-Third of the Eighth Month, Seventh Year after Restoration-
Aelevie sat silently, her tent a little haven of quiet in the bustle of the war camp. A candle flickered on her field desk, illuminating the canvas confines as she scribed away in her diary. Things had settled down for the evening; the healers were taking it in shifts between the infirmary and those who, while not critical, still needed medical aid to get back in the field.
She paused, glancing at the etched pair of golden wings that was sat on the desk beside her. She was not neglecting her comrades, she knew, but the necessities of life still felt like they were putting a distance between her and those she called friends and even family.
With a faint sigh she returned to her writing. Such were the demands of war, she realised, something she had only within the year begun to appreciate. She would make up for it, when time or, Sun willing, peace allowed.
Then, there is that other reason…
Aelevie stopped, golden eyes flicking up to stare accusingly at the shadows flung into the far corners of the tent. To most they would look like nothing more than the dark caused by the candlelight, the delineation between lit and unlit.
But…
She watched them, the shadows within shadows coiling and twisting idly, like a snake basking and sluggish in the sun. After many months and using Galeholt’s advice she had quieted the whispers to little more than a background hiss, for the most part. With the Light as both her weapon and her shield the Shadow that clung to her had settled into patient idleness, until the point where she chose to draw it out.
That cult leader in Northrend… He had been the first to have that power tested in the open. It still disturbed her a little, as it rightly should do. And yet these new abilities were powerful indeed. She knew her people and indeed her peers dabbled in esoteric powers and means, and the Shadow was very much a direct opposite of the Light. And yet with knowledge and understanding came control and defence, along with a more diverse arsenal to deploy against their enemies.
Discipline was the key here, Aelevie knew. And, child of lesser nobility as she was, discipline and restraint was something she had learned at an early age. She was not about to succumb to some semi-sentient consciousness, not even a true intellect, that had been forced upon her. Not now, not ever.
Brigante flickered his eyes open, listening to the gentle patter of raindrops on his tent, outside he could hear the grunt and settling noise of Sunspear as they roused and settled again, woken by their battle-brother’s shiftlessness. More than a thousand years of sleeping in tents had taught him that the rain always sounded worse, hitting the tent canvas, than it actually was. He sat, and with a gesture waved a hand, setting the candle in his tent aflame, taking up his pen, parchment and a bottle of ink. He dipped the pen into the ink and started writing.
“To my Dear Heart, Tarrithael Summerisle,
I…”
He paused, what did he write? What could he write? That he was so tired? That nerves were starting to fray, within the Horde forces, morale and discipline breaking down? That the order had just been given by the Force Commander for Unrestricted Aerial Warfare. There would be restrictions. He would not turn his key on the Annihilatrix crate, he doubted Flight Lieutenant Starglow would either, rest of the munitions…fair game.
So many times, the last few evenings, as the battles ended and the screaming really started, he had found himself in the horde field hospital, no magical mender he, but skilled with scalpel and sewing thread. He…thought he must have tended one of each Horde race, bar possibly a Huojin, this war was consuming lives the way a wolf consumes rabbits. He had sewn a Forsaken’s -arm- back on, then watched in wonder as they flexed it, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, proscribed an emetic to a troll, deliberately, at the patient’s request, stitched up a wound in a fashion that would leave an aesthetically pleasing scar for an Orc.
Then…Then the hardest ones. When they came in, blood smearing their red and gold tabard, the golden dragonhawk covered in blood, as if a motif for this engagement. His Boys. His Girls.
Hurting.
Hells with that, the war needed to be taken to the enemy, and the Force Commander had authorised such. Air Warfare was back on the menu. He laid back, his mind racing with the possibilities, whereas beside him, a spilled bottle of ink, over a parchment piece, the words written upon it.
“To my Dear Heart Tarrithael Summerisle,
I am so tired….”
Presently the pen fell from his hands, as the elf fell into slumber, the rat-a-tat-tat of the raindrops his lullaby, whilst outside, Horde and Alliance turned Feralas’ green, red.
Flames flickered and grew, casting vast sinewed shadows across the crimson tapestries that hung suspended from the oval ceiling. The dark bewitching silhouettes tauntingly brushed into the dancing light of the temple, breaking the revery of the disciple that knelt in meditation at its centre.
A disturbed intake of air echoed about the empty building and reverberated off the uninhabted benches that once held the forms of many. The disciple opened his eyes, glints of a bright fragmented yellow haze swept over his pupils hiding them in an opaque swirl. His attention drew up to the red coloured glass before him that bathed the room in a carnivorous tint.
The light had grown stronger since he had taken to the slate floor in remembrance of his tenents. It was likely mid afternoon and the city would have been in its full cycle with the business of the children of blood and their dark skinned allies. An aching pain trickled up his elevated left arm, prickling up to his shoulder as a reminder of his posture. He had been in the same position for hours, arms aloft with the gold cast sun in his left hand and the blood red crystal in his right.
He was almost ready to leave the forgotten temple, to return to his usual table in the light of the arcane crystals at the vast library of the spire. There he could continue his pouring over the texts of the most recent battles that have torn across Azeroth at the behest of the banshee queen and boy king. But before this, before he could leave, he had to remember.
To remember what had brought him to this moment.
To remember for his people and who they were.
To remember in times where snakes hiss in the ears of his flock, what was not to be forgotten to avoid the past repeating.
“Solarium Blackshield, the tide is turning. Will you make your choice?”
“You must forget us here son. You must repent and live for our sins and for the madness of the sun prince.”
“You dare to turn your hand on your father after all I have bestowed upon you?”
“Run! Run now and never forget! The blood of M’uru stains your soul Blackshield! You will never be able to outrun what colours your feet!”
“She worships the light like the humans in her guilt for what we did. She has become its slave and tainted everything our people ever stood for. Take it Blackshield! Take it and make it yours! Bend to no one!”
Standing, Erolithius places down the golden sun and the red orb to the table before him, turning to walk the empty hall of the temple and out into the waiting sun beyond. The words of his past trilled in his mind, fangs bared with sharp barbed emotions attached to each unforgotten syllable. Brushing the fabric that cascaded over the doorway, he turned his frame to the balcony that overlooked the Isle of Quel’Danas below. If he did not choose his side soon then it would be the same fate as before with the sun prince.
In the sky a silhouette of a gliding Dragonhawk danced and twisted across the brilliance of the afternoon sun. A sweet melody called out from its open maw before diving down to the buildings below. Leaning back on the balls of his feet, the disciple allowed a thin smile to form on his pallid face. Yes. That was the sign he had been waiting for. It was this path he was destined to take.
The temple returned to silence as it’s only disciple left and headed out towards the base of the first Escadrille; where he would apply to become the world’s most fabulous flier, the disciple who would touch the sun with his own fingers and bring down the wrath and justice of his people to the alliance and its traitors.
“And so, we shall bless the sinners as they burn.”
Entry Eight
Some time has passed since I’ve looked in this book.
In truth it has been difficult to look back at it and not feel a mixture of emotions; pride, warmth, regret, loneliness… It goes on. There have been plenty of times where I have questioned my own judgment, my decisions and my place in this world. Plenty of times where I wondered if I should have done things differently.
Things have changed. I have changed. A year or so ago I was just an ignorant young man knowing very little about the world beyond the forever Autumn of Eversong; now I have seen much of both beauty and horror. There is a longing to go back to that simpler time.
The Warlord returned for his favour, during a skirmish in Northrend. A familiar state of affairs, considering I had been there before, fighting both cultist and death itself. A fight that was hard won, but with losses. A fight where I saw the Alliance’s brutality first hand – their arrogance immeasurable. Apart from a few, at least.
He bid me to fight in Feralas – to push the Kaldorei to the brink and scatter them to the wind – and so, to avoid his wrath, I did. I still have nightmares even now.
The brutality, the ferociousness and the sheer rage behind those fights was exhausting. I fought with all I had, yet it never felt like enough. Time and time again I returned wounded, but time and time again I went back out to face it all over again. I am no soldier, but I can see now how this can change them. How war changes them.
After a week of fighting, of emotional and physical fatigue and of seeing my friends lay wounded or dying over and over, I felt no pride, nor feeling of victory. I felt relief.
During the celebratory feast with those who had fought in that jungle, new and old comrades asked me about my future. I wouldn’t be going back to the clan, but I didn’t see myself as part of the Honorbound, either. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I was afraid, that I didn’t want to go back to those scenes of death. Perhaps Kyr was glad that I didn’t accept the offer.
Instead, I thought of a new prospect. A group of people I had fought alongside a few times – good people – and people who fight for Quel’thalas. As the Horde continues to be chaos and the Alliance’s attention potentially being drawn towards my homeland, I saw fit to fight for a cause I believe in. The very reason I have put myself through hell again and again.
I enlisted into the First Escradille of the Sun Hawks.
I must have been mad; perhaps I was. Someone with a fear of heights wanting to fly? It sounds ridiculous and yet it is true. I can’t let it stop me, however. Since leaving the first place I called home, I never expected to feel the same way about something again. This does. It feels right. If I must fight my fears for it to become a reality? Then so be it.
Whilst I focused on myself, I didn’t realise that I wasn’t the only one thinking about their path in life. Fate has split me and Aaillish apart, perhaps indefinitely. I respect her decision, as she does mine, even if our hearts may ache.
I will always keep her close, no matter how far we may always be from each other. She may have lost her faith, but I hope Elune keeps her safe.
From the ashes of war we rise,
Burning bright for all to see,
Cutting a trail of embers,
The skies ablaze,
Our wings keep us forever free.
[To see previous entries, please go to my AA profile!]
Lovely development and writing there, Erithur! Keep us posted on his future thoughts please!
This is one of my favourite AD guilds of all times and these journal entries are one of the reasons why. 
Having a blast finally meeting you people IC as my little elf Aide!
Brigante sipped from the cup of water and set it back down, looking through the papers again, exemplary reports, top of his class, a successful career in the Third Escadrille, even marked for future promotion to Subaltern.
Where had it all gone wrong?
He looked over the crabbed writing of Wing Commander Dawnbreak on the unit citation document. “The Hawk to be granted the Ace Name of ‘Razor’ for their signature attack move, rather than pursue a foe, they slice in from one side, often attacking a different foe than the one expected”
He grunted, he remembered the ceremony, he could even remember the engraving on the bottom of ‘Razor’s Ace Tankard.
Where had it all gone wrong?
Service record: Perfect, on the fast track for promotion, the elf clearly destined for better things, he had medals too, Phoenix Banner in Bronze, twice, and in Silver, a Wounded Skies ribbon, and then…this…
How had he fallen in with Umbric’s Cult? What was the tie there…He could not find, from the elf’s dossier, any familial link, or even social link, with the Ren’dorei traitors, but then allegiances were dangerous things these days, as the Horde went backwards, back towards a mad orc screaming and spewing spittle even as the world came to put them down like a rabid dog. The more things change, the more they stay the same…
He would have to send fliers, of course. They would have to hunt him down, ‘Razor’, Malinche Sunshadow and the rest of this so called ‘Shadow Aerie’. They could not allow traitors from Quel’thalas to promulgate the teachings, even worse, to have absconded with Military Pedigree Dragonhawks, although what the poor creatures were now, after Void magics, was unknown.
He flipped over a section of the dossier, to the records of the Flier’s Dragonhawks, Battlesister One: ‘Sunarrow’ Deceased over Northrend during the War of Frozen Flesh. Battlebrother Two: ‘Darksun.’ Still extant.
‘Darksun’. He did not like the sound of that, almost like a portent…
The treachery of the Ren’dorei was to an extent, expected, but he had not expected the early morning flights, the bewildered Handlers, left behind as their ‘Boys and Girls’ had fled the Aerie, stupid of him, he should have expected it, the instant the Void Cult was exposed it was naive to think that the Aerie was immune to such corruption.
And now here he was. Reading the file of an elf that in any other situation would be a hero, three times decorated for service, a wound ribbon, Forty one confirmed aerial kills,
And he had to send his Elves to go and kill this person?
He closed the folder, and steepled his fingers, deep in thought.
Where had it all gone wrong?
Hi there, I’m interested in joining, but despite checking every night for an officer, there doesn’t seem to be one available? Are you still active and recruiting?
Cheers!
~ Vanadria
There’s been a brief spell where folks have been unavailable due to RL stuff and commitments.
Next week should be a clearer calendar though 
Ah thank you. Unfortunate all your officers are tied up at once - Sure I’ll catch them at some point 
Its kind of an end-of-Summer lull, once Autumn kicks in it will back to business as usual 
Hey there! You picked the weekend both officers were away LARPing, so we’ve not been anywhere near a computer for a few days. I’m back now, but collapsing on a sofa with chinese takeaway and awful cooking shows until my brain starts working again. Normal service should resume tomorrow.
If I’m not in-game, but another Sun Hawk is, ask them to poke me via Discord.
True facts, we were both being loons in a big field, Thankfully my techy problems have been fixed, so like Yas, I should be back in game soon.