Too late the hauling teams saw the danger, the rocket propelled munition smashing -through- one of them, leaving nothing but bloody scraps, before slamming into the wall opposite, an Aerie Guard being slain as the penetrative munition slammed into the building.
Bhalneath picked himself up from the floor, looking at the scorched floor, the smoking crater that was the Archivists offices,
This war...was...getting to them all…
He turned, the elves, male and female, topless, sweating, tattooed, working hard. He knew what was coming. He heard the sound..
He turned, looking into the furious eyes of the Commandant, almost two foot shorter than him, but….the fury….the fury…
“What the Hells is going on here Chief!”
“An Accident Sir. I am all over it”
Normally an elf of Bhalneath’s size could have tried taking the Commandant. He was supposed to be a -very- competent combatant, but he was a little guy...but then….There was the vast draconic creature weighing almost a tonne staring over his shoulder, that could incinerate you in a heartbeat. It paid to be diplomatic at such times.
Brigante snarled “We can’t afford more accidents Chief. Especially not with ‘Nightmare Green’. Everything has to go exactly as planned…-Exactly- as planned. A moments error and we might as well not bother!” He buckled himself back into the flight harness. As he alighted and flew off, Bhalneath remarked “I’m glad you told me that, the thought had never occurred to me, you condescending dick”. As he stormed back into the Armouries his thoughts were dark “Back to work, and someone get a mop and bucket for the dead!”
He pointed at the new convict. “You. Come with me, we get to unleash the Special Toys”
Bhalneath walked through his stinking, ill lit, overheated and horrible ‘Kingdom’,
He paused before the two Golems, who turned to look at him.
“Hells son,” he muttered to the newbie “We really are at the End of Days”
Chief Bhalneath blew a whistle, and work ceased.. The oiled, the grimy, the sweaty and the exhausted paused in their labours, for a moment looking at the muscular elf, his long black braided hair, the prison tattoos. A ‘Lifer’. Yet unlike them, he did not wear the iron collar around his neck, and his wrists. He had served his time, and -still- remained here.
He slammed the baton, its gold encased Imps head against a pipe. “We had an incident! A break down of discipline! I will not have that. Not because of the fancy lads and ladies in their pips and ribbons, but because it looks bad on -Me-! I have to explain to his swiving Majesty Summerisle how I lost an Elf because someone got so stupid as to -smoke- near a Mark Three!”
Many of the elves, topless and oil smeared, male and female alike widened their eyes at that.
“Does that happen -again- in My Armouries?” Bhalneath roared, standing like an angry god, reinforced by the smoke and red haze behind him.
“NO CHIEF!” the roar came. All of the elves here were rightfully still supposed to be in prison cells, Summerisles ‘Philanthropy’ giving them a chance of rehabilitation. Or death as cheap labour, depending how you looked at it. The Jury was still out.
Chief Bhalneath nodded, “Listen. We’re on extra shifts. Bad side, means we work longer, good side, the King of the Aerie is paying us double. We’re going to be handling Falcons, so those of you with certification for Arcane weaponry, make sure you are assigned to a team loading them, I want no mistakes. We’re going to be handling Wyrmbreakers, the Mark Three variant, so by the -Sun- never let me catch you doing anything silly with them, those things are Goblin built...We’ve not had a mishap yet, but ‘better safe than sorry’ as my mother used to say when pocketting a set of prophylactics for her evening’s work. You want to chalk messages on the casings, do so, but they ain’t being used against the Alliance. This is the Big Push, the End. They’re being used on Demons, so unless you’re fluent in Eredun, just draw rude swiving pictures, right? Not like they’ll have time to see them.”
Bhalneath smiled.
“But I know it makes us feel better, so you crack on”
“This is the big Push, Ladies and Gentlemen, and the Old Man has promised me you will all get a pat on the head and a reward once the Legion is finally done. I don’t know what form that is going to take, could be pay, could be a party, could be he lays on hookers for us all, could be a shortening of your sentences, could be who knows what. Lets assume the best, and prepare for the worst, that way our !@#$%ing will be justified. Alright. We all know why we’re here! Back to work! Come on People!” Bhalneath slammed his mace against the pole. He turned to the new guy “You’re on ^-*! duty”
“I just got here si-Chief”
Bhalneath laughed as he moved through the sweating masses transporting weaponry “Sometimes, son, Quel’thalas does some naughty things in the name of...you smell that?”
Bhalneath ran to the entranceway, A ‘Wyrmbreaker’ had fell from its casing, two elves running to try and grab it, He smashed one of them aside and grabbed the other by the shoulder “It’s going to go live!”
He grabbed both elves and hurled themselves to one side, turning and looking agonisingly at the haulage teams “run...please run” he muttered, as the Gearfist designed rocket fired, scorching the floor of the Armouries. Too late the hauling teams saw the danger, the rocket propelled munition smashing -through- one of them, leaving nothing but bloody scraps, before slamming into the wall opposite, an Aerie Guard being slain as the penetrative munition slammed into the building.
Bhalneath picked himself up from the floor, looking at the scorched floor, the smoking crater that was the Archivists offices,
This war...was...getting to them all…
He turned, the elves, male and female, topless, sweating, tattooed, working hard. He knew what was coming. He heard the sound..
He turned, looking into the furious eyes of the Commandant, almost two foot shorter than him, but….the fury….the fury…
“What the Hells is going on here Chief!”
“An Accident Sir. I am all over it”
Normally an elf of Bhalneath’s size could have tried taking the Commandant. He was supposed to be a -very- competent combatant, but he was a little guy...but then….There was the vast draconic creature weighing almost a tonne staring over his shoulder, that could incinerate you in a heartbeat. It paid to be diplomatic at such times.
Brigante snarled “We can’t afford more accidents Chief. Especially not with ‘Nightmare Green’. Everything has to go exactly as planned…-Exactly- as planned. A moments error and we might as well not bother!” He buckled himself back into the flight harness. As he alighted and flew off, Bhalneath remarked “I’m glad you told me that, the thought had never occurred to me, you condescending dick”. As he stormed back into the Armouries his thoughts were dark “Back to work, and someone get a mop and bucket for the dead!”
He pointed at the new convict. “You. Come with me, we get to unleash the Special Toys”
Bhalneath walked through his stinking, ill lit, overheated and horrible ‘Kingdom’,
He paused before the two Golems, who turned to look at him.
“Hells son,” he muttered to the newbie “We really are at the End of Days”
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