The Sun Hawks: Five Years on...

Lortheâs-argent-dawn · May 12, 2019, 3:51am

THE FIRST TRIAL | Lor’theas Leyreaver

Twilight Highlands, Eastern Kingdoms

The first strike of the baton sent Lor’theas reeling, stumbling to the side.

Bludgeoned, he fell to the deck of the Bloodied Spear with a loud clank and ring of his armor. Meanwhile, the rest of his comrades merely watched. Or so Lor’theas believed, offered no help or as much as an objection towards the treatment he was dealt. The thoughts raced through his mind. Was he deserving? Did they care? Had he crossed the line to such a degree that he had lost their trust and care definitively? Would the Blood Hawk tell him to pack his belongings and leave at first light? Panic jolted through Lor’theas within only a few seconds. Bracing himself against the hard, wooden boards with his gauntlets, he remained on all fours for some time in an attempt to adjust to the pain, not to mention a chance to settle his rattled mind. Spitting to the side, a combination of saliva and blood leaving him, Lor’theas turned to look up at the Blood Hawk behind him, relaying his answer.

“I listen.”, he heaved. “-… I listen.”

The Blood Hawk had asked him what the proper procedure was when he, or the War Hawk, were speaking. A few hours earlier he had left formation, thinking it best to give their surroundings a proper glance. This, he faced punishment for. Tactical thinking. To which Lor’theas had promptly asked about the lieutenant, whose rank seemed forgotten. Which proved greatly unappreciated.

Lor’theas figured the clever response was too much.

“On your feet.”, the voice behind him commanded.

Rising, Lor’theas lent a hand to gently massage along his jaw as he presented himself to the Blood Hawk once more, awaiting the rest of his punishment.

He was in this mess by naught but his own mistakes.
Of course, Lor’theas didn’t see them as mistakes.

He had lept from his harness and saddle, his battle-sibling, in order to take down his first kill. A number to add to the saddle. He figured Faladreth back at the Aerie would be proud, at least. The rylak had been impaled by Lor’theas blade as they both crashed upon the cliffside, with Lor’theas tumbling across the ground as he lost his grip around the hilt. A daunting move. A chance. But a good one. While most of the other hawks could rely upon ranged attacks, Lor’theas was forced to utilize his blade alone as far as his the extension it made of his arm reached. In his mind, he wondered, how he’d otherwise be of use. If not to bear down upon their enemies in this way - then how? Why couldn’t he see?

“The only two times you are allowed to leave your harness is if your battle-sibling is dying, falling -… or if it is dead already.”, the Blood Hawk continued.

Lor’theas frowned, unwillingly letting the question escape him.

“Or if I’ve landed, surely?”

He shouldn’t have.

The question was met in kind, similar to the last blow. Dae’anneth snarled, driving the baton through the air and across Lor’theas’ other side. His lean frame was suddenly thrown for the ship’s rail, latching onto it in order to still his still trembling body. At this stage Lor’theas had no mind to pay the pain; not that kind of pain, anyway. He was convinced they were laughing at him. All of them. They weren’t friends. Or maybe they had been. As usual, he must’ve stepped over the line. Because of who he is, because of what he is.

He had lost them. Failiure. The notion rattled Lor’theas greatly.
He deserved it because of that day. Because of what he knew.

Far, far away the words of a comrade rang through his head.

The words that had been contradicted and proved wrong. The words he decided to believe, only to have them ripped away a mere hour later. The words he took as his own from someone he believed and thought he knew would reject him. Instead, he was shown a kindness he had not seen for many months.

So he trusted them. He cherished them.

“Everyone are worth forgiving. Do not let a few years of your entire lifespan dictate what you do, where you go. You can be whoever you want. Regardless of past choices and deeds. What matters is who you are now …”

Easy words to believe for an easily influenced boy.

All lies.

And then he felt trust’s sting. As if a dagger had been plunged into his heart, Lor’theas felt something he had never experienced before. Opening up, only to be shot down. He was convinced of not having been enough. The hand on his shoulder, the nimble grip, was one of pity. He knew this. Everyone knew this. Lor’theas had simply realized it far too late. Despite this, he could still discern every elegant curve of her features if he closed his eyes. He had looked at her then, as she said it. As she told him. And while he loathed himself for it, the picture forced him to smile every time. In truth, he had never felt anything like what she offered before.

The calm.

The comfort.

Regardless of what it was, what they did, what they were - he only cared for her presence. Although he had no idea as to how to act or be around her, only giving rise to his tensions and insecurities, she also proved the best catalyst against them. Against his mind. Against himself.

Against everything.

Vianea’s voice lingered, echoing around him.

But he didn’t understand. He didn’t care about anything so long as he could keep her close, so long as she could guide him forward.

If only a little longer, if only just a little more …

And he wanted more.

He needed more.

“You know I do not seek anything beyond this kind of relationship. But that only makes them all the stronger – understand?”

Dae’anneth continued to describe in detail how it felt to be dropped from the skies on your battle-sibling, educating him, baton in hand.

Lor’theas stood before him, massaging his entire jaw at this point.

Additionally, he figured he had experienced it already.

The free fall.

Every moment with -her- felt no different.

Every moment with -any- of them felt no different.

He didn’t know how to act, how to speak or how to be in her or their presence. Every word felt inadequate, every motion too weak. It was never enough. Even then and there, he was standing a few feet away from her. As well as the rest of them. Alike a rowdy adolescent hoping to impress, Lor’theas refused to wane in front of the Blood Hawk, stubborn to the last. He wouldn’t. Even though his every thought was that he had lost her already. That he had lost them already. Which was probably true. As if he could compare to anyone else.

Rendran’s words had been nothing but lies.

“I want you to tell me precisely what happened.”, the Blood Hawk suddenly posed.

Wrinkling his nose, Lor’theas had no interest in answering.

Straightening his posture though, while wishing to send a glance for Vianea but not daring to cross the Blood Hawk any farther, Lor’theas began his tale without uttering any protests. He began from the ascent. The way he had pursued the rylak, tricking it. Revealing his cunning then and there. What it had gained him, how he had turned the tables on the beast. The wind on his face, his blade in hand. He wasn’t good, by any means. It was his first combat flight. But was likely better than some. The freedom, the power. Lor’theas had unbuckled without second thought. All that mattered was what he had before him – the objective. Nothing was going to stand in the way of it, nor his first kill.

He’d be praised for it.

Lor’theas lept with ease, bringing his runeblade down, piercing the rylak straight through.

He knew he had won the moment they crashed on the cliffside. Already he could imagine the praise, the impressed faces. He’d be one step closer to staying permanently, to being liked, to being one of them. He couldn’t lose them.

Not now.

Not after this.

And then he had heard it.

“Leyreaver broke formation!”

“What?”

“What?! Where is he?!”

The Blood Hawk merely looked back at him.

He didn’t look all that impressed. And why would he be? Why would anyone be? At this point Lor’theas regretted not staying in the city. The option to remain by a fire, alone, without having to be in someone’s way. Instead he was in the Highlands, covered in dust, various cuts and bruises and subject to a gruesome punishment. Despite this, Lor’theas felt -… home.

No matter how much the doubts filled him, no matter how much he suspected his new comrades had abandoned him then and there, Lor’theas felt a warmth and comfort akin to that by his beloved fires.

He found it curious, albeit strange. Uncomfortable. But not entirely so.

Regarding the Blood Hawk, Lor’theas suddenly pondered and tried to see the man behind the title that he had come to know. It confused Lor’theas how he was capable of dealing with him so coldly, so violently. Dealing out the punishment. The crystal he had been left with following his inebriation a few days prior was a strong contender, causing Lor’theas to flinch as he thought about it. How the Blood Hawk had shown pure care, wishing nothing but Lor’theas’ well-being.

But the more he thought about it – the more it dawned upon him. The idea, the notion, that this was the other side of that coin. Gaze elsewhere, Lor’theas suddenly turned for Dae’anneth. Lor’theas clenched a fist, looking into his eyes as conviction washed over him - he was going to apologize. Determined to show he had listened, that he had at least picked up something, this was it.

Parting his lips to deliver however, Lor’theas felt the final blow.

The deck of the Bloodied Spear suddenly were inches away, and in anticipation of his body breaking upon the wooden boards – everything went dark.

Daeanneth-argent-dawn · May 13, 2019, 2:24am

The baton swung. The swift crack as it made contact cutting through the night air. The third strike. And the elf was laid out cold.

“In what way did you consider that display to be helpful?”

The Commandant glowered up at him. Eyes of an ancient predator, all fury, no mercy. Dae’anneth had long since tempered any fear he once felt under that glare. He had, over years learned a frustrating truth. The role of a Subaltern, was not to be a Yes-man. If you spoke truth sharply enough to provoke, then you were doing it right. His responsibility was to the Hawks below him, to ensure Brass didn’t throw their lives away needlessly for the greater good. To question, to argue, and whilst the Commandant did indulge their voices to be heard, a Subaltern’s advocacy would throw weight behind them.

“Which Part Sir? The part where I suggested an improved plan to not murder the Escadrille? Or the Part where I tried to bring the Hawk who should be grounded back into line?”

There was a pause. The Commandant didn’t have to like it, but he knew he was right. Like it or not, on Duty a Subaltern’s role wasn’t to be benevolent aunt or uncle to the Commandant and Lieutenant’s “Ann’da and Minn’da” , but the to be the Superior’s teeth, even when they did not wish to bare them.

“I see. That’s how it is. Get to your battle sibling.”

The baton. Red and gold, elaborate as all formal issues of Quel’thalas were. A good weight, well balanced, a mark of his station as much as the insignia.

Discipline. The batons were introduced on his watch as Scout hawk, a deterrent needed when words simply didn’t cut it. Laughably it was the Lieutenant, at the time Hawk, who’s actions had risked her life and others, and left him no choice but to appeal for harsher punishments.

He took no joy in its use, no pleasure derived from handing down strikes. He firmly believed any who did should never have the right to wield one. An evil, and yet, a necessary one. It was this or the whip.

The Commandant believed whips were for slaves, not soldiers. Having served his time before the post, when it came down to it, he’d choose lashes over broken bone every time.

It had been a punishing night. From being reined in by the Commandant, his teeth blunted, authourity undermined so that he served merely as barking hound than true deterrent, through to the mind-numbing horror of first realising a flier had broken wing, far from the Aerial battle, then to see the riderless Wyvern and fear the worst.

It had only gone downhill from there.

The cave itself was littered with corpses of the red dragonflight, strewn victims of abandoned experiments. Solanum becoming increasingly unstable, an Eldritch canary in a mine of nightmare. The Gatekeeper, the Boy, The Sisters, The Sacrifice. The latter two delivering stains that would mar his soul.

He had never experienced guilt like it. As the Sisters fell and their sorrow poured forth like a rising tide, overwhelming all in its wake. The memories of tens of thousands of faces, so many he thought he had forgotten bloomed before him. Lives cut short in cold blooded murder. Some sanctioned, some not, some enemies, some not. Human, demon, goblin, dwarf, troll, and elven…oh so many elven. His very hands wept blood, all that he had washed from his skin over millennia poured forth, ancient and black, fresh and foaming. That he lived, when so many did not, by his hand, was unconsionable. In his desperation, he looked up into the eyes of the Chaplain, the silver glint of misericord in hand.

“You will not refuse me next time Chaplain.”

“I am not brass. I do not kill you for cowardice.”

Cowardice.

The word stung like a spear through the gut. Words spoken as they looked over the Sacrifice. A true innocent bent to the Ren’dorei’s twisted rituals. He had begged for death. Dae’anneth had overruled the Commandants decree that he would grant it, and taken his place.

He could go home to Red without that stain. What was one more innocent life snuffed out to Cavel’s name?

“I picked hell of a week to quit drinking.” He remarked bitterly. The War-Hawks laugh was warm and rasping beside him.

“Your timing is impeccable as always.” A beat passed before of strange hissing and clicking issued from her lips. Dae’anneth smiled. Nerubian, albeit with a Thalassian accent. He glanced over to her and answered in kind.

“Decision correct, falsely welcomed.”

He had struggled to sleep that night. The look of betrayal on Leyreaver’s face haunted him, the whimpering yelps, only followed by coarse defiance as his determination was poorly channelled. In the midst of correction he could not allow his snark and lip to go unpunished, yet every swing of the baton stung to deliver. Leyreaver had made such progress, but there were actions that could not go unchallenged, lessons that could not be left unlearned.

When the final strike sent him to the deck unconcious he sighed. Healing was not permitted, but they were in the field, and an injured flier could not be left compromised.

“Stormsentry. Do enough to bring him round and ensure it’s not broken.”

He had barely registered the response, and turned back to watch the ocean land against the distant shore.

Re-enforcement had arrived from Silvermoon. Kal’turan, Autumnvale, and young Wolf. Talk upon the ship was stilted and pained. Stress and poor sleep from the night before taking their toll.

The air tore apart.

Three Ren’dorei appearing, followed by Blue Six. Everything happened so fast.

Within a moment the Hood, and her Counterparts were dead, and in the blink of an eye, the shadow-bomb shattered upon the deck of the ship.

“This is the hollowing don’t you understand?!”

“We can’t go back, do you not see? That we are meeting such resistance means we are headed the right way!”

“Blood Hawk! Order them to pull back!”

“I served you in life, I never signed on for in death!”

“You heard the Embuggerance! Fall back”

“Every moment we waste the Ren’dorei have greater chance to-”

“It’s all lies, none of this is real-”

The Escadrille fought and bickered like children. souls trapped within the Shadowlands, rent from their bodies by the Ren’dorei’s twisted magic. Each subject to their dearest wish, made manifest through dark corruption.

Dae’anneth did not know what the others saw. In truth he did not care. Beside him stood the image of himself, or more accurately ‘Cavel’. Gripping the spine of Siege in one hand, and the detached head of the fallen agent in the other. As the others bickered the voice whispered in his ear, his tone twisted, soft and seductive, a cheap lure used far too often.

“You see now don’t you? You wish to be the best that you can be? And yet you shun that you already are, this truth that you hide from… I am the best you will ever be, a monster in elven clothing…”

The great twisted vision before the Escadrille, proclaimed itself to be the Loa of Dragonhawks, was laughing. Something in his mind snapped.

“You are nothing but a dead god, bent to the Ren’dorei’s twisted will.”

The whickered laughter stopped. Slowly the figure turned, setting dark, clever eyes upon him.

Too late he realised his mistake. Too late to take back words that should never have been said.

“Ah dead god am Ay? Why dontcha be ha’in a taste what dat be like?”

Too late to speak, to apologise. His gaze sought De’vontae’s… But in the mass of spirits, the forms of individuals melded into one. He opened his mouth, too late, words he wished to say dying on his lips as the vengeful spirits curse engulfed him. The pain, the loss that crushed the empty breath from his ethereal lungs.

The Blood Hawk fell. Eyes open yet unseeing, spirit silenced upon the ground.

For him, there was nothing more.

Zarival-argent-dawn · May 13, 2019, 9:26am

I merely wish to leave a positive note from the Moonlight Melody. - We’re truly blessed to have one of the Hawk’s own in our ranks, she is a delightful ray of joy that truly brings warmth to our community.

I have RP’ed personally with the Hawk’s over the past few days and they’re a truly lovely bunch both IC and OOC. - I highly reccomend this guild to those who seek character development and also have an interest in a slightly different style of events, focusing on aerial combat and the like.

It should be noted, Elune doesn’t enforce the idea of removing harnesses during flights.

Daeanneth-argent-dawn · May 13, 2019, 3:33pm

Due to an influx of recent rookies, the Escadrille has closed its doors temporarily to recruits.

As always guild interaction is welcome to be discussed so if you have an idea and want to reach out to us, your friendly officer team - Dae’anneth Silverflare (Daeanneth), Yasmyr Starglow (Yasmyr), Narmë Reddawn (Narmë), or Wing Commandant Brigante Summerisle (Brigante) - will be happy to hear from you! (Alternatively pester an online member and they can shout us on disco!)

Devontae-argent-dawn · May 13, 2019, 6:44pm

The following is taken from the messy confines of De’vontae’s diaries, now ripped from its contents and drifting in the Forbidding sea.

It has been two hours since I came back without you, and yet whilst I decline to cry, I am aware that over the mountainside, a single stalk of Sungrass wilts, over the sparse forests, winds howl with rage, with no leaves to blow. It only has struck me just now, how desolate a place this tundra is, fixated in nothing but whirls of darkness and shadow, like the world you wait for me in.

I find myself grated by the mockingjay inside my mind, teasing me into ruin of how I have left you there and how I shall never get you back now. But I don’t weep; I know that even insects, lovers, stars themselves must part, and that we are not due our final farewell.

It is night now; and once again, the while you wait for me, cold wind turns to rain. In seclusion, I find myself listening this evening, to the rain fall upon the deck of the quiet and heavy ship. I am somewhat grateful for it’s cold unyielding drops as it helps to hide the un-summoned sigh-sound, sob-sound, not sound really, feeling, sigh-feeling, sob-feeling that keeps rising in me, rasping in me… like a weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, it pierces like a knife.

I realise I can never dream this storm away. How it all happened with you. It was over for maybe minutes and then… it’s never over. I will remain resolute, I am De’vontae Firecloud and I do not yield to Loa or god, I will not let the veil close without us both on the same side. The right side. I am a Hawk of the Escadrille and we do not fail.

My gilded lily.

Your absence has gone through me, like thread through a needle. Everything I do. Is stitched with its colour. But I will return with you.

Extracted story in response to the event chain 'Through Skies rent with shadows.'

Devontae-argent-dawn · May 14, 2019, 11:54am

The black ichor oozed down the back of his neck as he clutched himself over the fallen body of Rookie Leyreaver. His breathing came in fast unsteady gulps, shadows encroached the edges of his vision and sinewed hands with tactile whispers attempted to seduce him to the rise of fear kept locked inside deep within. He could hear the fighting ahead as his fellow Escadrille attempted to tackle the monster creature that protected the totem they sought. But it was all he could do to protect his comrade and fight his own inner monsters.

Another time and he would have fallen to the goading whispers with ease, but he had built himself up with the help of people like the Chaplain, Halmyth, Clariella… the mistakes of the past were his to own. Still his mind reeled at the behest of the shadows recalling that memory.

‘Turn the broken pages to a memory of time forgot, of another time, another place, when a banner of light fluttered in the twists, the turns and the coils of the winds of Warspear, carried by blinding figures that fought for the dislocated earth of Azeroth. Turn the pages Firecloud and remember the day your world crashed around you. Remember what you so badly wish to have changed from your own failings.’

The twisted vehement whispers of the shadows warped his own voice in his mind and began to recall that terrible day. Visions swirling at the narrators cruel wishes swam in front of his vision…

‘Faded memories script the rise and fall of the Hordes fifth flight unit, once led proudly by the renowned Alaris Hawkbit to lead the bomb run over the alliance hold in Ashran.’

’Remember? Their final and last flight.’
Of course he remembered, pain bloomed in his chest and about his heart like ice shattering. He’d never forget. Devontaes body shook as he held himself over Leyreaver, tears welling silently in his eyes. ‘Please…no…’ But the shadows cared not for his pleas, if anything they empowered it to continue.

‘There is one moment that can be experienced between enemies in which an intimacy is shared that is rarely surpassed by even the closest of lovers. In that moment, as the blade of the victor bites deeply, one can see in the other’s eyes the story of a life told in death. A fleeting expression of fear, sorrow, pride or contentment that can express more than words. Your units ultimate stand took position in the skies over the alliances base, initially formulated to carry out their bombing run and then join the main forces, however the unit did not return as they had done since they united beneath the hordes flag.’

‘During the units flight towards the alliance base, unbeknownst to them a heavy marauding cluster of human manned harpoons lurked in the shadows untouched by the moons waxen luminosity. Having been tipped off about the bombing run, they had taken revelry in the opportunity to down the hordes pests. The atmosphere grew heavy with blood lust, painting the calm before the storm. Metal gleamed in the pallid light, blood stained weapons from previous fallen foes that equated to scores of fatalities. Now the harpoons stared like a possessed creature baring its teeth awaiting to be guided towards Sin’dorei flesh, craving the taste of that ruby brilliance’.

A long finger uncurled from the grip of a harpoons metal trigger, facing the jet black sky in a silent declaration. Every eye of these blood lusting warriors dripped focus to the finger eagerly anticipating the moment their order to be given. “Patience. We will mark the skies in flowers of red soon enough and Ashran will be ours.” A collective pause engulfed the habited shadows as the Humans inhaled, their targets remaining unaware… With an ache in the marrow of their bones the lead Humans finger dropped, the unspoken hold on the cluster of Soldiers lifted. Silent and deadly the entire fleet of harpoons rained down upon your unit like a crashing wave upon the fragile shore.’

Vomit fissured in the back of Devontaes throat, swallowed harshly back, fingers pressing to the ground in anguish. Phantom pain struck his shoulder from that wound the harpoon inflicted the day the shadows had chosen to torment him with. He knew with a cold sweat what would come next…

It was only seconds that past before blood was flowing and the fliers and their mounts were dying. “Get out! We’ve been compromised!” The edge of Alaris’s voice rang out before being lost in the maelstrom of screams. You fell from the skies didn’t you Firecloud? Barely managing a safe disengage with your allies, only to be swarmed by the ground fight to come. Sin’dorei and Humans came together like two superlative meteors battling to kill and capture. To kill and escape. But you failed and within moments your unit had been captured, bound in chains. And yet that wasn’t the end was it? Moved from their base the Alliance tried to send you to another camp and that was when you gained the attention of the creatures that would finally ruin you and your friends.’

‘The alliance marched you away in chains to an area that would prevent being flanked by any Horde rescuers hungering for blood, yet destiny would entice the troops towards a progressing assemblage of Shadow orcs.’

The Orcs crashed into the wave of Alliance guards. A torrent of shadow stenched skin slapping the hearth could be heard. All pretence of order dissolved as the Alliance climbed over each other or packed into clustered groups in an attempt to escape the army of unforgiving Orcs. Remember how you looked to the chained men behind you and saw the fear on their faces? How Alaris desperately pleaded for the first time for a sword or to be freed from the chain to help the alliance? But more Orcs fluxed, alliance fell and hope left the eyes of your friends, the Alliance screamed “Run! Run! Save yourselves!" The last words of Alaris cried out, do you remember them? 'Belore, embrace your soul.’

‘As remnants of sunlight sifted through the horizon, it was all over… Dead bodies, the foul smell of corpses in the thick air, the loud screams of dying soldiers being turned into soul shards. Your unit were the only survivors that had been spared from the onslaught, scuttling together like cowards with the blood shrieking screams of the alliance ringing in their ears, pumped with cold adrenaline, adopting the hobbled brain dead walk like brain rotted forsaken. Groaning moronically you all acted like nothing more than a single celled organism, willing themselves on with the single instinct to survive. Like cattle you were so easy to capture and take to the shadow orcs base under ground. Do you remember how you failed your people there? How they were used to be fel experiments and how you were forced to fight them all to survive? Let me remind you how that was. How the Horde found you.’

‘Tears stung the wounds upon your face. You moved forward on your belly, every excruciating moment punctuated by the feeling of your clothes fusing into your body as your blood congealed. You had survived, spared from the fate of your comrades and yet how you wished for his your to have been taken so you did not have to witness what filled your gaze. So selfish. You dragged yourself the last yard of your pen, swimming in the throng of the corpses of your comrades that you killed, the stench of their fel rotten flesh and blood filled your nose. In front of you lay their stilled bodies warped and unrecognisable, your tears were for them, for the fact you had failed them. Or so you wanted to believe. But they were for you weren’t they? Pathetic.’

‘Forsaken, abandoned, alone. Pathetic, failure, murderer.’

Devontae’s hardened fingers pressed to the floor as he cracked back swimming sobs and feral growls of anger. How dare the shadow tell him how to feel. How dare these Ren’dorei tamper with the family he had now. His Escadrille he served. How dare it tamper with him!

Roaring in his mind he screamed back to the shadow, light blooming across his chest in shards of brilliance "From the ashes of my past a new chance has been born upon this dishevelled, hollow shell you so enjoy tormenting! Now it is my time- My time! I am a soldier born and bred to defend every corner of Quel’thalas, to protect my brethren, to prove that I am as strong as we have always been. I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me a magnificent glow, than to live in constant regret and fear. You will remember my name as the elf who could not be won by your vile piteous self hate! I am Devontae Firecloud and I will rise!”

Devontae stands; light flickering across his form, turning to the closing fight, Black ichor dripping down his face. “And I’ve a Blood Hawk to save!”

Daeanneth-argent-dawn · May 14, 2019, 12:47pm

Dragonhawk fly in the sky so free…

Clever-quick king of the blue is he…

Fly, Dragonhawk…

Fly Dragonhawk…

Brave your riders be…

It was the roaring. The perpetual, unending scream of the air that did not just rip past him, but tore through him.

How did he come to be here?

Was there anything but this?

Had there ever been anything but the dark, and cold?

How could he be cold with no body to feel?

A form as insubstantial as wet parchment caught in an updraft, all it would take was a strong gust, and all would be turn asunder.

The wind howled.

He was alone. And yet, he wasn’t. The Escadrille were gone. Had they ever been here? Time was immaterial. He remembered the boat, and then they had been here, in the cave, from before. But they were not here. Only he was.

Was this what he was due?

Figures moved on the edge of his vision. Lost souls weeping black ichor, mourning bodies that were no longer theirs.

Was this his fate too?

Severed from himself, his form repurposed, that was what had been done was it not? So separated that the destruction of his body did not grant him rest, but left him, lingering in the Shadowlands.

He would be mourned… Perhaps he already had been.

“Until I die or you find someone better.”

Who would be his replacement. Did it matter? Names slipped through his fingers like sand. Detached from owner, from meaning, from memory. Red Dawn. Sun Dust. Summer Isle. Star Glow. Nothing but nonsense pairings, no heritage but that defined since the fall.

The fall. Was this where those unmoored souls had found themselves? He had heard tell of a blade. Weilded by… By…

It did not matter. A blade made to mourn, severing spirit from body, did they find their way here? No light to claim them, just wandering… Withering, until their minds became…

Fire.

Cloud.

A flash of colour bloomed before his eyes. Shadows banished by shades of autumn, only to fade to nothing once more.

He felt it should mean…something? That pairing-

His mind fell silent. He blinked at the meandering figures.

Weeping black ichor. Mourning bodies no longer theirs.

Was he forgotten?

Who would have forgotten him?

Had there ever been anything but this?

He was alone.

And yet…

The shadowed figures wandered blindly, as tormentors and nightmare guardians coalesced around them.

Dae’anneth sat upon the floor. The hissing maelstrom of the dark fueled sky audible even here. He lifted his gaze, something had changed about the movement. The creatures of shadow were shifting, hurrying towards a singular spot.

A clouded mist, curling and forming into…something…

A girl…?

No a shade of a girl, twisted into grotesque unreality, a memory where all imperfections had been swept away, leaving little more than a blank slate.

She sang.

“Dragonhawk fall through the cloud below…”

Her mouth opened not to the sweet Candace of a child’s lullaby, but the rush of ten-thousand whispers, a nightmare chorus as she turned to face him.

“…fire-flame lights up with a glow-oh…”

As she stepped forward her movement was jagged and sharp edged, broken bones bent backwards, her head lulled to one side.

“…Fall Dragonhawk…fall Dragonhawk…”

Dae’anneth tried to get to his feet, to scramble away, watching in horror as the Nightmare Lords puppeted this memory of a child.

He knew he was forgetting something, a ghost of a memory fluttered untethered and tattered in the wind, worthless beyond a sense of foreboding familiarity.

She stopped, her face level with his.

“…the…fear…your…riders…know…”

As the final line fell from her lips her head ripped back, maw opening until it appeared to have removed the top of her head entirely, as row upon row of jagged teeth rent at the shadows that tore from her throat. The cacophony of voices screamed.

“No…please, I don’t understand!”
“Not My Children, anything to me but spare them”
“They put you up to this, didn’t they?”
“I’ll kill you, Caitiff!”

The final words of every life he’d stolen, the sound of children sobbing, a babe’s wail, begging and pleading, each carrying the weight of their final moments, all played out once more.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

The press of silence was unbearable, broken only by the cracking of bone as the child’s skull righted itself once more.

“…Ann’da…why wouldn’t you save us…?”

The shade vanished and the darkness swarmed forwards engulfing him once more.

Galeholt-argent-dawn · May 14, 2019, 1:36pm

Gale tried not to think about how closely the hallway resembled a vast gullet, shimmering with dark saliva. The comparison would have been far easier to ignore if he wasn’t keenly aware of what this wretched place was doing to them, how every moment it drained their Anima, devouring them from within; as it was, he could practically feel the teeth of whatever foul force the Shadow Aerie were consorting with scratching away behind his eyes.

“Eldritch canary”, the War Hawk had called him. Inaccurate and reductive, of course, but the specifics of thaumaturgical practice were naturally far beyond most laypeople, and there were far less flattering comparisons she could have drawn. “Doomsayer” might have been more prescient - but, as he had told Everstride when she first challenged him about his nightmares, only mad men believed in Prophecies.

The Hawks pressed ever onwards, closer to the belly of the beast, and Gale tried to forget that it was the canary’s death that usually warned miners they’d best turn back…

Galeholt-argent-dawn · May 15, 2019, 8:57am

As they near Hamanth’s chamber Gale slows, letting the hungry part of his mind roam further than his eyes can reach, searching for veins of power to clamp onto. He feels, more than sees, the room as Sundust begins to relay her scouting report - the throne on which The Breaker sits, the dias before it, and in the pit…

… in… the… pit…

He reels back as if struck, retching up greasy black water. Beside him Dawnsong twitches, lips contorting, trying to pronounce words not shaped for elven mouths. She feels it too. How vast, how terrible. She knows how much of a mistake you’re making. He wonders if she can hear its laughter, wonders how good her mind will taste on our tongues, how delicious it would be to-

He tries to shout a warning; whether it’s lost to his insane babbling (his lips twisting too, now, a torrent of brackish nonsense bubbling forth) or their own stubborness (foolish little lambs, alone in the dark woods) or the wide open sea, dark as pitch, filled with stars he doesn’t know. The Hawks charge, regardless.

Can’t miss this chance to strike at the ha-ha-heart the thing in the pit laughs, its thousand teeth scratching behind his eyes. Your words, little leech-lord. You should have listened to Autumnvale. Should have fled with your trinkets.

You’ve killed them all.

Katyett-argent-dawn · May 15, 2019, 11:11am

IThe morning’s sunrise reflected in the bright golden orbs of the Spellbreaker in a breathtaking display of radiant colours. Bright streaks of red, pink and orange slowly overcame the dark blue and purple of the twilight sky. The blanket above the pale Sin’dorei’s crown made for comparison with that of a prism; all the colours blending perfectly into each other. The sun itself had just peeked out over the horizon, casting it’s brilliant rays across the Aerie, shining brightly whilst warming the air. Katyett marvelled at the glistening reflection of the sun on the deep unfathomable ocean on the surface of her bronzed liquid. The addled mind of the female slowly drifted as she reached the bottom of her tea cup…

Her musings were disrupted when the door to the study was pushed open with a gentle knock announcing the intrusion. Turning her head she locked eyes with a Hood, their face hidden in the darkness of their shroud and yet for once their behaviour, usually stoic and brisk was somewhat reserved. She felt her heart hammer a little on edge for the strange and slight difference of the Hood - of who she wasn’t certain what name they held. “Miss Whitemorn. I am sorry to intrude but I have news. The Escadrille is returning, but I am saddened to announce Hawk Telestra has made his final landing.”

Her expression remained that of soft politeness, her pixie features sweet and reserved as she inclined her head. “Thank you for the news. I appreciated being kept informed.” The Hooded figure turned and closed the study door, leading back into the library where she was often found spending her days.

Standing straight, Katyett withdrew with grace from the study and headed to her rooms. It was here that she found herself standing before the full length mirror at the foot of the azure and violet decorated room. Her eyes wandered with a glazed expression over her reflection. Lowering her deep light engorged orbs to her hands, her pale lips suddenly hitched, catching the glint of the silver in the light that clings to where her arm used to be. Years had passed since she last said goodbye to Telestra, with her hands clasped together tightly, expression always polite to hide the pain in her chest. Pain that she thought she’d have grown accustomed to. One born from the knowledge they may never see each other again as was the case with many Spellbreakers taken from the isle.

A deep swelling rose in the depths of her throat, her heart aching sharply forcing her to quickly slip her metal hand under the confines of a long shawl. Slowly, bit by bit, the Spellbreaker felt herself unravelling. It was like a tide was washing over her, stealing her breath; a Maelstrom that’s building around her body pulling her under. The room began to spin as Katyett concluded the information given to her in the study. Telestra was dead. Another face gone and leaving her alone with her studies. Another cycle repeated. Unable to be prevented even with the great knowledge she strove to obtain, the mistakes drove her to train at the crack of dawn every day in the hopes of becoming better. And she had, she saved more lives, prevented more loss but it had not been enough when her mentor died, and now it had failed her as she sat poised in the empty room of the Aerie. The place of the man that had forced his way into her heart. Tears welled deeply in the corners of her eyes, gathering into streams as her mind swam back to the days of their training, those many suns ago.

—-
Feet thundered and echoed across the long winding streets, past the slumbering barracks of the officers, down the ramp and into the flourishing gardens. Quick breathes broken with jovial laughs lifted into the air causing the groundskeepers to glance up whilst pruning the hedges. It had become somewhat of a normality to see the pair of elves acting beneath their age; the two friends Katyett and Mathanir had become stoutward allies in training and in downtime.

The sun danced off the backs of the two elves as Mathanir lifted Katyett up - who still wore her night clothes, having been stolen in her slumber by the juvenile adolescent. “M-math put me down! Yes- very good, put me down.” Katyett’s voice echoed around the gardens though she remained limp without any attempt to stop the friendly game. A smile formed upon her pale face as she felt the warm trickle of happiness spread across her veins, salted tears pricking her eyes as she raised a hand to hide the evidence of childishness that still resided within her. Mathanir spun in the gardens, lifting Katyett up before draping her fully over his shoulder, the training Spellbreaker no longer seeming to have the spirit to ask him to stop, remaining limp in his grasp, hands flailing around.

“Katyett! Come away from there, your tea is getting cold and we’ve still much to discuss.” The deep voice of her mentor called from behind the pair, causing her to clear her throat and wipe away her smile. “Yes, sir.” The dark eyes of her mentor watched her intently as she walked away reluctantly, looking back to Mathanir. Her mentor returned to speaking at length of the journey they would be taking to extend her training to more foreign magic, although her eyes drifted back each time to find Mathanir.

Tercial another training Spellbreaker had roused from his chambers, still dressed in his night clothes, hair wild and unruly as he too was in the midst of their foolery, caught in the arms of Mathanir as he tickled his fingers along his skin. Katyett giggled to herself, watching as Mathanir spun Tercial about, both colliding against a statue of a revered elven hero that crashed to the hearth. Katyett winced visibly at the sound of smashing stone outside, her eyes slowly looking to the features of her mentor. The black haired Spellbreaker slowly stood, the plated armour bound to his body clicking together and the leathers groaning in protest of the movement as he walked a few steps forward, his long black cloak draping behind him.

Katyett stood and followed, watching from the corner of the pillar as Mathanir legged away leaving Tercial standing in the midst of the chaos. “TEEERCIAAAL!”

——

Katyett closed her eyes and for several seconds sat silent, then she began to speak quietly to herself. “Please-… stop letting me loose my family. My last brother.” Tears began to fall hard and fast, her metal and flesh hands pressing over her eyes as she mourned, a life of longevity doomed to be spent alone. That was her burden it seemed and although she would remain polite and unaffected outside of her solace. Inside she never felt so alone. “Oh Mathanir…”

Daeanneth-argent-dawn · May 17, 2019, 6:07am

The darkness gathered.

The nameless man curled inwards.

He had a name once, he’d had many. Each worn for a different occasion, tailored to suit then put aside when their time was done. No more thought given than a discarded overcoat to disguise the creature within. Some had been fabricated, their histories falsified until they had burst into being, hale and whole, paraded before those destined to be entwined, used in execution, then as suddenly as they appeared they were purged from all records. Others were dead men. Resurrected through the arcane arts, illusion crafted, features sculpted until a long lost brother, cousin, friend, could be slotted into place, and with the slightest of impetus, the world turned to the masters wills.

The masters. They took elves young, moulding them, twisting them, forming shapeless clay ready to be used. The reeducation was brutal. It tore into minds and distorted such inconvenient concepts as right and wrong, until their keepers will was all that was right, and that which did not fit, those whose existence was irksome, organisations whose practices needed ending, became wrong. The desires of the agents were immaterial. They were elves shredded to their basest instincts, survival, and the means to obtain it, knowing the outcome of failure, that ultimately, you were disposable.

The figure crouched beside the man, twice his height at least. It dragged a clawed hand through the jet black locks, balling into a fist and forcing his head upwards.

“Ya tink dey be comin back fa jas? Poor ickle ting. Lost an alone. Ya enjoyin’ jas time wit’may?”

Muscles worked, uncertain and unused from lack of practice, strange and jagged in their movement, as the nameless looked up. After a long while he spoke.

“Who’s coming back for me?”

Darkness twisted.

The nameless man lifted his head and looked around. He knew this place.

How long had it been since he’d set foot here?

Around him the Aeries of Quel’danas stood in eerie silence beneath a starless night. The buildings ruined and crumbling. Shattered stones cast about. Soot blackened and weathered by age, frameworks of buildings jutted up towards the skies, like the bones of a beast long forgotten and left to rot.

A flash of movement caught his attention. Diving himself to his feet he ran after it, falling over stone and dashing his hands against jagged rock, he paid no heed to the black blood oozing from his wounds. Staggering through an archway he stopped.

The Wall.

Towering high above him, words engraved now rang as cruel mockery.

“Only the Brave Inherit the Skies: Forever shall we remember them”

In neat rows were names long forgotten. Generations of fliers lost before him. His gaze fell on one. His own, the carved stone flickering and changing, forming every name he’d ever gone by. But it was not the last. Following on was name after name.

Dawnsong. Starglow. Sundust. Stormsentry. Telestra. Starglow.

Both Starglows, Husband and Wife.

Kal’turan. Summerisle. Raysong. Firstlight. Leyreaver. Summerisle.

Red Seven, the Second Summerisle, name hers by marriage.

Highflame. Summersworn. Solanum. Reddawn. Telestra.

His eyes flit back. A second Telestra? His gaze dropped to the final name.

Autumnvale.

It struck him like a fist to the gut, he stumbled back, turning away from this vision he did not want, only to hit something solid.

Hands grasped him, pinning his shoulders. He looked up into the face of De’vontae Autumnvale. The nameless man nearly sobbed. Here was something real, something true, no nightmare of the list behind him.

The expression of the elf before him didn’t change.

“…Tae?”

The figures gaze locked on him unflinching. Lips parted, flesh cracking and peeling away.

“…Why didn’t you save us…?”

The words screamed on the tongues of tenthousand, a wall of sound that buffeted the ears of the listener, as the speaker burst into flames. Smoke billowing forming a cloud of fire, shades of autumn and sunset in this world of darkness.

The nameless man struggled and fought, dragging himself away he fled the burning corpse. Stumbling over rock and stone he ran firth, blinded by the smoke, nae, fog that had swept over the landscape. Figures moved within.

A piercing ululating cry filled the night and the cloud cleared.

Looming in the starless sky, towering over the Aeries stood a being of shadow, a nightmare, a terror, one that had guarded the blockades of his mind. A gift of the Legion, left in severance those many years ago.

He heard the thud of wings behind him.

“My Wingless Self.”

The power behind the words as they crashed through his mind forced him to his knees. The click of talon on stone punctuated the rasping slither of the serpentine body dragged behind it.

“Ilex I…”

“Silence!”

The strength of the command left him crumpled as the vast blue-silver Dragonhawk towered above him.

“My Dam gave her life for yours. Was her sacrifice not enough? I braved skies more arrow than air, I bore thee through battle and war. And now? Now you fall as prey of thine -mind-”

The whickering laugh was cold and mocking, a harsh, mirthlesss sound.

“Thou are not worthy, my Wingless self. Your weakness fractures, splitting thee apart. Enough of this charade.”

The nameless man looked up, greeted by the sight that heralded the death of so many of his foes.

The maw opened wide, the white hot lotus-bloom erupted.

Screaming, he burned in shadowflame.

Rendran-argent-dawn · May 17, 2019, 9:14am

Early morning Lord Raysong walks along the city in his usual attire. The highly devout individual remaining in an attire that covers his form from head to toe, to show to much skin would be heretical after all.

The elderly lord moves into one of Silvermoon’s prized bakeries and before long begins to ponder over the selection of produce. The baker quietly, albeit slightly cautiously as the silent lord peers over the goods expectantly, is that… The health inspector!? - Alas, it was not, it was merely Raysong whom then brought out a rather hefty bag and began to fill it with a plethora of breads, pastries and cakes.

“Having a feast my Lord?” The baker quite kindly asks, slowly totaling up the price.

“No. I am not.” Lord Raysong replies with his usual blunt manner, forming slightly nerve to the poor, innocent baker.

“Ahah… Well… Do enjoy…” Without a further exchange of words, the Lord hands over a far too heavy hefty sum of gold, far more than required for the baked goods, with that transaction done, he quite simply departs.

With a small walk, carrying the large bag of baked goods, Raysong arrives to a Scryer within the halls of the Spire. With a formal bow the Scryer prepares a portal for Raysong which he swiftly enters without a moment notice, offering the fellow Scryer a mere nod of thanks.

Ah, Shattrath - The location of Raysongs redemption. - There he looks around, smiling calmly to himself as he hears the blessed chimes of A’dal, his light, his savior. But alas, one cannot stay. He quite quickly walks into the lower city towards the orphanage, entering without a word to any of the -commoners- who still reside within the city.

The matron blinks at the Lord’s arrival, bowing her head, knowing quite simply to leave the man alone. Lord Raysong peers to the children and bows his head. - Moving to the table as he begins to spread out the large selection of baked goods from Silvermoon.

“Children do eat up, baked goods are simply superior when fresh. - Matron there is a delivery of milk scheduled to come from the Scryer Sanctum within the next hour, I trust it’ll aid with their growth and health.” With that, Raysong offers a soft smile.

“Mr Raysong!” Squeals a small Draenei boy, laughing as he runs over, hugging the leg of the Lord. - Which quite frankly causes the man to freeze up for a moment before patting his head.

“Hello young one. - I trust you’ve been studying hard since my last visit?” Without a further word Lord Raysong hands the young Draenei boy a buttered scone.

“Oh yes Mister Raysong, I’m going to be the best Anchorite in the world!-… Worlds! A’dal wills it!” The young boy giggles happily, waving a small Draenei prayer bead.

"Good, my young Anchorite, you will serve the light well. I know it. Now, young’un. I must depart to the sanctum, I have work to attend to. Do be sure to share the food granted. He bows his head to the child, a few stands of hair falling from his hood. He offers a calm smile before moving towards the door.

“Elu’meniel mal alann’s, my dear children.” And with that, as the Lord leaves for his duties at the Scryers sanctum, the children begin to giggle and feast, the Matron offering a fond little wave at the Scryer as he departs.

And thus, once more the Scryer, Lord Raysong, returns to his silence, his peace. Praying at A’dal before starting his day of duties at the Scryer, home once more, under the serenity of the Naaru, under the light. How things should be.

Aelevie-argent-dawn · May 17, 2019, 9:24pm

The quarters were quiet, punctuated only by the occasional, feather-soft footsteps of a Handler going about their duties, or the heavier, hesitant tread of a rider or trainee who had over-indulged down in one of the cities drinking dens, and was now trying to make their way back to bed with the clumsiness born of inebriated attempts at stealth.

A candle flickered. Ink rippled slightly, before the quill was withdrawn and reapplied to the parchment. Scritch, scritch, scratch. Line upon line, paragraph after paragraph of writing, usually so neat and tidy. Now, though, it was hasty, frantic even, a stream of consciousness committed directly to the page. Scritch, scritch, scratch.

Aelevie Dawnsong could not sleep. Sleep meant dreaming, and dreaming right now was fraught with shadows, whispers, half-material terrors and a slipping grasp on what was real and what was some waking terror born of the depths of the mind. She scribbled away, focussed instead on obsessive detail of visual and verbal recollection; every leaf on every tree they had passed; the minutia of small talk; the background, comforting rumble of the city.

The city rests beneath the waves…

The quill scrawled a harsh line across the page, the silence shattered by the screech and scrape of the chair being thrust back, Aelevie twisting to stare wildly towards the door, the corners of the room, even the ceiling.

Nothing. No sound, bar the faint hum of activity around the Aerie. No movement, except that of the shadows that shivered and flicked from the candles light.

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned back-
And froze.

The ink boiled, both on the pages and in the pot. Black tendrils slowly curled into the air, as the letters lost their shapes and reformed, strange, aching glyphs and sigils whose dark depths burned into the air and the eye alike. The shadows seemed to loom large upon the walls, taking on forms that were not their own, not natural. Aelevie stared, eyes wide and mouth agape, every muscle and every instinct screaming at her to run, and yet at the same time with every inch of her body feeling like lead, dragging at her, crushing her in her own skin.

Its majesty maligned, but never forgotten. It bides, within the depths…

The door latch snapped up, opening a split second later. Click, click, clack, the sound of polished boots on the stone floor. Another, larger candle, replete in a gilded holder, added to the light of the one on the desk.

The shadows fled. The whispers fell silent, banished by the sound of glass clinking unsubtly on the tabletop. Aelevie blinked, and the words and the grasping darkness were gone entirely, so thoroughly not-there that only the memory, the half-certainty remained.

“A night-cap, my girl. You should go to bed.”

Aelevie blinked again, looking from the glass beside her to the owner of the gloved hand that had placed it.

“I… You…” she managed, words half mumbled.

Arenis Windgaze nodded, seemingly oblivious to her intended meaning.

“Brought you a drink, yes. It is both warm and herbal; perfect for a good nights sleep.”

With fatigue weighing heavily on her, the young woman needed no second bidding. Besides, there was something compelling about the Handlers words. Whether through certainty of tone or some other reason, she simply had neither the knowledge nor the energy to try and decide. She took the glass, downing the milky grey liquid that filled it in a handful of gulps. It was indeed warm, and tasted faintly of almonds. On the whole, not unpleasant.

“Now, off to bed with you. I shall tidy up here,” Arenis ordered, shepherding her towards the alcove that led to her simple bed and wardrobe. There was barely a mumble of protest and, within minutes, Aelevie had collapsed and slipped into slumber.

Arenis waited a moment, unmoving. An observer could even be forgiven for thinking the elf had stopped breathing, so still had he become. In a sudden, silent series of steps he was by the window, glaring left, right, up and then as far down as he was able. A moments scrutiny led to the discovery of nothing out of the ordinary. Turning back to the room, Arenis cast an eye over every square inch of visible surface, before making his way back to the desk. He read through the double-page spread of notes Aelevie had scrawled, eyes narrowing slightly.

Still moving with a minimum of sound, he moved the larger candle from the desk, placing it instead on the small table besides Aelevie’s bed. Returning to the main room, he moved to a small cupboard and, with delicacy, removed a number of candles and stands for them. A moment later and the shadows had been all but driven out, warm candlelight bathing every corner of the room.

Satisfied, Arenis made for the door, looking over his shoulder only once as he paused on the threshold. The draft he had given his young ward was an old, potent medicinal recipe, certainly enough to leave her oblivious to the world until sunrise. He knew, from experience, that it was quite capable of keeping the more mundane nightmares at bay as well. That, he knew, would have to suffice for now. The door shut softly behind him, leaving the room at peace for the night.

Kelrinne-argent-dawn · May 19, 2019, 7:23am

Kel’rinne jolted awake, sat up in bed, a wave of revulsion overtook her, bile rising in her throat. Fear, and emptiness, confusion, and loss tore at her mind. It didn’t make sense. She looked around. Her bedroom. Just as she’d gone to sleep in it. Attatched to her office, the usual humdrum assortment of odds and ends, a bedroom that spoke of never expecting anyone else to see inside it .

What had woken her? she hadn’t felt this hollow since the fall, as if a great hand had passed through her, scraping out her insides until nothing was left but a flimsy shell.

She staggered from he bed, out onto the balcony. Pushing the windowed doors open she sucked in lungfulls of the cold night air. It did nothing. She drowned on dry land, suffocated in open air Her mind felt as if it were shattering. Trying to comprehend something too large, too terrifying to force herself to look at it. Instead all she could do was think “around” it.

Huge wracking sobs tore her apart as she collapsed to her knees, an animalistic howl screaming from her. She watched, detached, as if observing another, stood beside herself observing this broken wretch silently, not experiencing this moment as ‘her’.

What could have done…

She froze. The pain of it was unbearable. It couldn’t be true…

There had to be another reason.

As her grief shredded her from the inside out, she knew.

The rune had fallen silent.

Her Brother, Mathanir, was dead.

Yasmyr-argent-dawn · May 21, 2019, 5:36pm

With thanks to the Rastari Pact and the Wheel of Entropy for their assistance with last night’s fresh batch of traumagowning…

Lake Elrendar was quiet when she reached its southern shore, draped in the Ghostland’s sepulchral gloom, the Eternal Sun’s light only a pale glow on the distant horizon. A far cry from her childhood playground, no semi-feral brigade of army brats scrapping over which of them got to play Ranger-General Talanas and which had to settle for being the Trollish Hordes (she could almost feel the stripes of lake-mud on her cheeks, the sting in her knuckles from reminding everyone only one person got to play Alleria in their generation-blending pantommime). Now only she and the restless dead remained beneath the watchful-but-distant eyes of the Enclave.

It was the closest thing Lieutenant Starglow’s parents had to a grave - the Farstriders of the Blackened Woods, pragmatic as ever, having favoured cremation long before the Fall - and so it was here she came to… to what? To apologise for having bent the knee to Jan’alai? To explain that she was just following their example - the duty of every right-minded citizen, to give their all for the High Kingdom?

Mostly, if she were honest with herself, to be alone.

Her throat itched, the livid red stain left by the boiling blood aching every time she talked, swallowed, breathed even, a constant reminder of the lines she refused to cross. To respectfully broker the return of a captive held by hostile forces - three totems, one fulfilled oath, in exchange for the Blood Hawk - was one thing, but to beg their forgiveness for millennia of conflict, as if the Amani were innocent victims of elven savagery and not vice-versa? No. That was too far. The visions the Prophet had shown them - the endless tide of rangers past and present, the faces of friends and family grown monstrous as they reveled in the slaughter - were supposed to break them, but had only served to temper her indignation into a bulwark of quiet rage.

Sitting near the water’s edge, running her fingers through the coarse, pebbly sand, Yasmyr sighed. Things had been so much simpler when the sun still warmed the shoreline and trolls were the monster in the shadows, not awkward bedfellows.

They’d warned her after - Priestess and Prophet and Hexxer, each in their turn - that her Pride would kill her one day; she’d laughed, said it would have to join the queue. There were worse ways to die - split from gizzard to groin by an Amani war-axe, for one. They’d had other warnings too, though, ones harder to ignore, about the toll the ritual had taken on Her Fliers, and though she’d set her jaw (shoulders back, tall and brave just as her mother taught her) and coldly replied that the High Kingdom expected her - paid her handsomely, even - to turn children like Autumnvale into soldiers it was hard not to worry, at least a little, that defeating the Shadow Aerie would turn them all into something far worse.

Brigante-argent-dawn · May 30, 2019, 2:25am

The Elf lay back on his sofa, divested of his armour, a bottle of ale in his hand, drinking quietly so as not to wake Tarrithael or the twins. How was this meant to work. So much had gone wrong…He wasn’t even sure it could be put right, Like a…a diviners ball dropped on the floor, there are too many shards that you can’t even put them back together again. “Swive me…” he muttered, before his vision flashed back, atop Sunspear, holding the Lanyard in his hand, for the Annihilatrix Tactical Mana Weapon, bellowing “I AM YOUR GOD NOW!” and letting it fly… He’d been bad then. Very bad. He had been taken, controlled even, by hubris, and it was his officers and subalterns who had saved him. Those had been terrible times, and he was resolved never to allow himself to slip that way again, but…what was happening now?

He swigged from his bottle of ale and tried to straighten his back, he’d had a crick in it for days, It was causing him pain. Part of getting old, Tarri would chide him, she’d never know how much that idea terrified him. Getting old meant your reactions slow, and for a flier, that meant your time was up, you either retired, or you were slain in combat. Brigante knew he could never retire… He sipped from his ale. “I Could have been a Ranger-Lord by now, If I’d just kept my swiving opinions to myself” he growled. But that was always his problem, always had been. Always would be.

He couldn’t stay quiet. He couldn’t play the ‘Good little Soldier’ whilst things occurred he could not countenance. So where was he now… he sipped from his bottle of ale and sighed “I’ve got to swive one lad, or two, or maybe both, or I can bottle it and let the second get done in by the Hawk Fliers” He swung himself to sit upright, beer clenched in his right hand as his left ran through his hair. The worst thing was, one lad he had to upbraid was actually older than him, and…He didn’t even disagree with what the elf said, but, he had to stop him saying it, or it would get the other elves under his command into trouble…did that…make him Responsible? Or a Coward? Or Both? Maybe that was the duty of a Commander… It probably was. Put your own feelings under the table and do what you need to. Someone should have written a book about how to command Fliers….

Perhaps he would, when he retired. He laughed harshly, before quieting himself. “When he Retired!” Good joke. Funny. It…wouldn’t hurt though, to leave a legacy, something to aid Yasmyr or whoever came after him as Commandant.

The other was trickier, he had to preside over an organised Lynching. He swigged from the bottle of ale, placing it on a high shelf for removal tomorrow, the Twins had gone mobile, and were finding all manner of mischief to get into, He delighted in seeing them scampering around, just as he delighted in seeing Tarrithael out of her chair, and walking, albeit with sticks, but at the same time it made him as nervous as a long tailed cat in a rocking chair factory, so he habitually put -everything- up high, even empty beer bottles. Infants were such rapscallions and as much danger to themselves as others!

Just like Fliers…he thought. Just like Fliers….

He blew out the candle, softly closed the living room door, and quietly ascended the stairs to sleep.

He heard the faint whuffling of Tarri, Laindor and Kayrissa as they slept, and he smiled crookedly. Those problems, the Disciplinaries, the Shadow Aerie, the upcoming threats. Sure and they were all tomorrows problems. Thats was tomorrow’s world. He looked at his wife, with their two infant children held by her side, old enough not to sleep in a crib anymore.

“This is todays world” he muttered, as he lay down, laying an arm over the three, Tarri instantly crooking an eye open “What you say?” “Just some rubbish, chaff of words,” “No surprise there then” she said and smiled.

And just for a little while, for a little tiny while, the Family Summerisle slept happily, and without fear.

Such a shame the world cannot grant such mercies for long.

Yasmyr-argent-dawn · June 9, 2019, 11:54am

As most of our previous influx of Rookies have progressed to the noble rank of Hawk, we’re pleased to announce that recruitment is once again Open.

The First Escadrille are currently deployed to the Hinterlands, but should be back in SMC from tomorrow until Thursday. Contact Yasmyr, Daeanneth or Narmë to discuss enlistment.

Lortheâs-argent-dawn · June 11, 2019, 10:34pm

The late hours of the night were slowly creeping up on Quel’Danas.

The Aerie was silent.

Slumbering.

Yet, Lor’theas remained awake.

Resting upon the bed with his legs folded beneath him, his hand drew elegantly across the blank pages of his journal albeit with some effort, guided only by a dim nearby light.

He remained weak, confined to the bed most of the time whenever he didn’t find the strength or will to rise out of bed if only to for his legs to see some use. Or so he would tell the orderly, anyway. In truth he was far too restless to sit about, unable to find a reason or a calm suitable enough to meditate in his current state.

The pain was disorienting. Wincing, he reaches for the recently applied bandages with a soft sigh, applying some pressure to the sutures.

A night elf’s spear had caused most of the damage. She had landed two lucky blows, weakening him significantly by first impaling him upon the blade, sinking the weapon into his abdomen before pulling it along the left side of his waist. The night prior he had suffered an arrow, a single feathered projectile of a barrage finding its way through his armor.

For now, that’s what kept him awake.

The struggle of being an abomination, of being different.
To being unsusceptible to the conventional ways of healing.

The strokes echoed throughout the halls, being the only source of sound with everyone else asleep. Or so Lor’theas hoped, anyway. Unused to writing in general, he grimaced every now and then as struggled to get the letters right. While he otherwise detested reading or even writing, a trait picked up following far too many years as an understudy of the Sunreavers, he had no choice but to endure it.

If not for himself then for the others.

Sunwake’s offer had been tough but not unreasonable.
Though he had found his recognition, it came at a cost.

He was now forced to share, carrying an outlet for his emotions with him wherever he went, a reminder to keep him leveled and balanced whenever his mind would betray him. Now he had no excuses as to why he couldn’t share or why he couldn’t open up, only doing it to himself.

All things considered, it could’ve ended a lot worse.

Rider’s Log | First Entry | Rookie Lor’theas Leyreaver
12th Day, 6th Month, Year 33
The Sans, The Aerie, Quel’Danas

[Several first attempts at an entry have been crossed out]

I was unable to make an entry following our deployment.

We departed from Silvermoon City five days ago to join the Horde’s efforts in the Hinterlands. Recuperating following severe injuries, returned three nights ago.

I remain in pain, but recovering slowly.

I have been relocated to the Sanitorium together with Vianea and Sanaryn, all three of us treated for injuries sustained against the Alliance offensive. They are stable, as far as I can tell, but I worry all the same. We were met with heavy resistance, facing a for relentless in their resolve. But for the first time in almost a month I felt as if I was given room to do what I do best. What I was trained to do, what I am supposed to do, standing on the frontlines, blade in hand. Additionally, I followed the advice of Sunwake to keep close to the other spellbreaker as well, Gaxxius, even in battle. Although, I will admit that it grieves me to have to regard the Alliance as an enemy, having spent so many years fighting beside them with the Sunreavers. We aren’t as different as one might think, our world is seldom as black and white as we make it out to be. I learned my lesson in voicing those concerns, though.

There are those that do not see.

The journey back home with my wyvern proved easier than I had expected. I feared my wounds would be far too strained seated in the saddle, strapped in my nine. Fortunately, unlike myself, he returned from deployment unscatched. However, based on my own conclusions I can expect to be grounded and out of commission for some time but I’ll allow final judgement to those that know best. That said, I’m not feeling too well. It has been a long time since I’ve been damaged like this. My encounter with a particular member of the Nathrezim on Argus comes to mind, a duel I’ll soon forget since I carry a token of it atop my lip every day. It’s perhaps fitting that I don’t have anywhere else to go for now, if only to avoid being seen like this. At least I’ll be able to heal in peace if my stay proves to be prolonged.

The interactions with the rest of the hawks so far are difficult but manageable.

The tools I was provided from Sunwake are working but it’s difficult nonetheless. There isn’t a moment where I’m not forced to struggle with how to act or respond, forcing myself to be calm, to not see them as hostile, to be brave and to disregard the impulses to look away or leave. But the anger remains overwhelming. I’m struggling not to succumb to it, especially since I’m not feeding properly still.

What vexes me most regards my worries for those I care about. Two of which lie in this very room, only a few feet from me respectively.

I do try to disconnect myself as previously discussed with Sunwake.

Reminding myself of the tether I’ve made for myself which connects all of them, not just a single individual. Finding courage and strength in protecting all of them, caring for all of them. To strive to be the elder brother I once was, albeit for another family than the one I had.

Or the one I wished for, rather.

The Blood Hawk has yet to make an appearance. I worry, as mentioned, for his health following his return. I could use his advice. I could use my answers. About the vision, about what I saw, about what he told me.

If it even was him.

But it is nothing compared to my worry for Kel’rinne: the endless wonder as to how she is doing, how angry she is with me, how much she blames me. At the same time, I fault myself for staying away. Can I even claim to love someone I avoid so adamantly? I hurt her. I shouldn’t see her, I have forsaken that right. However, the inability to see her has been more of a strain than I’ve cared to admit, most of all to myself. Yet the guilt and the shame have been the two leading factors to me distancing myself from her, and with that the entire entourage it beckons. I am not what she or they need. I’ve caused enough damage as it is.

For now, it’s better that I keep my distance.

And stay far away.

Thankfully I’m stuck here.

Brigante-argent-dawn · July 15, 2019, 12:46pm

Hubris. It strikes us all, he reflected as he sat in the infirmary at Agmar’s Hammer.

He often joked about it, recognising that flaw in himself. “If I had a middle name, I would be Brigante ‘Hubris’ Summerisle.
A joke. But one that had almost gotten him killed.

A multi-racial aerial unit, initially tasked with reconnaissance, but had seen the loathly wyrm, spotted by one of the Orc fliers, ironically a one with only one eye, yet for that one eye, had seen better than his elves with two eyes. That creature, a terrifying thing of an age long thought gone and buried, skeletal, an impossibility, flying whilst lacking all but the most rudimentary tatters of wings, a thing that during what he referred to as ‘The War of Frozen Flesh’ struck fear into any flier who served during the War against Arthas. Folk may give them many names, most had names, and they were intelligent, could speak even, and name themselves, but most gave them just one name, a name that struck dread into fliers, be you a rider of Dragonhawks, Wyverns, Gryphons, Hippogryphs. One name.

Frostwyrm.

The Sun Hawks, the Horde fliers had lanced from the skies, against such dread foe, What use Dragonflame against a thing of bone? What use arrows? So it was close in Warfare, it would rain down frost and fire on the Horde’s ground troops if unchecked, and he had said himself “We are not prepared to take on this foe just yet”, but if not they, then…Who?

It was a battle of swift ferocity, the cold biting at the Horde Fliers even as the dread creature itself lashed at them. He had realised the futility of loosing arrows, instead taking up the ancient spear, Duran’dal, that aged Kaldorei blade would play the orator for his intentions.

He made many passes, as did the Horde fliers, blades and spellfire flashing through the air as they assailed the vast monstrosity. They knew it was hopeless, dangerous beyond compare, yet Brigante had felt a certain content, as battle was joined. He had given the order to attack, unsure whether ‘Dragonfear’ would still any of his fliers, or the other Horde fliers, who he knew not, so well as to be sure of their courage.

He need not have doubted.

With a cry of Lok’tar Ogar, the Horde fliers sliced, like so many sabres, through the icy skies and into the foe, who was most ungentle in their attentions in return.

He could hear the panic, the rage, the fury, from the Fliers, as they were in turn attacked by the horrific creature, a malevolent thing of bone and tatters that had no -business- in ‘his’ skies!

Yet none, Blood Elf, Orc, Troll, Tauren, Goblin, None held back. They would not let their comrades on the ground down.

Even as wounds were taken, and legends made, all held their resolve.

And then Hubris.

“Hubris will get you killed one day boy” His Instructors and Commandant had told him.

Now he was the Commandant.

Why had he forgotten that basic lesson?

Duran’dal scored along the spine of the necrotic monster, biting into bone, his third successful blow on the creature, glowing blue as it did so, he had yelled “I AM THE GREATEST!” as he flashed over the creature’s head.

Hubris.

It will get you killed.

It was a jerk at first, suddenly he and Sunspear were not travelling like the laughing princes of Azeroths Skies, He fell forwards in his flight harness, and swallowed even as he turned his head.
He blinked. “Oh…this is it then?” he remarked. The Frostwyrm had grabbed Sunspear in its maw, and as mighty as Sunspear was, he was a rag doll, dashed around, shaken, Brigante screaming as his brains felt they were dashed against the inner walls of his skull. Sunspear himself infuriated, turning and coiling, trying to loose flame on his vast assailant.

No. This was it.

“I’m…Sorry” he murmured as his world became a nightmare of spinning skies and deadly ground, as the Frostwyrm savaged them both.

He realised how pathetic as last words they were, who was he apologising to? War-Hawk Reddawn, ‘Kilrogg’ for leaving her in command of this mission with his death? Tarrithael, for leaving her a Widow? Kayrissa and Laindor for leaving them without a father, the Horde ground forces below? He knew. He knew. He laid a hand on Sunspear’s armoured and wounded body, as they were flung around as the Frostwyrm’s teeth bit deeper.

He knew.

He laid his bleeding and battered body close to the Dragonhawk and just mouthed “I’m sorry”. His heart almost broke as he got the message? Words? Sending? From his battle-brother. “So am I”

Jolts, shaking, Freedom!

The Horde Fliers had attacked the Frostwyrm with such ferocity that it turned its attentions to them, not the prey being shaken to pieces in its maw.

He could almost have wept in gratitude, but weeping at this height, in this weather? Was a dangerous business that could blind an elf, besides, there was the not inconsiderable fact that even from seven hundred feet or so up, he could see that himself and Sunspear were leaving a blood trail below them, on Wyrmblight’s pristine snows,

“War-Hawk, you have command” He muttered into his Communicator, trusting the arcano-tech device was still working.

Then just a cold whistle, the air past his ears as he and Sunspear both fought for air, trying to keep the height, all they needed was enough to be high enough to cross the treeline and walls of Agmar’s Hammer. Please Fates let them have that small Mercy…

His vision was blurred as he saw the fortress approach, Sunspear’s breathing was…irregular, laboured, he could not effect a proper landing, they both crashed down in a cascade of snow, Horde forces rushing over.

“I think we’re both alive” he said as he unbuckled his harness and slid from the saddle.

Hubris?

It will get you killed.

Kagryn-argent-dawn · July 19, 2019, 1:21pm

Have a lot of respect for you guys as being perhaps the only aerial guild on horde side. To go out and approach a concept with such passion and finesse is something to be commended!

I am sure we will meet side by side in the air against Gryphon and Gyrocopter.

Lok’tar Ogar!

The Sun Hawks: Five Years on...

THE FIRST TRIAL | Lor’theas Leyreaver