https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX8F9Nns29c
Bhalneath moved to the rear of the Armouries with the new inductee..
The Golems had already viewed the clay imprints.
The lad nervously looked at Chief Bhalneath “What ...do you mean, end of days?”
The Swarthy elf shook his head “Means they win or the world loses”
“What...do you mean?”
“If they win, few will know, if they lose, few will live long enough to realise,”
The Door hissed open, a chamber brightly light, cool, its very breath like a soothing caress after the heat of the Armouries. Workers in white aprons and masks worked, a trailer was already laden, the white, shaped crates, ‘impossible’ for one elf to open, laid upon them.
The new lad sighed, and involuntarily his hand touched the casing of one of the crates. There was something seductive...his hand trailed the writing “Tactical Mark Four Mana Weapon”, and below it, “Annihilatrix...for She Sings!”
“Thats a sick joke” The new lad said.
Chief Bhalneath raised an eyebrow. “You think so?” He slammed his own hand down, pinning the youngsters to the casing of the bomb container. “Listen!” he growled. The young lad squirmed, but Bhalneath held his hand firm on the casing...and the worst was….he was right...as an Elf there was something horrible, something seductive about the Mana contained within, all he had to do was reach out and ..take...but to do so...how would you stop? To start, however tempting, would make you Wretched. Who could stop? Who could hold this power and -Not- succumb… If he drained just this one crate he would be...a G- NO! He shook his head and dragged his hand away, even as Chief Bhalneath let him.
“She sings” He muttered.
Chief Bhalneath nodded grimly. “They all sing. Know why lad?”
“Why?”
Bhalneath started tugging on the trolley, dragging the crates to the loading bay.
“Because they want to go to war, and they know they are”.
“They...They can’t sing! They’re just Bombs!”
“I don’t know about that lad, they’re not -just- anything, those there are the most powerfully destructive weapons on the planet.”
“If they want to sing? I’m not going to stop them”
“Now you going to help pull this swiving trolley or not, it needs loading in two hours.”
1 Like
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqLTe8h0-jo
It was early morning, and all over Silvermoon, the same drama, the saddest story ever, was told and retold. The words different, the settings, but the unremittant desire, the worries, all the same, the saddest story ever told.
Of when men and women go to war.
In some cases, the ‘lucky ones’?, the couples served together, preparing their kit, joking and laughing, their shared bravado a mutual shield.
In others, a father or mother sat, a plastered smile on their face, as a young child played a tune on an instrument, their partner staring at them. “Do you have to go? Haven’t we won?”
Some, footloose and fancy free had nothing but their own uncertainties and a string of gambling debts to leave behind, and for them, some could say, it was worse. They had no one, nothing, to come back for.
To live for.
The poem was true.
“They also serve, who stand and wait”
In all iterations of this story, one thing was true. When leaving the house, one pair of eyes would flash to the skies, and yearn to be there. They were tethered to the ground by their loves, by their children.
But this was it. The last push.
Most of them woke in either a !@#$%’s embrace, or a lovers, or a spouses, one didn’t.
His eyes wouldn’t open, he heard a child playing a keyboard. Asharion….
He shifted, broken glass crackling beneath him...good job he had slept in his armour, Sitting up and wincing as his hand touched the sharded glass. Tarri was...still not out of the woods yet, and neither of them had any idea what would come out of her womb.
Hells. He had slept in his armour, and slept on the floor, staring at the ceiling….
Again…
The Empty bottles showed why.
He could not bring her out of the Sanitorium, His first loving action to whatever child she birthed, may have to be to wring its neck from mercy, same as Maladante had to Kayrissa, his younger sister. Was this….a Reward? Was this meant to inspire him to lead the entire Aerie, in this, the final Aerial Battle?
Just one tragedy out of countless. Across Silvermoon, the saddest story ever told, was played out…
Again, and again, as kitbag by kitbag, flight harness by flight harness, kiss on brows or lips, embrace and promises, the Six Escadrilles went to War.
All because of one elf, who lay looking at the ceiling amidst the wreckage of a drunken bender, his hair filled with broken glass….
“Am I...doing the right thing?”
He looked to his side, but there was no one to answer him...for she was not here..
“Demons run when a good man goes to war
Night will fall and drown the sun
When a good man goes to war
Friendship dies and true love lies
Night will fall and the dark will rise
When a good man goes to war
Demons run, but count the cost
The battle's won, but the child is lost”
Brigante closed his eyes, weeping, just hearing Asharion playing the child’s keyboard they had bought him.
In his mind, She was there, Cloud haired and furious, her eyes sparks The Skies “I told you, from the start, just how this would end!”
He lay, in his blanket of broken glass, and prepared mentally for the ‘Forever War’. Nightmare Green.
“This is the end” he murmured as the fragments cut into him.
It was early morning, and all over Silvermoon, the same drama, the saddest story ever, was told and retold. The words different, the settings, but the unremittant desire, the worries, all the same, the saddest story ever told.
Of when men and women go to war.
In some cases, the ‘lucky ones’?, the couples served together, preparing their kit, joking and laughing, their shared bravado a mutual shield.
In others, a father or mother sat, a plastered smile on their face, as a young child played a tune on an instrument, their partner staring at them. “Do you have to go? Haven’t we won?”
Some, footloose and fancy free had nothing but their own uncertainties and a string of gambling debts to leave behind, and for them, some could say, it was worse. They had no one, nothing, to come back for.
To live for.
The poem was true.
“They also serve, who stand and wait”
In all iterations of this story, one thing was true. When leaving the house, one pair of eyes would flash to the skies, and yearn to be there. They were tethered to the ground by their loves, by their children.
But this was it. The last push.
Most of them woke in either a !@#$%’s embrace, or a lovers, or a spouses, one didn’t.
His eyes wouldn’t open, he heard a child playing a keyboard. Asharion….
He shifted, broken glass crackling beneath him...good job he had slept in his armour, Sitting up and wincing as his hand touched the sharded glass. Tarri was...still not out of the woods yet, and neither of them had any idea what would come out of her womb.
Hells. He had slept in his armour, and slept on the floor, staring at the ceiling….
Again…
The Empty bottles showed why.
He could not bring her out of the Sanitorium, His first loving action to whatever child she birthed, may have to be to wring its neck from mercy, same as Maladante had to Kayrissa, his younger sister. Was this….a Reward? Was this meant to inspire him to lead the entire Aerie, in this, the final Aerial Battle?
Just one tragedy out of countless. Across Silvermoon, the saddest story ever told, was played out…
Again, and again, as kitbag by kitbag, flight harness by flight harness, kiss on brows or lips, embrace and promises, the Six Escadrilles went to War.
All because of one elf, who lay looking at the ceiling amidst the wreckage of a drunken bender, his hair filled with broken glass….
“Am I...doing the right thing?”
He looked to his side, but there was no one to answer him...for she was not here..
“Demons run when a good man goes to war
Night will fall and drown the sun
When a good man goes to war
Friendship dies and true love lies
Night will fall and the dark will rise
When a good man goes to war
Demons run, but count the cost
The battle's won, but the child is lost”
Brigante closed his eyes, weeping, just hearing Asharion playing the child’s keyboard they had bought him.
In his mind, She was there, Cloud haired and furious, her eyes sparks The Skies “I told you, from the start, just how this would end!”
He lay, in his blanket of broken glass, and prepared mentally for the ‘Forever War’. Nightmare Green.
“This is the end” he murmured as the fragments cut into him.
1 Like
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvrR2Lbfl_s
The Dragonhawks arrowed their way through the swollen, dark skies, the air around them purply green, like an angry bruise. Ahead of them, slowly coming into view ‘De Regli Caeli’, the vast Nethership idling as it took on soul energy, its attendant flotilla of smaller Netherships around it.
Oh yes, Argus was gone from their Skies, but the Netherships Kil’jaeden had sent were not...Not this one. This one was something special.
This one was personal.
‘De Regli Caeli’ Apparently the words meant “The King of Heaven” in the language of some world long conquered by the Legion. Each of the Dragonhawks carried something deadly, a surprise even for the Legion Sky Admiral, Mikaneth. The Mark Four Tactical Mana Bomb, the ‘Annihilatrix’ A joking name, for something that even for the Fliers of the Escadrilles was a terrifying weapon. They were supposedly safe, but none...knew that they were safe. None were...keen on their use…
Two hours earlier…
Brigante looked at the scarred veteran in front of him “I want you to know, Flight Lieutenant, I never use these weapons lightly, despite what the sluggards in the Alliance may claim. It was a Mana Bomb, the largest, at Theramore, that took my son from me, and an old love, I do not ask this lightly.” His hand tapped on the white ceramic crate, designed and magically warded...he had found a way to ‘break’ the system of the old crates, these were different. Even trying the method he had, would not give one elf the power to rewrite reality. ‘Thank the Sun’ he thought, as he remembered how far his hubris had almost taken them.
“We have authority to use these weapons only against Legion targets, but then, that's all we’re here for, I’ve no interest in killing bluecoats if they stay out of my way, and if they don’t, we’ve other weapons for that”
Brigante paused and looked at Dae’anneth “But it needs both of us to use our keys to open this, So I must ask you formally, Flight Lieutenant Silverflare, when I use mine, will you use your key?”
Silverflare had nodded grimly “Whatever gets the job done, Sir”
Over the comms the chatter came “Felbats, a swarm of them around the target Sun Hawk Actual”
“Understood, This is Sun Hawk Actual, climb and pick targets, we can’t do this without thinning out the herd, the other Escadrilles will be with us soon, and our reinforcements”
They fell, into that bruised, that wounded sky, and took their share, many fliers making their name, making ‘Ace’ that fight, scoring their tenth air to air kill, the skies were a thing of fire and fury, rage and menace, the Six Escadrilles calling in “Flame Hawks, Standing by” “Cloudreavers, standing by” “Sun’s Swords, ready” “Skyblades, in position” “Fire Hawks ready, on your word Air Commodore”
Brigante cracked a rare grin, rare these days “Keep calling me that Fire Hawk Actual, and they might actually give me the rank...and the pay that goes with it!”
It was smoke and desolation, flame and destruction, the Mark Fours were loosed, magnetically attaching themselves to the rear of ‘De Regli Caeli’. Brigante looked around, the blood in the skies, the fiery trails of destruction and death. The haunting warning sirens of the Nethership blaring as it shifted, all the more haunting because he knew what those sirens were...after all, why contrive a mechanical device to make noise when you could just pour swiving acid into the tanks of thinking and sentient whales, the siren their screams as to ‘breathe’ scoured their lungs and tortured them. If his heart needed hardening against their foe, it was now harder than any metal Azeroth contained. “Alright, you all ready for the crazy bit?” He barked into the communicator.
One hour ago…
He stood before them all.
“You know our mission, you know the risks, you know that some of us may not come back. That's not morbid, that is simply the dread mathematics of war. Soon I will let you say your final words to your fellow fliers, weigh them well, for they may be the last words outside of combat that you say, and the last words that they hear.”
He folded his hands behind his back “If we fail, the world will know, soon enough, when Mikaneth rains death upon our cities, despite the victory in Argus, and they’ll curse us for our failure, but that will not matter. Because we will all be dead by then. If we succeed, the fewer that know, the better, the civilian on the streets does not need to know about the narrow margins our world’s safety depends upon at times, better they see the world as they -need- to see it…’Tomorrow will be much like today, we have soldiers to make sure of that.’
“That’s us.”
“We’re the ones giving them a tomorrow, one to worry about, not whether there will -be- a Tomorrow”
His elves look grim and resolved.
“Last chance to back out, there will be no shame if you do”
Not one elf stepped back.
Brigante smiled “Then the hour is upon us, I see your hearts, keen of war, and know that I am like you, a master of aerial killing, glad of war and spear-bearer, brother to Dragonhawks and flame-wielder, I am the Red Death! I am the Laughing Prince of Azeroths Skies, I have as many names as there are ways to die in the Skies!, My battle brother is Sunspear, third of that name and line, a veteran of decades of war, unparallelled my skills, and unshakeable my -faith- in my fliers! No Demon nor any other creature has ever contested me but failed! Will you follow me! Only one type of person belongs in the Skies……”
He paused…
“Who are they?”
“ONLY THE BRAVE!” The shout came back from the fliers. He smiled.
“Then lets grab some Sky. Someone is interloping in our game preserve. I say we go and end him.”
He buckled his harness, as around him his Hawks did the same.
“There it is! The Breach! Just like the Wyrmtongue said!” Starglow shouted, Brigante nodded even though she could not see the gesture, the tear in the Netherships side was clearly visible, It should have been to him, he knew where to look, he was one of the people who put it there during the ghastly campaign not this Wintersveil, but last.
As the green sickly felfire cannons belched their fury, the Dragonhawk riders of Quel’thalas flew into the breach, boarding the Nethership of the Prime Manipulator, Mikaneth, King of All Skies, Doom of a Thousand Worlds.
“Only the Brave!” Brigante roared as the Dragonhawks flew into the rent in the ships side.
The Dragonhawks arrowed their way through the swollen, dark skies, the air around them purply green, like an angry bruise. Ahead of them, slowly coming into view ‘De Regli Caeli’, the vast Nethership idling as it took on soul energy, its attendant flotilla of smaller Netherships around it.
Oh yes, Argus was gone from their Skies, but the Netherships Kil’jaeden had sent were not...Not this one. This one was something special.
This one was personal.
‘De Regli Caeli’ Apparently the words meant “The King of Heaven” in the language of some world long conquered by the Legion. Each of the Dragonhawks carried something deadly, a surprise even for the Legion Sky Admiral, Mikaneth. The Mark Four Tactical Mana Bomb, the ‘Annihilatrix’ A joking name, for something that even for the Fliers of the Escadrilles was a terrifying weapon. They were supposedly safe, but none...knew that they were safe. None were...keen on their use…
Two hours earlier…
Brigante looked at the scarred veteran in front of him “I want you to know, Flight Lieutenant, I never use these weapons lightly, despite what the sluggards in the Alliance may claim. It was a Mana Bomb, the largest, at Theramore, that took my son from me, and an old love, I do not ask this lightly.” His hand tapped on the white ceramic crate, designed and magically warded...he had found a way to ‘break’ the system of the old crates, these were different. Even trying the method he had, would not give one elf the power to rewrite reality. ‘Thank the Sun’ he thought, as he remembered how far his hubris had almost taken them.
“We have authority to use these weapons only against Legion targets, but then, that's all we’re here for, I’ve no interest in killing bluecoats if they stay out of my way, and if they don’t, we’ve other weapons for that”
Brigante paused and looked at Dae’anneth “But it needs both of us to use our keys to open this, So I must ask you formally, Flight Lieutenant Silverflare, when I use mine, will you use your key?”
Silverflare had nodded grimly “Whatever gets the job done, Sir”
Over the comms the chatter came “Felbats, a swarm of them around the target Sun Hawk Actual”
“Understood, This is Sun Hawk Actual, climb and pick targets, we can’t do this without thinning out the herd, the other Escadrilles will be with us soon, and our reinforcements”
They fell, into that bruised, that wounded sky, and took their share, many fliers making their name, making ‘Ace’ that fight, scoring their tenth air to air kill, the skies were a thing of fire and fury, rage and menace, the Six Escadrilles calling in “Flame Hawks, Standing by” “Cloudreavers, standing by” “Sun’s Swords, ready” “Skyblades, in position” “Fire Hawks ready, on your word Air Commodore”
Brigante cracked a rare grin, rare these days “Keep calling me that Fire Hawk Actual, and they might actually give me the rank...and the pay that goes with it!”
It was smoke and desolation, flame and destruction, the Mark Fours were loosed, magnetically attaching themselves to the rear of ‘De Regli Caeli’. Brigante looked around, the blood in the skies, the fiery trails of destruction and death. The haunting warning sirens of the Nethership blaring as it shifted, all the more haunting because he knew what those sirens were...after all, why contrive a mechanical device to make noise when you could just pour swiving acid into the tanks of thinking and sentient whales, the siren their screams as to ‘breathe’ scoured their lungs and tortured them. If his heart needed hardening against their foe, it was now harder than any metal Azeroth contained. “Alright, you all ready for the crazy bit?” He barked into the communicator.
One hour ago…
He stood before them all.
“You know our mission, you know the risks, you know that some of us may not come back. That's not morbid, that is simply the dread mathematics of war. Soon I will let you say your final words to your fellow fliers, weigh them well, for they may be the last words outside of combat that you say, and the last words that they hear.”
He folded his hands behind his back “If we fail, the world will know, soon enough, when Mikaneth rains death upon our cities, despite the victory in Argus, and they’ll curse us for our failure, but that will not matter. Because we will all be dead by then. If we succeed, the fewer that know, the better, the civilian on the streets does not need to know about the narrow margins our world’s safety depends upon at times, better they see the world as they -need- to see it…’Tomorrow will be much like today, we have soldiers to make sure of that.’
“That’s us.”
“We’re the ones giving them a tomorrow, one to worry about, not whether there will -be- a Tomorrow”
His elves look grim and resolved.
“Last chance to back out, there will be no shame if you do”
Not one elf stepped back.
Brigante smiled “Then the hour is upon us, I see your hearts, keen of war, and know that I am like you, a master of aerial killing, glad of war and spear-bearer, brother to Dragonhawks and flame-wielder, I am the Red Death! I am the Laughing Prince of Azeroths Skies, I have as many names as there are ways to die in the Skies!, My battle brother is Sunspear, third of that name and line, a veteran of decades of war, unparallelled my skills, and unshakeable my -faith- in my fliers! No Demon nor any other creature has ever contested me but failed! Will you follow me! Only one type of person belongs in the Skies……”
He paused…
“Who are they?”
“ONLY THE BRAVE!” The shout came back from the fliers. He smiled.
“Then lets grab some Sky. Someone is interloping in our game preserve. I say we go and end him.”
He buckled his harness, as around him his Hawks did the same.
“There it is! The Breach! Just like the Wyrmtongue said!” Starglow shouted, Brigante nodded even though she could not see the gesture, the tear in the Netherships side was clearly visible, It should have been to him, he knew where to look, he was one of the people who put it there during the ghastly campaign not this Wintersveil, but last.
As the green sickly felfire cannons belched their fury, the Dragonhawk riders of Quel’thalas flew into the breach, boarding the Nethership of the Prime Manipulator, Mikaneth, King of All Skies, Doom of a Thousand Worlds.
“Only the Brave!” Brigante roared as the Dragonhawks flew into the rent in the ships side.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1VJ39nVIBk
They fell to the floor, unbuckled from their harnesses, the elves swiftly righting themselves, the blaring two tone sirens even louder inside the Nethership. “Don’t listen to them” Brigante snarled. “Don’t think about them”, he grimaced “Don’t even think we can help them...not until we see them, then we do what feels right”. He shook his head, as one of his fliers grimaced “Yes, why build a mechanical siren when you could just pour swiving acid on sentient thinking whales and make them scream instead?”
Dawnsear looked around in shock, her face pale, but then, all of their faces were, in the intermittent red lighting of the Nethership. “What do you mean?”
Brigante growls “You stow that negative thinking Longstride!” He looked around the room.
“Enough! Nobody touch anything unless I say so. Scout Hawk, you got the shaped charges?”
Yasmyr Starglow tapped her satchel “Ready and waiting boss”
He tapped one of the bulkheads “this here is Point Calia, rig a charge to bring down the walls and roof”
“Lieutenant, take a party forwards, we need to get these charges laid or this is all pointless”
“On it Sir” Silverflare led a hustle of elves forwards in the flaring red and black of the Netherships Lighting.
With a flare of torchlight Starglow nodded “Charge Calia in place Sir”.
He ran to the other Bulkhead, and tapped it “This is Point Andorhal, get it rigged up, hustle hustle”
He stood, his face ghastly pale and then invisible as the lighting in the Nethership flashed red and green, all the while the horrific Sirens blaring. The enemy would be coming soon, they had to know what they had done, just not the -why-.
“Charge Andorhal is in place Sir!”
He slammed a fist against the internal wall of the Nethership “This is point Ban’dinoriel! Get it rigged!”
Over the communicator
“Enemy contact Sir, engaging”
“Take your time Starglow, this is all contingent on the explosives going off in the order planned”
Starglow brushed back a lock of hair from her goggles, muttering under her breath a variant on whether one would teach their grandmother to suck eggs.
Brigante raises his gauntlet to his lips, looking back through the breach they had just entered by...it was looking determinedly landlike, the Nethership was heeling to port, he could see their Dragonhawks had hooked talons into the deck and were holding on. “Good lad Sunspear, Good lad” He snorted “You wouldn’t get that from a machine” he smiled.
“Charge Ban’dinoriel in place Sir!” He slapped Starglow on the shoulder as he passed “Lets get to the others….”
The two elves staggered on the tilted deck as they headed to the sounds of fighting ahead, the ghastly lights and dread sirens filling their senses, ahead the rest of the Hawks had engaged a pack of Imps, curses and fire being unleashed, whilst a Mo’arg lead them, the half demon, half machine laughing, a caustic sound as it charged in.
They fought on, every Sun Hawk giving good measure as they drove towards the ‘Flag’ Deck.
Dawnsear called over “Sir! This ship is going to jump in three hours!”
He knew where, the traitor Wyrmtongue had told them, a revenge attack, it would level the Aerie,, and if unchecked, could even threaten Silvermoon, and worse, the Sunwell. He could blow the Tactical mana bombs now, and stop that, for sure, or he could get his revenge as well. He had time for both…
The Sirens pummelled their ears, the floor’s yawing making them slide and slip as they fought on through the demons, and then...just when it seemed their eardrums would shatter, the ship levelled out, and they saw…
The Siren tanks.
Vast aquatic beings, one in a seperate tank, the others in a large massed tank and cage, the water greener than Azeroth’s seas, as they watched, from a funnel white crystals poured into the tank, the creatures inside writhing and howling in pain. They were the sirens.
As Longstride had said. “Why bother making a mechanical siren, when you could just pour acid on sentient whales”. The creatures were vast indeed, twice the mass of a Kodo, four finned, and four eyed, their wails almost deafening. Only one was unharmed, it looked up and made sonorous noises at the Elves. Brigante shook his head “What -are- ...are they trying to communicate?”
The Flight Surgeon looked over at him “Are you telling me you can’t understand him sir?”
Brigante looked grimly “Are you telling me you can?”
Aiechi looked at him aghast, then Theladrin spoke up “I can too Sir”
Dawnsear called over “Sir! We have two hours”
Yasmyr growled “Maybe less, they reckon time different on other worlds”
Brigante frowned and pinched his brow, then it came to him, both Aiechi and Theladrin believed in the Light to a degree, none of the rest of the Hawks did. The red lights flashed, and the screams of the creatures in the tank rattled ones skull, he could no longer think of them as a siren.
“Can we not just ...I don’t know, teleport them into the seas? Set them free?” he yelled over the noise.
“Sir, do you know what that white powder -is-?”
“Acid?”
Dawnsear grasped it “Hells….its Salt”
The Flight Surgeon nodded, over the more urgent screams coming from the tanks “Send them to our Seas, and you condemn them to this for the rest of their lives, know how long they live?”
Brigante paused “No, do you?”
“A Long swiving time Sir!”
“What can end their misery then, we can’t send them back to whatever planet the Legion found them on?”
Lieutenant Dae’anneth pointed it out, in his dreadfully cold way. “Steam. Those tanks are heated...Must be so for a reason, those creatures...those ...people…”
“They -are- a people!” The Flight Surgeon hissed, “that one? Prelate Ish, spokesman for his people”
The Sun Hawks looked at Brigante “What do we do?”
Brigante closed his eyes...the sirens...no, the Screams of tortured souls battering at his brain. “What does -He- Want, Flight Surgeon, ask their Prelate!”
Aiechi looked up bleakly a moment after hearing a few mournful howls “Self destruction is a Sin to their people, but for his people, and himself, he wants one thing…”
Aiechi sighed. “They want final peace, they understand we have magics dread and incomprehensible on their world, of cold and ice”
Brigante paled in the red and black flashing lights, “They are asking for one of our newest to...complete the genocide the Legion started?”
The Screams grew more and more insistent. “Do we have to become monsters, to defeat the monsters?” Brigante muttered.
Aiechi grabbed his armour and growled “Sir, you let this carry on one more moment and you already -are- the monster”
Brigante looked at Dawnsear, “Dawnsear, you have to…” who just closed her eyes “I guessed...I know…”
She raised her hands, the magic heeding her call, the tanks surfaces flickered with frost and then ice, seeping below, swiftly the Philosopher Poet race were stilled, their hearts frozen, and given at last that final, final peace.
The Sirens stopped. A Race died.
Silence, at long last.
Peace in our time.
They fell to the floor, unbuckled from their harnesses, the elves swiftly righting themselves, the blaring two tone sirens even louder inside the Nethership. “Don’t listen to them” Brigante snarled. “Don’t think about them”, he grimaced “Don’t even think we can help them...not until we see them, then we do what feels right”. He shook his head, as one of his fliers grimaced “Yes, why build a mechanical siren when you could just pour swiving acid on sentient thinking whales and make them scream instead?”
Dawnsear looked around in shock, her face pale, but then, all of their faces were, in the intermittent red lighting of the Nethership. “What do you mean?”
Brigante growls “You stow that negative thinking Longstride!” He looked around the room.
“Enough! Nobody touch anything unless I say so. Scout Hawk, you got the shaped charges?”
Yasmyr Starglow tapped her satchel “Ready and waiting boss”
He tapped one of the bulkheads “this here is Point Calia, rig a charge to bring down the walls and roof”
“Lieutenant, take a party forwards, we need to get these charges laid or this is all pointless”
“On it Sir” Silverflare led a hustle of elves forwards in the flaring red and black of the Netherships Lighting.
With a flare of torchlight Starglow nodded “Charge Calia in place Sir”.
He ran to the other Bulkhead, and tapped it “This is Point Andorhal, get it rigged up, hustle hustle”
He stood, his face ghastly pale and then invisible as the lighting in the Nethership flashed red and green, all the while the horrific Sirens blaring. The enemy would be coming soon, they had to know what they had done, just not the -why-.
“Charge Andorhal is in place Sir!”
He slammed a fist against the internal wall of the Nethership “This is point Ban’dinoriel! Get it rigged!”
Over the communicator
“Enemy contact Sir, engaging”
“Take your time Starglow, this is all contingent on the explosives going off in the order planned”
Starglow brushed back a lock of hair from her goggles, muttering under her breath a variant on whether one would teach their grandmother to suck eggs.
Brigante raises his gauntlet to his lips, looking back through the breach they had just entered by...it was looking determinedly landlike, the Nethership was heeling to port, he could see their Dragonhawks had hooked talons into the deck and were holding on. “Good lad Sunspear, Good lad” He snorted “You wouldn’t get that from a machine” he smiled.
“Charge Ban’dinoriel in place Sir!” He slapped Starglow on the shoulder as he passed “Lets get to the others….”
The two elves staggered on the tilted deck as they headed to the sounds of fighting ahead, the ghastly lights and dread sirens filling their senses, ahead the rest of the Hawks had engaged a pack of Imps, curses and fire being unleashed, whilst a Mo’arg lead them, the half demon, half machine laughing, a caustic sound as it charged in.
They fought on, every Sun Hawk giving good measure as they drove towards the ‘Flag’ Deck.
Dawnsear called over “Sir! This ship is going to jump in three hours!”
He knew where, the traitor Wyrmtongue had told them, a revenge attack, it would level the Aerie,, and if unchecked, could even threaten Silvermoon, and worse, the Sunwell. He could blow the Tactical mana bombs now, and stop that, for sure, or he could get his revenge as well. He had time for both…
The Sirens pummelled their ears, the floor’s yawing making them slide and slip as they fought on through the demons, and then...just when it seemed their eardrums would shatter, the ship levelled out, and they saw…
The Siren tanks.
Vast aquatic beings, one in a seperate tank, the others in a large massed tank and cage, the water greener than Azeroth’s seas, as they watched, from a funnel white crystals poured into the tank, the creatures inside writhing and howling in pain. They were the sirens.
As Longstride had said. “Why bother making a mechanical siren, when you could just pour acid on sentient whales”. The creatures were vast indeed, twice the mass of a Kodo, four finned, and four eyed, their wails almost deafening. Only one was unharmed, it looked up and made sonorous noises at the Elves. Brigante shook his head “What -are- ...are they trying to communicate?”
The Flight Surgeon looked over at him “Are you telling me you can’t understand him sir?”
Brigante looked grimly “Are you telling me you can?”
Aiechi looked at him aghast, then Theladrin spoke up “I can too Sir”
Dawnsear called over “Sir! We have two hours”
Yasmyr growled “Maybe less, they reckon time different on other worlds”
Brigante frowned and pinched his brow, then it came to him, both Aiechi and Theladrin believed in the Light to a degree, none of the rest of the Hawks did. The red lights flashed, and the screams of the creatures in the tank rattled ones skull, he could no longer think of them as a siren.
“Can we not just ...I don’t know, teleport them into the seas? Set them free?” he yelled over the noise.
“Sir, do you know what that white powder -is-?”
“Acid?”
Dawnsear grasped it “Hells….its Salt”
The Flight Surgeon nodded, over the more urgent screams coming from the tanks “Send them to our Seas, and you condemn them to this for the rest of their lives, know how long they live?”
Brigante paused “No, do you?”
“A Long swiving time Sir!”
“What can end their misery then, we can’t send them back to whatever planet the Legion found them on?”
Lieutenant Dae’anneth pointed it out, in his dreadfully cold way. “Steam. Those tanks are heated...Must be so for a reason, those creatures...those ...people…”
“They -are- a people!” The Flight Surgeon hissed, “that one? Prelate Ish, spokesman for his people”
The Sun Hawks looked at Brigante “What do we do?”
Brigante closed his eyes...the sirens...no, the Screams of tortured souls battering at his brain. “What does -He- Want, Flight Surgeon, ask their Prelate!”
Aiechi looked up bleakly a moment after hearing a few mournful howls “Self destruction is a Sin to their people, but for his people, and himself, he wants one thing…”
Aiechi sighed. “They want final peace, they understand we have magics dread and incomprehensible on their world, of cold and ice”
Brigante paled in the red and black flashing lights, “They are asking for one of our newest to...complete the genocide the Legion started?”
The Screams grew more and more insistent. “Do we have to become monsters, to defeat the monsters?” Brigante muttered.
Aiechi grabbed his armour and growled “Sir, you let this carry on one more moment and you already -are- the monster”
Brigante looked at Dawnsear, “Dawnsear, you have to…” who just closed her eyes “I guessed...I know…”
She raised her hands, the magic heeding her call, the tanks surfaces flickered with frost and then ice, seeping below, swiftly the Philosopher Poet race were stilled, their hearts frozen, and given at last that final, final peace.
The Sirens stopped. A Race died.
Silence, at long last.
Peace in our time.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmWj2dL0SLc
The sirens had stopped, the light in the Nethership still flashing red and pitch black, making every movement a hazardous one, especially with the tilt of the Ships deck, from outside explosions as the other five escadrilles hopelessly battered at the vast ship. For an age they advanced, until the circuitous tunnelways brought them to a room, just entering at the other side, a Wrathguard with an attendant host of Imps, it bellowed “You came so far...only to DIE!” The Hawks had to fling themselves aside at the barrage of firebolts from the Imps, before those who could returned fire, arrow and spell flashing out, Theladrin and Yasmyr closed with the Wrathguard. Around them the stink of singed flesh and armour, but they could not stop “We have an hour Sir!” Dawnsear shrieked.
An hour. He knew how this Nethership worked, the defecting Wyrmtongue had told them. It was the key to Mikaneth’s successes on all worlds, in defeating its aerial defenders, the closer to the Flag Deck you were, the slower time was, Chronomancy, an absolute genius use of it. It mean that Mikaneth, the Nathrezim, the King of All Skies, could outthink any foe, because he had the -time- to consider all possibilities...that, plus the natural cunning of his race, was how he could conquered a thousands world’s skies.
That was why to defeat him, Brigante had had to consider the unthinkable, something a Nathrezim would never think of, for they lacked altruism, and any sense of self sacrifice for the greater good. That is why the tactical Mana bombs had attached to the outside, and not simply detonated on impact. He intended on crashing this Nethership, with no survivors…
Or perhaps, he grinned wryly, just the one. He wanted Mikaneth to survive the crash. No...He -Needed- him to.
He slammed another arrow into an imps head, his elves could see in both the red light, and the darkness, but the flashing between the two made things hard...very hard. He heard grunts of pain, meaty sounds of impact, and snarls as his elves took hits, his own hip blazed where an Imp’s firebolt had struck true.
From up ahead the Lieutenant called “Room Clear!”.
All at once, from around them, sounds of hissing, of petulant clawing demand, they saw the ‘nests?’ ‘Rookeries?’ and the hairless pink larval things within, their veins pulsing with green energy, suckling from fel-mechanical teats from the Netherships own Soul Engines. Flaccid wings hanging as yet loose by their sides, screeches and cold eyed stares from the horrors that were being suckled.
Felbats, in their infancy.
The Ship Lurched again, sending them clattering across the floor. “Kill them! Kill them all!”
The Elves grimly stalked between the ‘nests’, and drawn knives ended lives.
The worst of it was how they screamed. He knew, intellectually, that all the Demonic races had been mortal, and some could still procreate, but in these pink hairless things he saw only elven infants, human infants, Tauren perhaps, but winged. As his hand stabbed and stabbed, and he heard the roars to cover the guilt from some of his other elves, he knew one thing, this did not feel like war.
It felt like infanticide.
In a few moments it was done, his elves congregated in the centre of the room, their faces darkened with their own blood, and the smeared ichor of demons.
He nodded briskly. “We press on”.
“Forty minutes till it Jumps, Sir!” Dawnsear called.
“Then we have an appointment to keep, lets keep it snappy, Lieutenant, move them up!”
He tried to sound confidant, but all the while there was something The Witch, Sunlance had told them, ironic that she was on the ground forces, something he suspected…
The Elves rushed to the next room, a faint light glare coming from it. Dae’anneth snarled “Oh Hells no, do -not- let the Commandant near here”.
“Too late, Lieutenant, I a-” Brigante looked around the room.
“No”.
He knew intellectually, this place had to be somewhere on the ship, the place where his infant son, Asharion, had been preternaturally aged, in a similar manner to how Gul’dan did the Orc Children. He had not realised how accurate they had made it. It was his room, like the one Brigante had lovingly carved the furniture for, whilst Ensoria’s belly swelled, had painted, humming tunes happily, in the days before the Green Fire rained. The crib, the childs bed, everything, the mobiles over the bed, the childs toys, the posters on the wall, depictions of the Sun Hawks, or Dragonhawks, in all cases with rips and tears, words written in ...blood? “I Hate you!” “I Will End You!” and worse.
Brigante sagged to his knees. “I can’t”.
Dae’anneth roared in his face and grabbed him to his feet “You can! You have to! We All have to!”
The room was lit, unlike the flashing lights in the rest of the Nethership, and ahead they could see the darkest sight, a slight, bespectacled woman, cradling an infant elf in her arms, lulling it to sleep.
It was not possible of course, the Legion had already killed Ensoria, when they first returned, had already taken the infant Asharion, had already sent him against the Sun Hawks, he had already been killed. And then it became crystal clear, the lights flickered, Theladrin growled “My powers...the Light…” Aiechi had merely howled, his crippling injuries kept at bay by the Light suddenly returning, rendering him a shuddering mess on the floor.
The sirens had stopped, the light in the Nethership still flashing red and pitch black, making every movement a hazardous one, especially with the tilt of the Ships deck, from outside explosions as the other five escadrilles hopelessly battered at the vast ship. For an age they advanced, until the circuitous tunnelways brought them to a room, just entering at the other side, a Wrathguard with an attendant host of Imps, it bellowed “You came so far...only to DIE!” The Hawks had to fling themselves aside at the barrage of firebolts from the Imps, before those who could returned fire, arrow and spell flashing out, Theladrin and Yasmyr closed with the Wrathguard. Around them the stink of singed flesh and armour, but they could not stop “We have an hour Sir!” Dawnsear shrieked.
An hour. He knew how this Nethership worked, the defecting Wyrmtongue had told them. It was the key to Mikaneth’s successes on all worlds, in defeating its aerial defenders, the closer to the Flag Deck you were, the slower time was, Chronomancy, an absolute genius use of it. It mean that Mikaneth, the Nathrezim, the King of All Skies, could outthink any foe, because he had the -time- to consider all possibilities...that, plus the natural cunning of his race, was how he could conquered a thousands world’s skies.
That was why to defeat him, Brigante had had to consider the unthinkable, something a Nathrezim would never think of, for they lacked altruism, and any sense of self sacrifice for the greater good. That is why the tactical Mana bombs had attached to the outside, and not simply detonated on impact. He intended on crashing this Nethership, with no survivors…
Or perhaps, he grinned wryly, just the one. He wanted Mikaneth to survive the crash. No...He -Needed- him to.
He slammed another arrow into an imps head, his elves could see in both the red light, and the darkness, but the flashing between the two made things hard...very hard. He heard grunts of pain, meaty sounds of impact, and snarls as his elves took hits, his own hip blazed where an Imp’s firebolt had struck true.
From up ahead the Lieutenant called “Room Clear!”.
All at once, from around them, sounds of hissing, of petulant clawing demand, they saw the ‘nests?’ ‘Rookeries?’ and the hairless pink larval things within, their veins pulsing with green energy, suckling from fel-mechanical teats from the Netherships own Soul Engines. Flaccid wings hanging as yet loose by their sides, screeches and cold eyed stares from the horrors that were being suckled.
Felbats, in their infancy.
The Ship Lurched again, sending them clattering across the floor. “Kill them! Kill them all!”
The Elves grimly stalked between the ‘nests’, and drawn knives ended lives.
The worst of it was how they screamed. He knew, intellectually, that all the Demonic races had been mortal, and some could still procreate, but in these pink hairless things he saw only elven infants, human infants, Tauren perhaps, but winged. As his hand stabbed and stabbed, and he heard the roars to cover the guilt from some of his other elves, he knew one thing, this did not feel like war.
It felt like infanticide.
In a few moments it was done, his elves congregated in the centre of the room, their faces darkened with their own blood, and the smeared ichor of demons.
He nodded briskly. “We press on”.
“Forty minutes till it Jumps, Sir!” Dawnsear called.
“Then we have an appointment to keep, lets keep it snappy, Lieutenant, move them up!”
He tried to sound confidant, but all the while there was something The Witch, Sunlance had told them, ironic that she was on the ground forces, something he suspected…
The Elves rushed to the next room, a faint light glare coming from it. Dae’anneth snarled “Oh Hells no, do -not- let the Commandant near here”.
“Too late, Lieutenant, I a-” Brigante looked around the room.
“No”.
He knew intellectually, this place had to be somewhere on the ship, the place where his infant son, Asharion, had been preternaturally aged, in a similar manner to how Gul’dan did the Orc Children. He had not realised how accurate they had made it. It was his room, like the one Brigante had lovingly carved the furniture for, whilst Ensoria’s belly swelled, had painted, humming tunes happily, in the days before the Green Fire rained. The crib, the childs bed, everything, the mobiles over the bed, the childs toys, the posters on the wall, depictions of the Sun Hawks, or Dragonhawks, in all cases with rips and tears, words written in ...blood? “I Hate you!” “I Will End You!” and worse.
Brigante sagged to his knees. “I can’t”.
Dae’anneth roared in his face and grabbed him to his feet “You can! You have to! We All have to!”
The room was lit, unlike the flashing lights in the rest of the Nethership, and ahead they could see the darkest sight, a slight, bespectacled woman, cradling an infant elf in her arms, lulling it to sleep.
It was not possible of course, the Legion had already killed Ensoria, when they first returned, had already taken the infant Asharion, had already sent him against the Sun Hawks, he had already been killed. And then it became crystal clear, the lights flickered, Theladrin growled “My powers...the Light…” Aiechi had merely howled, his crippling injuries kept at bay by the Light suddenly returning, rendering him a shuddering mess on the floor.
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Sunlance’s words came back to him.
“There’s a room where the Light won’t find you”
It was here.
He rallied “Alright, those who can, stand and fight!”
The woman cooed
“Rock a bye baby,
on the treetop,
when the wind blows,
the cradle will rock,
when the bough breaks,
the baby will fall,
and down will come cradle, baby and…..”
“ALL!”
She turned, her face one of malice and spite, the flung swaddling child launched towards Dawnsear, the illusions falling, A Shivarra she, and the ‘baby’? A Felstalker.
It was desperation, the fight that followed, the Felstalker going for the Escadrilles battle mage, the Shivarra expertly parrying and slashing with her many arms, her many blades. The ship lurched and swung as they fought, in some cases the fighting actually becoming physical, grabbling and wrenching, Theladrin bereft of the Light, had to use his skill at arms, and with Aiechi, the Flight Surgeon crippled, there was no hope of healing.
“At least the Arcane still works” Brigante grumbled as he loosed another arrow infused with crackling blue energy into the Shivarra.
At long last it was over.
The room took on a similar flashing hue to the rest of the Nethership, Aiechi slowly clawed himself to his feet, Dawnsear too, having been most sorely assailed by the Felstalker, that class of demons best placed to act against Mages.
“We haven’t got long!” Yasmyr shouted. Brigante just pointed to the exit to the room, but as the illusions dropped, they saw the truth of the room. A Trophy cabinet. Countless, countless, names of worlds, and in each case a skull mounted on a plaque, like a perverted hunting lodge.
One of the plaques said “Azeroth” and the hook hung bare.
“Wouldn’t bother buying a hat rack Sir, looks like Mikaneth has one already sorted out for you”
“Oh swive me, someone wants to stroke his piddler every time he comes through here…” Brigante growled, “Lets get this done”
“We have thirty minutes Sir, before the ship jumps” Dawnsear said tiredly.
The elves staggered down the last corridor, to another lit room, in this one there were demonic holographs across the walls, showing the various areas of Azeroth, and Legion intentions, or assets in place. In the middle of the room another holograp showed this ship, and the attacking aerial forces, and the heavy losses being taken. Looking at the Wall, a vast figure, for most, the first time they had seen him.
Mikaneth, Prime Manipulator, Death of a Thousand Worlds, King of All Skies.
The figure was vast, aye, his body coated with Wildhammer tattoos, his gauntlet, for he was missing a hand, a Gnomish styled power one, his wings, Feathered like a Dragonhawk, his greaves, a Stormwind Gryphonriders. He was all of Azeroth’s Fliers, and he was all of their doom.
The Nathrezim turned, and spoke slyly “I imagine in your minds, this is your point of triumph, yes?”
Brigante stayed silent, his eyes scanning the Legion Maps for their intentions of their remaining forces.
Mikaneth laughed, an earthy sound “oh, -Please-, do remember these tactical movements and maps that I have put on maps for you all to see at the point where you invade my flag deck, they are all -entirely- my plans, absolutely.”
The Demon laughed.
“I am glad you are here though. We can all go on a little journey together, as I destroy the Aerie, Silvermoon, and the Sunwell. I imagine the Forsaken will sue for peace, I could be as good an advisor to Sylvanas as Varimathras ever was, probably better. I have a fleet to offer her. He did not. Nor...do you, Now tell me Summerisle, you are not, despite what some unkind and possibly accurate souls in Silvermoon circles say, an idiot. You know you cannot defeat me here, you know that I will reform in the Nether, and some day come back, and this whole sorry scenario will replay itself over, and over, and over again. How many wives and children -must- you lose before you give up? I mean the current one was fun, I bet you still have nightmares, imaging what might come screaming and hungering out of her womb?”
Mikaneth smiled, almost paternally. “You’re welcome”
Dae’anneth placed a hand in front of Brigante, as if to stop him, but Brigante had not moved a muscle.
Mikaneth smiled “you have learned self restraint, or at least your dogs have learned to rein you in. I imagine you think you have the upper hand, because of your pretty little toys you have attached to my ship. You cost me a hand. I hear the flier who dropped that bomb died in Redridge, a pity, I would have enjoyed returning the favour”.
Mikaneth’s face snapped into a thin lipped line “You have the same offer as before. Bend the knee, and I will make you King of -These- Skies. You could rule. I could give you everything, we could be equals?”
Brigante spat on the deck.
“Equals?”
Mikaneth extended his arms magnanimously, “You have my word”
“We’re the Sun Hawks, Mikaneth”
“We -have- no Equals”
His Hawks grasped their weapons, grinning. Brigante’s act of hubris somehow easing their fears at the growing pride he had been showing.
Mikaneth laughed. “We could not disable your Mana Bombs you know, oh yes, I know your plan, drop them, make a heroic and undoubtedly witty speech, run and detonate them to go off after you had escaped, you doubtlessly had a timer on them.”
Mikaneth waved a hand “Not any more, they will go off instantly, and I know you. I study the worlds and people I conquer. You will not push that button, no, leave your mewling wretched affianced to bring up potential monsters alone, or make her strangle them? Die in a fight no one will ever know about? Sacrifice your Fliers for nothing? Go home without anyone knowing what ‘Heroes’ you all were? I know you. I know what drives you. You are more akin to me than you will ever allow yourself to know, in the short span you have left.”
Brigante nods and looks at his Fliers “Do you trust me?”
“To the last of us all”
Brigante looks up at Mikaneth, that vast gloating face, “Do you know -him-?” Brigante gestures at Theladrin, said elf looking surprised.
Mikaneth waved a hand “He is an irrelevance, why should I?”
Yasmyr growled “Then that’s the difference isn’t it? What kind of King doesn’t know his subjects”
Brigante nods “You retimed nothing, they were set to go off instantly -anyway-, and you know me, and we all know Nathrezim are smart, and can plan for anything, but you don’t know him. Rookie! Catch!”
Brigante tossed the detonator box for the tactical Mana bombs to Theladrin, who -thankfully- caught it.
“Now who has chaos and uncertainty in their lives?”
Mikaneth turned to Theladrin, his smile sincere and welcoming “You, whoever you are, We can talk, the offer still applies, I can offer you such things, whatever you want? Is yours…”
Theladrin looked at the detonator, and at Brigante, who just nodded “Do what feels right lad”
Mikaneth roared “Do not mess with this choice, you could be an Equal!”
Thaldrin smiled “Like the Old Man says. We’re Sun Hawks”
“We have no Equal”
His finger pressed the button and the world went blue….
“There’s a room where the Light won’t find you”
It was here.
He rallied “Alright, those who can, stand and fight!”
The woman cooed
“Rock a bye baby,
on the treetop,
when the wind blows,
the cradle will rock,
when the bough breaks,
the baby will fall,
and down will come cradle, baby and…..”
“ALL!”
She turned, her face one of malice and spite, the flung swaddling child launched towards Dawnsear, the illusions falling, A Shivarra she, and the ‘baby’? A Felstalker.
It was desperation, the fight that followed, the Felstalker going for the Escadrilles battle mage, the Shivarra expertly parrying and slashing with her many arms, her many blades. The ship lurched and swung as they fought, in some cases the fighting actually becoming physical, grabbling and wrenching, Theladrin bereft of the Light, had to use his skill at arms, and with Aiechi, the Flight Surgeon crippled, there was no hope of healing.
“At least the Arcane still works” Brigante grumbled as he loosed another arrow infused with crackling blue energy into the Shivarra.
At long last it was over.
The room took on a similar flashing hue to the rest of the Nethership, Aiechi slowly clawed himself to his feet, Dawnsear too, having been most sorely assailed by the Felstalker, that class of demons best placed to act against Mages.
“We haven’t got long!” Yasmyr shouted. Brigante just pointed to the exit to the room, but as the illusions dropped, they saw the truth of the room. A Trophy cabinet. Countless, countless, names of worlds, and in each case a skull mounted on a plaque, like a perverted hunting lodge.
One of the plaques said “Azeroth” and the hook hung bare.
“Wouldn’t bother buying a hat rack Sir, looks like Mikaneth has one already sorted out for you”
“Oh swive me, someone wants to stroke his piddler every time he comes through here…” Brigante growled, “Lets get this done”
“We have thirty minutes Sir, before the ship jumps” Dawnsear said tiredly.
The elves staggered down the last corridor, to another lit room, in this one there were demonic holographs across the walls, showing the various areas of Azeroth, and Legion intentions, or assets in place. In the middle of the room another holograp showed this ship, and the attacking aerial forces, and the heavy losses being taken. Looking at the Wall, a vast figure, for most, the first time they had seen him.
Mikaneth, Prime Manipulator, Death of a Thousand Worlds, King of All Skies.
The figure was vast, aye, his body coated with Wildhammer tattoos, his gauntlet, for he was missing a hand, a Gnomish styled power one, his wings, Feathered like a Dragonhawk, his greaves, a Stormwind Gryphonriders. He was all of Azeroth’s Fliers, and he was all of their doom.
The Nathrezim turned, and spoke slyly “I imagine in your minds, this is your point of triumph, yes?”
Brigante stayed silent, his eyes scanning the Legion Maps for their intentions of their remaining forces.
Mikaneth laughed, an earthy sound “oh, -Please-, do remember these tactical movements and maps that I have put on maps for you all to see at the point where you invade my flag deck, they are all -entirely- my plans, absolutely.”
The Demon laughed.
“I am glad you are here though. We can all go on a little journey together, as I destroy the Aerie, Silvermoon, and the Sunwell. I imagine the Forsaken will sue for peace, I could be as good an advisor to Sylvanas as Varimathras ever was, probably better. I have a fleet to offer her. He did not. Nor...do you, Now tell me Summerisle, you are not, despite what some unkind and possibly accurate souls in Silvermoon circles say, an idiot. You know you cannot defeat me here, you know that I will reform in the Nether, and some day come back, and this whole sorry scenario will replay itself over, and over, and over again. How many wives and children -must- you lose before you give up? I mean the current one was fun, I bet you still have nightmares, imaging what might come screaming and hungering out of her womb?”
Mikaneth smiled, almost paternally. “You’re welcome”
Dae’anneth placed a hand in front of Brigante, as if to stop him, but Brigante had not moved a muscle.
Mikaneth smiled “you have learned self restraint, or at least your dogs have learned to rein you in. I imagine you think you have the upper hand, because of your pretty little toys you have attached to my ship. You cost me a hand. I hear the flier who dropped that bomb died in Redridge, a pity, I would have enjoyed returning the favour”.
Mikaneth’s face snapped into a thin lipped line “You have the same offer as before. Bend the knee, and I will make you King of -These- Skies. You could rule. I could give you everything, we could be equals?”
Brigante spat on the deck.
“Equals?”
Mikaneth extended his arms magnanimously, “You have my word”
“We’re the Sun Hawks, Mikaneth”
“We -have- no Equals”
His Hawks grasped their weapons, grinning. Brigante’s act of hubris somehow easing their fears at the growing pride he had been showing.
Mikaneth laughed. “We could not disable your Mana Bombs you know, oh yes, I know your plan, drop them, make a heroic and undoubtedly witty speech, run and detonate them to go off after you had escaped, you doubtlessly had a timer on them.”
Mikaneth waved a hand “Not any more, they will go off instantly, and I know you. I study the worlds and people I conquer. You will not push that button, no, leave your mewling wretched affianced to bring up potential monsters alone, or make her strangle them? Die in a fight no one will ever know about? Sacrifice your Fliers for nothing? Go home without anyone knowing what ‘Heroes’ you all were? I know you. I know what drives you. You are more akin to me than you will ever allow yourself to know, in the short span you have left.”
Brigante nods and looks at his Fliers “Do you trust me?”
“To the last of us all”
Brigante looks up at Mikaneth, that vast gloating face, “Do you know -him-?” Brigante gestures at Theladrin, said elf looking surprised.
Mikaneth waved a hand “He is an irrelevance, why should I?”
Yasmyr growled “Then that’s the difference isn’t it? What kind of King doesn’t know his subjects”
Brigante nods “You retimed nothing, they were set to go off instantly -anyway-, and you know me, and we all know Nathrezim are smart, and can plan for anything, but you don’t know him. Rookie! Catch!”
Brigante tossed the detonator box for the tactical Mana bombs to Theladrin, who -thankfully- caught it.
“Now who has chaos and uncertainty in their lives?”
Mikaneth turned to Theladrin, his smile sincere and welcoming “You, whoever you are, We can talk, the offer still applies, I can offer you such things, whatever you want? Is yours…”
Theladrin looked at the detonator, and at Brigante, who just nodded “Do what feels right lad”
Mikaneth roared “Do not mess with this choice, you could be an Equal!”
Thaldrin smiled “Like the Old Man says. We’re Sun Hawks”
“We have no Equal”
His finger pressed the button and the world went blue….
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The Tactical mana bombs ripped apart the Nethership ‘De Regli Caeli’ from the rear, it instantly spiralled into an uncontrolled descent over Aszuna, the stern of the ship simply ceasing to exist. To those outside the Nethership it plummetted and crashed in seconds, to those inside it was a nightmare of red and black flashing light, the decks suddenly drastically tilting so they had to clamber up like rock climbers over decks they had simply walked, behind them a howling green sky that sucked Demons out of the ship, all bar one, who followed them, his wings would cause too much drag, and he wanted vengeance. Mikaneth pursued them, clambering after them. Like cluster fireworks Demons were spewed out of the rear of the ship, their corporeal bodies to smash and shatter on the rocks far below, even those with wings were dragged by the gravitational pull of De Regli Caeli. The Seven ships of its flotilla likewise jerked, and started to descend in slow spirals, two colliding. On and on the Sun Hawks climbed, arms straining against the steep incline, as even though time was different here, outside the ship was crashing in seconds. Mikaneth was always close on their heels, despite having only one hand, his wings aided him to an extent. Brigante snarled “We’re at Point Andorhal! ‘Bandit! Go Go Go!”
Yasmyr detonated the first charge and the bulkhead collapsed behind Mikaneth, who stood upon it gloatingly, the rubble and collapsed bulwarks a flat surface “That was your plan? Idiotic! You missed!”
“Auuuugh No!” Starglow cried as she reached Point Calia “They’ve tampered with it, it needs fixing!”
Brigante grimaced as the wind started to howl through the wrecked ship “We don’t -have- time!”
“I -Need- Time” Yasmyr snapped back as the ground of Aszuna started ...slowly...so slowly, to lurch into view.
Mikaneth laughed and started to ascend the slanted deck “And yet Time...is on my Side….”
Brigante clung to a bulkhead and looked at Dae’anneth “Lieutenant, you know the plan, you know what needs to be done, and I trust you to ensure that Tarrithael is safe. We always knew how this was likely to end”
Mikaneth sent up another cloud of pestilential Dragonhawks searing flesh as they flew, Yasmyr screamed in agony, all but passed out as she tried to rewire the explosives.
“Somebody has to stop him whilst she fixes the charges, and I’ve had a good run, better than most in this business, so get the lads and lasses home, and we’ll call it even eh?”
Brigante smiled crookedly and heaved a breath, when from just below came a shout.
“Not your Day today Commandant!” Just below them, young Theladrin Highflame let go of his hold on the bulkhead, dropping onto the surprised Mikaneth, blade infused with Light, they both clattered to the ground, or what had been the opposing Bulkhead. For a brief, brief moment they fought, before Mikaneth struck with a clawed hand, wrenching Theladrin’s head from his shoulders and sending it spiralling up,
It was long enough.
“Andorhal’s fixed!” Yasmyr yelled.
Brigante just stared, as of all the people who could have caught the spiralling head of Theladrin, it had to be Leronath, his elder brother.
“Blow Andorhal!”
Mikaneth roared up the steep deck towards them, just as the detonation went off, trapping him between two bulkheads.
“RUN!” he yelled, the Ship was starting to whistle, and fragments of metal were coming away from it, the elves hair flying around them as they tried to cling to the decking and get to their Dragonhawks, likewise clinging to the deck with their claws.
“Buckle in!”
As they started to, they passed through cloud cover, and Brigante realised how low they were.
“Bandit! Charge Ban’dinoriel! Blow it!”
A third, muffled detonation was heard, and a roar of triumph.
“OUT! Out Out!”
The Dragonhawks tore out of the breach, time and speed catching up with them.
They were thirty feet above the sands of Aszuna, behind them the Vast Nethership started to impact, Shrapnel hitting them, the other Netherships also tumbling, soon to impact, Lightning arced through the skies.
A strange source of energy blazed through the skies, through the hole that charge Ban’dinoriel had made, the sort that Warlocks used...to keep Demons alive.
They sped into the skies, smarting from wounds, in awe of the destruction in their wake….
But it was not over…
Not yet.
Yasmyr detonated the first charge and the bulkhead collapsed behind Mikaneth, who stood upon it gloatingly, the rubble and collapsed bulwarks a flat surface “That was your plan? Idiotic! You missed!”
“Auuuugh No!” Starglow cried as she reached Point Calia “They’ve tampered with it, it needs fixing!”
Brigante grimaced as the wind started to howl through the wrecked ship “We don’t -have- time!”
“I -Need- Time” Yasmyr snapped back as the ground of Aszuna started ...slowly...so slowly, to lurch into view.
Mikaneth laughed and started to ascend the slanted deck “And yet Time...is on my Side….”
Brigante clung to a bulkhead and looked at Dae’anneth “Lieutenant, you know the plan, you know what needs to be done, and I trust you to ensure that Tarrithael is safe. We always knew how this was likely to end”
Mikaneth sent up another cloud of pestilential Dragonhawks searing flesh as they flew, Yasmyr screamed in agony, all but passed out as she tried to rewire the explosives.
“Somebody has to stop him whilst she fixes the charges, and I’ve had a good run, better than most in this business, so get the lads and lasses home, and we’ll call it even eh?”
Brigante smiled crookedly and heaved a breath, when from just below came a shout.
“Not your Day today Commandant!” Just below them, young Theladrin Highflame let go of his hold on the bulkhead, dropping onto the surprised Mikaneth, blade infused with Light, they both clattered to the ground, or what had been the opposing Bulkhead. For a brief, brief moment they fought, before Mikaneth struck with a clawed hand, wrenching Theladrin’s head from his shoulders and sending it spiralling up,
It was long enough.
“Andorhal’s fixed!” Yasmyr yelled.
Brigante just stared, as of all the people who could have caught the spiralling head of Theladrin, it had to be Leronath, his elder brother.
“Blow Andorhal!”
Mikaneth roared up the steep deck towards them, just as the detonation went off, trapping him between two bulkheads.
“RUN!” he yelled, the Ship was starting to whistle, and fragments of metal were coming away from it, the elves hair flying around them as they tried to cling to the decking and get to their Dragonhawks, likewise clinging to the deck with their claws.
“Buckle in!”
As they started to, they passed through cloud cover, and Brigante realised how low they were.
“Bandit! Charge Ban’dinoriel! Blow it!”
A third, muffled detonation was heard, and a roar of triumph.
“OUT! Out Out!”
The Dragonhawks tore out of the breach, time and speed catching up with them.
They were thirty feet above the sands of Aszuna, behind them the Vast Nethership started to impact, Shrapnel hitting them, the other Netherships also tumbling, soon to impact, Lightning arced through the skies.
A strange source of energy blazed through the skies, through the hole that charge Ban’dinoriel had made, the sort that Warlocks used...to keep Demons alive.
They sped into the skies, smarting from wounds, in awe of the destruction in their wake….
But it was not over…
Not yet.
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“You can be my equal!” Mikaneth shrieks, and Yasmyr glances to Theladrin - “You feel like accepting a demotion, Rookie?” - who stares the demon dead in the eye as he pushes the button. The world lurches as the Mark 4s at the nethership's rear detonate. The Sun Hawks scramble, dragging battered flesh back towards their battle-brothers, who scrabble for purchase at the great scar through which they'd entered, squawking and chirping and puffing smoke as they wait for their riders to return. Behind them as they half-run-half-climb, a loathsome green tide of claw and wing and fang, all the fury the Legion can muster, and at its head the King himself. Exactly as planned.
Calia. Andorhal, Ban'dinorel.
It's a sequence Yasmyr has run through daily since the Commandant gave her the special assignment – to create three devices capable of tearing through nethership bulkheads, place them precisely, and detonate them in order. Calia, to separate Mikaneth from his horde, Andorhal to end his pursuit of the fleeing Hawks, Ban'dinorel to open a window between him and Sunlance's cadre of warlocks. She knows the route through the ship like the back of her hand, except that the back of her hand doesn't suddenly decide that the floor is the ceiling.
Calia, Andorhal, Ban'dinorel.
Brigante has stressed - enough times that if she had a gold for each, she'd have retired to a private island and not be clambering through the ruins of De Regli Caeli – that the plan must go flawlessly, and Yasmyr's been doing this long enough (long before she was a flier, much less a Scout-Hawk) to know what that means, even if the Commandant will never put it quite so bluntly, unwilling as he always is to accept the grim mathematics of warfare.
“Calia! Bandit! Go Go Go!”
She depresses the first button on her belt - the vials within their paired device shattering and mingling - and from behind her comes the sound of tearing metal and a rush of heat, her triumphant crow drowned out by Mikaneth's mocking laughter as he chastises them for missing him and dying in her throat entirely as they reach -
“Andorhal! Now!”
“... Andorhal's bust, sir.” Her heart's in her throat, the world narrowing to a single mangled device on a single patch of wall, the dull clunk of button without accompanying explosion the only sound she hears. Mikaneth's wyrmtongues must have found it while the Hawks were dealing with the Gharalnoo, or the Dark Room, or any of the other myriad horrors they'd faced in the four-hours-that-were-really-twelve-seconds. The vials, she knows, must still be intact – there would be no wall here, otherwise – so the problem... the problem is...
“Fix it.”
“On it.”
Fething hells, Mikaneth is close – close enough she can smell the mix of dragonhawk musk and harness-leather, gyrocopter fuel and those thick dwarven cigars Aiechi favours, all Azeroth's fliers in one – the swarm of tiny, ragged-winged hawks he breathes out in place of insects tearing at her skin, bathing her in flame. And then he's not; something golden and radiant falls from above, with a roar of pride and righteous fury, and the comms channel explodes. Time, of course, is something they never have enough of - throughout the war with Mikaneth it's always been the enemy, bent to his command and not theirs – and so there is no time for mourning Theladrin yet. Time only to work through backups and contingency plans, and to reach the sad but inevitable conclusion.
Aiechi would no doubt tell her this is the greatest honour a soldier can have; here, at the sharp end, it doesn't feel all that great.
“Drake, Val'kyr.” She draws her pistol, pressing it to the panel behind which she knows the vials sit. “Keep climbing. I'll see you at the bar.”
Dae's voice crackles in response - “Save a cold one for me, Bandit”- as she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and pulls the trigger.
---
Yasmyr wakes to the smell of smoke and the tang of iron and salt, to Ilex chirruping uncertainly and the comms channel crackling with reports from across the field. She knows she's not dead, because she can hear herself breathing – horrible ratting noises, each one seeming to drive a knife between her ribs – and she reaches for her comms device with trembling fingers, her voice a rasping hiss.
“... Chaplain, you'd better be dead. Or I'm going to kill you myself for leaving me here.”
Dae'anneth unbuckles her harness (she can't tell, with her head spinning so, whether he's relieved she's alive or devastated she won't just lie down and sit this last part out) and Aiechi lifts her from Ilex's back, asking if she's sure she knows what she's asking- sure she wants this.
She nods. War's not done yet.
There are those amongst the sin'dorei who still cling to the virtues the humans ascribe the Light. Those who claim it is a Benevolent entity. And then there's Aiechi, who burns like the Sun itself, whose prayers hold no trace of Compassion. He speaks instead of Duty - of the Fight Unfinished and the Foe Unslain - raising the arm not cradling Yasmyr's broken body against him to the sky, and her horrid wheeze becomes an agonised scream as shattered bones fuse and wounds are seared shut, then a delirious, almost manic laugh as his righteous fury surges through her.
When Mikaneth falls – pierced with arrow and icicle, seared by fire and Light, her daggers buried hilt-deep in his spine – and Brigante sighs – small, and fragile, the hunter lost without the pray – and tells them in a curious, flat monotone that the battle's over at last, the painfully-bright green glow in her eyes gutters, like a dying candle. Aiechi's arm is around her waist as her legs crumple beneath her, Dae's hand on her shoulder as the world goes black.
---
The path Yasmyr walks is one she knows well, though she's never seen it this lush and green; this must, she supposes, be how it looked before the Fall killed the original owners and the Dead Scar left the land cheap enough for newly-wed veterans to afford to build a home together. She's dimly aware, somewhere far behind her, of someone ordering Dae'anneth to get himself looked at, of someone else telling Aiechi to get out of the way as he's done enough damage already – and for a split second everything's white- walls-sharp-smell-pain-everywhere – but it's all so very distant, and so very unimportant. Ahead, though?
Ahead, there's no long corridor of slain foes. None of the howling wasteland Heartrest described, with its endless shadows and constant sense of some great lurking predator ready to pounce. Ahead, the light is a gentle gold, more perfect even than Quel'thalas' eternal summer, the breeze soft and perfumed.
Ahead, at the painted-on controls of her wrecked-gryocopter-come-improvised-climbing-frame, Cadet Lieutenant Starglow pauses, pushing up her oversized goggles, and turns, and smiles.
Calia. Andorhal, Ban'dinorel.
It's a sequence Yasmyr has run through daily since the Commandant gave her the special assignment – to create three devices capable of tearing through nethership bulkheads, place them precisely, and detonate them in order. Calia, to separate Mikaneth from his horde, Andorhal to end his pursuit of the fleeing Hawks, Ban'dinorel to open a window between him and Sunlance's cadre of warlocks. She knows the route through the ship like the back of her hand, except that the back of her hand doesn't suddenly decide that the floor is the ceiling.
Calia, Andorhal, Ban'dinorel.
Brigante has stressed - enough times that if she had a gold for each, she'd have retired to a private island and not be clambering through the ruins of De Regli Caeli – that the plan must go flawlessly, and Yasmyr's been doing this long enough (long before she was a flier, much less a Scout-Hawk) to know what that means, even if the Commandant will never put it quite so bluntly, unwilling as he always is to accept the grim mathematics of warfare.
“Calia! Bandit! Go Go Go!”
She depresses the first button on her belt - the vials within their paired device shattering and mingling - and from behind her comes the sound of tearing metal and a rush of heat, her triumphant crow drowned out by Mikaneth's mocking laughter as he chastises them for missing him and dying in her throat entirely as they reach -
“Andorhal! Now!”
“... Andorhal's bust, sir.” Her heart's in her throat, the world narrowing to a single mangled device on a single patch of wall, the dull clunk of button without accompanying explosion the only sound she hears. Mikaneth's wyrmtongues must have found it while the Hawks were dealing with the Gharalnoo, or the Dark Room, or any of the other myriad horrors they'd faced in the four-hours-that-were-really-twelve-seconds. The vials, she knows, must still be intact – there would be no wall here, otherwise – so the problem... the problem is...
“Fix it.”
“On it.”
Fething hells, Mikaneth is close – close enough she can smell the mix of dragonhawk musk and harness-leather, gyrocopter fuel and those thick dwarven cigars Aiechi favours, all Azeroth's fliers in one – the swarm of tiny, ragged-winged hawks he breathes out in place of insects tearing at her skin, bathing her in flame. And then he's not; something golden and radiant falls from above, with a roar of pride and righteous fury, and the comms channel explodes. Time, of course, is something they never have enough of - throughout the war with Mikaneth it's always been the enemy, bent to his command and not theirs – and so there is no time for mourning Theladrin yet. Time only to work through backups and contingency plans, and to reach the sad but inevitable conclusion.
Aiechi would no doubt tell her this is the greatest honour a soldier can have; here, at the sharp end, it doesn't feel all that great.
“Drake, Val'kyr.” She draws her pistol, pressing it to the panel behind which she knows the vials sit. “Keep climbing. I'll see you at the bar.”
Dae's voice crackles in response - “Save a cold one for me, Bandit”- as she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and pulls the trigger.
---
Yasmyr wakes to the smell of smoke and the tang of iron and salt, to Ilex chirruping uncertainly and the comms channel crackling with reports from across the field. She knows she's not dead, because she can hear herself breathing – horrible ratting noises, each one seeming to drive a knife between her ribs – and she reaches for her comms device with trembling fingers, her voice a rasping hiss.
“... Chaplain, you'd better be dead. Or I'm going to kill you myself for leaving me here.”
Dae'anneth unbuckles her harness (she can't tell, with her head spinning so, whether he's relieved she's alive or devastated she won't just lie down and sit this last part out) and Aiechi lifts her from Ilex's back, asking if she's sure she knows what she's asking- sure she wants this.
She nods. War's not done yet.
There are those amongst the sin'dorei who still cling to the virtues the humans ascribe the Light. Those who claim it is a Benevolent entity. And then there's Aiechi, who burns like the Sun itself, whose prayers hold no trace of Compassion. He speaks instead of Duty - of the Fight Unfinished and the Foe Unslain - raising the arm not cradling Yasmyr's broken body against him to the sky, and her horrid wheeze becomes an agonised scream as shattered bones fuse and wounds are seared shut, then a delirious, almost manic laugh as his righteous fury surges through her.
When Mikaneth falls – pierced with arrow and icicle, seared by fire and Light, her daggers buried hilt-deep in his spine – and Brigante sighs – small, and fragile, the hunter lost without the pray – and tells them in a curious, flat monotone that the battle's over at last, the painfully-bright green glow in her eyes gutters, like a dying candle. Aiechi's arm is around her waist as her legs crumple beneath her, Dae's hand on her shoulder as the world goes black.
---
The path Yasmyr walks is one she knows well, though she's never seen it this lush and green; this must, she supposes, be how it looked before the Fall killed the original owners and the Dead Scar left the land cheap enough for newly-wed veterans to afford to build a home together. She's dimly aware, somewhere far behind her, of someone ordering Dae'anneth to get himself looked at, of someone else telling Aiechi to get out of the way as he's done enough damage already – and for a split second everything's white- walls-sharp-smell-pain-everywhere – but it's all so very distant, and so very unimportant. Ahead, though?
Ahead, there's no long corridor of slain foes. None of the howling wasteland Heartrest described, with its endless shadows and constant sense of some great lurking predator ready to pounce. Ahead, the light is a gentle gold, more perfect even than Quel'thalas' eternal summer, the breeze soft and perfumed.
Ahead, at the painted-on controls of her wrecked-gryocopter-come-improvised-climbing-frame, Cadet Lieutenant Starglow pauses, pushing up her oversized goggles, and turns, and smiles.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0bcRCCg01I
The Skies flashed ominously, the Netherships destruction was all but complete, as the nose impacted the earth, yet from the Warlocks on the rise, energy flashed, Demons under their command siphoned, energy flashing to that vast hand, even now tearing apart the bulkheads.
“What are they doing! They’re healing him!”
“All part of the plan” Brigante yelled down.
The Nethership finished its vast and slow collision, that arm buried beneath wreaths of smoke and the tortured scream of metal, so too, the tortured wailings of souls from the engines that drove the behemoth, as they too, invisible flew and fled that aerial tormentor, that city-prison that had brought low a thousand worlds Skies, and taught the survivors, only one thing, to keep to the ground, to be a thing that crawled and looked at the Skies not with joy, but with dread...to bend the knee, to bow and scrape and maybe, just maybe, you would pass beneath your new Master’s notice.
“He Alive?” Brigante shouted down to Sunlances Warlocks, looking pale and wan.
“Just”
“Good! ‘Just’ is where I want him!” He nodded and soared into the skies.
A Mistake. The charged Fel Energies, the Souls, the sheer volume of Arcane unleashed by the Mark Fours had wrought something terrible over Aszuna, as the Slave ships too nosedived, energy crackled and flared in the skies, Lighting flashed in all directions. Arcane, a vast purplish blue storm smashing clifftops
“Was this part of the plan too?”
“Not part of mine! Get to the ground, Hawks! Hit Dirt!”
They had hired Mercenaries, called in favours, for what was supposed to be just to secure the crash site! Ten minutes work...this is why he hadn’t called on the Queensguard, He now wished he had. Down the cliff paths stormed Demons, but not randomly, no, regimented, something was controlling them.
He looked at the Knights Errant he had enlisted, at Colonel Schtauffenburg of ‘Dieter’s Wildcats’, the mercenaries they had recently faced, and at the savage trolls of Jon’jin’s Skullshatter tribe.
The Timing was wise, Arcane Lightning lit up the skies, to have remained in them would have been death. But then, so could the Demons pouring down.
He roared “The Skies they are our Battlefield, the Ground it is our Grave, we do not share them easily, in the Skies one must be brave!”
He lofted the spear ‘Duran’dal’ in his hand and bellowed “The World itself, is not enough, to Higher we Aspire!”
“With a flash of the Wing and a Gout of Flame, the Thalassian Hawkflier!”
“Only the Brave!” He roared, encouraging others to follow, his fliers needed no encouraging, all had lost something to the monster at the top of this hill, a child, a lover, a friend, a comrade, sibling, or even just their own innocence at what this Forever War had cost them.
The rag-tag army ran, slipping in the mud up the hill, the demons had the highground, and it told, when the two clashed, the demons making great headway, though the elves and their hired allies fought well. The rain falling from the sky glittered blue and green, and stung the skin, but it still muddied the ground, and made every step a challenge. Angrily, as in rebuke to the arrogance of the Sun Hawks, the arcane storm took on fel aspects, the Lightning still blasted the land, but where it struck demons it did not slay, no, it gave them strength, and resolve.
Not that they needed it, under flashing blue and green skies they poured down, their masses driving the attackers back.
In a moments respite Brigante looked to his side and yelled “Lieutenant! You still got the Crystal?”
Dae’anneth just tapped the satchel on his back.
“Good! I’d hate to have to send you back to Silvermoon to get it!”
“Any time you want to send me back to Silvermoon instead of here, just let me know Sir”
The water was running like rivulets, like miniature waterfalls down the muddy slope, every step up a trial, every moment a scream as some other poor soul was struck by the storm, teh rain all the while burning, Brigante’s arm was grabbed by a Troll, he whirled, ready to strike, his instincts all but taken over “Dey’re be good an’ bad news”
“Bad news first if you would, I have a nervous disposition” he grinned in the hammering and scalding rain.
“De Commander of de demon ‘ere, et be a Pit Lord, but jes’ a little one”
“The Little one bit being the good news?”
Lightning struck, and shrapnel from parts of the crashed Nethership lanced through the mud covered bedraggled ‘host’.
“Nah mon, de good news be dat Cha target be past de Pit Lord”
“Great, we take on a Pit Lord, then a Nathrezim, what was the good news again? Not being funny but….”
“We gat dis, cha concentrate on de Dreadlord”.
Brigante swore as he saw several of his seriously injured fliers being brought into the fray. Any other day, he’d send them back, today...he wasn’t sure the world was enough to deal with this.
The Lightning raged down, and the mudslide increased, Demons and Azeroths defenders alike hampered.
He saw a chance. Dieter’s Wildcats were attacking with military precision, rifle, shield, advance, rifle, shield advance, forward to contact. Jon’jin’s trolls were clambering over the Pitlord, admittedly smaller than the usual specimen, whereas the Knights Errant charged, reformed and charged with lances, driving into the vast reptilian demon.
All of a sudden, he felt so tired…
Combatants on both sides were carried over the cliffs by the mudslides, screams broken by impact with rocks far below.
He heaved in a sigh “Sun Hawks! We do this now or Never! Only the Brave!”
The Battlecry was echoed as possibly the slowest charge ever was enacted, boots a foot deep in flowing, slick mud. The Irony. The fasted, the sleekest, the most mobile of the Horde’s forces, and here they struggled to advance two feet for every second.
It was however just in time…
Above them the sky still was mottled, a horrific bruise, and the rain was green, it was starting to -burn-.
“AT THEM!” He roared, and clambered on all fours through the mud, not caring how bad it looked, making his way to the top, followed by the others.
The Ships wreckage smoked and sizzled under the rain, there was a smash, smash, smash, from inside, and then a panel was slammed loose, and from it, Mikaneth came, but oh, no, not mighty…..
One leg of the vast Nathrezim was crooked, one dragonhawk feathered wing shorn from him, his entire left arm missing now, and half his face, he slurred at them.
“I give you one...last...chance, or I will simply end you now”
Brigante laughed “The irony is, you look just like Featherwing now? You know, the last Commandant, the one you corrupted...laugh with me, come on…”
Mikaneth snarled...slurred, “I will show you fear!” And with a whisk of his hand rose necromantically imbued corpses, each the illusionary image of the dead person most likely to cause pain to the Sun Hawks, who promptly swiftly laughed. Starglow said what most of them felt “How many times have you tried that?”
Leronath snarled “I caught my brother’s head in my hands about half an hour ago, and you’re telling me you rose him from the dead? Impressive.”
Brigante smiled “ I already had to kill my son, think making me do it again is going to make it believable?”
Dae’anneth chips in “He doesn’t get it, does he? You expose us to horrors about our loved ones over years, we get desensitised, we learn to laugh it off… You won’t be laughing this one off…” Dae’anneth sets down a chest sized crystal held in his rucksack.
Mikaneth Screams in rage, and goes on the attack.
The Skies flashed ominously, the Netherships destruction was all but complete, as the nose impacted the earth, yet from the Warlocks on the rise, energy flashed, Demons under their command siphoned, energy flashing to that vast hand, even now tearing apart the bulkheads.
“What are they doing! They’re healing him!”
“All part of the plan” Brigante yelled down.
The Nethership finished its vast and slow collision, that arm buried beneath wreaths of smoke and the tortured scream of metal, so too, the tortured wailings of souls from the engines that drove the behemoth, as they too, invisible flew and fled that aerial tormentor, that city-prison that had brought low a thousand worlds Skies, and taught the survivors, only one thing, to keep to the ground, to be a thing that crawled and looked at the Skies not with joy, but with dread...to bend the knee, to bow and scrape and maybe, just maybe, you would pass beneath your new Master’s notice.
“He Alive?” Brigante shouted down to Sunlances Warlocks, looking pale and wan.
“Just”
“Good! ‘Just’ is where I want him!” He nodded and soared into the skies.
A Mistake. The charged Fel Energies, the Souls, the sheer volume of Arcane unleashed by the Mark Fours had wrought something terrible over Aszuna, as the Slave ships too nosedived, energy crackled and flared in the skies, Lighting flashed in all directions. Arcane, a vast purplish blue storm smashing clifftops
“Was this part of the plan too?”
“Not part of mine! Get to the ground, Hawks! Hit Dirt!”
They had hired Mercenaries, called in favours, for what was supposed to be just to secure the crash site! Ten minutes work...this is why he hadn’t called on the Queensguard, He now wished he had. Down the cliff paths stormed Demons, but not randomly, no, regimented, something was controlling them.
He looked at the Knights Errant he had enlisted, at Colonel Schtauffenburg of ‘Dieter’s Wildcats’, the mercenaries they had recently faced, and at the savage trolls of Jon’jin’s Skullshatter tribe.
The Timing was wise, Arcane Lightning lit up the skies, to have remained in them would have been death. But then, so could the Demons pouring down.
He roared “The Skies they are our Battlefield, the Ground it is our Grave, we do not share them easily, in the Skies one must be brave!”
He lofted the spear ‘Duran’dal’ in his hand and bellowed “The World itself, is not enough, to Higher we Aspire!”
“With a flash of the Wing and a Gout of Flame, the Thalassian Hawkflier!”
“Only the Brave!” He roared, encouraging others to follow, his fliers needed no encouraging, all had lost something to the monster at the top of this hill, a child, a lover, a friend, a comrade, sibling, or even just their own innocence at what this Forever War had cost them.
The rag-tag army ran, slipping in the mud up the hill, the demons had the highground, and it told, when the two clashed, the demons making great headway, though the elves and their hired allies fought well. The rain falling from the sky glittered blue and green, and stung the skin, but it still muddied the ground, and made every step a challenge. Angrily, as in rebuke to the arrogance of the Sun Hawks, the arcane storm took on fel aspects, the Lightning still blasted the land, but where it struck demons it did not slay, no, it gave them strength, and resolve.
Not that they needed it, under flashing blue and green skies they poured down, their masses driving the attackers back.
In a moments respite Brigante looked to his side and yelled “Lieutenant! You still got the Crystal?”
Dae’anneth just tapped the satchel on his back.
“Good! I’d hate to have to send you back to Silvermoon to get it!”
“Any time you want to send me back to Silvermoon instead of here, just let me know Sir”
The water was running like rivulets, like miniature waterfalls down the muddy slope, every step up a trial, every moment a scream as some other poor soul was struck by the storm, teh rain all the while burning, Brigante’s arm was grabbed by a Troll, he whirled, ready to strike, his instincts all but taken over “Dey’re be good an’ bad news”
“Bad news first if you would, I have a nervous disposition” he grinned in the hammering and scalding rain.
“De Commander of de demon ‘ere, et be a Pit Lord, but jes’ a little one”
“The Little one bit being the good news?”
Lightning struck, and shrapnel from parts of the crashed Nethership lanced through the mud covered bedraggled ‘host’.
“Nah mon, de good news be dat Cha target be past de Pit Lord”
“Great, we take on a Pit Lord, then a Nathrezim, what was the good news again? Not being funny but….”
“We gat dis, cha concentrate on de Dreadlord”.
Brigante swore as he saw several of his seriously injured fliers being brought into the fray. Any other day, he’d send them back, today...he wasn’t sure the world was enough to deal with this.
The Lightning raged down, and the mudslide increased, Demons and Azeroths defenders alike hampered.
He saw a chance. Dieter’s Wildcats were attacking with military precision, rifle, shield, advance, rifle, shield advance, forward to contact. Jon’jin’s trolls were clambering over the Pitlord, admittedly smaller than the usual specimen, whereas the Knights Errant charged, reformed and charged with lances, driving into the vast reptilian demon.
All of a sudden, he felt so tired…
Combatants on both sides were carried over the cliffs by the mudslides, screams broken by impact with rocks far below.
He heaved in a sigh “Sun Hawks! We do this now or Never! Only the Brave!”
The Battlecry was echoed as possibly the slowest charge ever was enacted, boots a foot deep in flowing, slick mud. The Irony. The fasted, the sleekest, the most mobile of the Horde’s forces, and here they struggled to advance two feet for every second.
It was however just in time…
Above them the sky still was mottled, a horrific bruise, and the rain was green, it was starting to -burn-.
“AT THEM!” He roared, and clambered on all fours through the mud, not caring how bad it looked, making his way to the top, followed by the others.
The Ships wreckage smoked and sizzled under the rain, there was a smash, smash, smash, from inside, and then a panel was slammed loose, and from it, Mikaneth came, but oh, no, not mighty…..
One leg of the vast Nathrezim was crooked, one dragonhawk feathered wing shorn from him, his entire left arm missing now, and half his face, he slurred at them.
“I give you one...last...chance, or I will simply end you now”
Brigante laughed “The irony is, you look just like Featherwing now? You know, the last Commandant, the one you corrupted...laugh with me, come on…”
Mikaneth snarled...slurred, “I will show you fear!” And with a whisk of his hand rose necromantically imbued corpses, each the illusionary image of the dead person most likely to cause pain to the Sun Hawks, who promptly swiftly laughed. Starglow said what most of them felt “How many times have you tried that?”
Leronath snarled “I caught my brother’s head in my hands about half an hour ago, and you’re telling me you rose him from the dead? Impressive.”
Brigante smiled “ I already had to kill my son, think making me do it again is going to make it believable?”
Dae’anneth chips in “He doesn’t get it, does he? You expose us to horrors about our loved ones over years, we get desensitised, we learn to laugh it off… You won’t be laughing this one off…” Dae’anneth sets down a chest sized crystal held in his rucksack.
Mikaneth Screams in rage, and goes on the attack.
1 Like
You guys, as a guild, produce the best writing I've seen on the forums.
It's thick with detail and emotion and feels so fantastically raw.
It's very real.
A truly epic read. One day I'll have to try and read all of it.
////
Sunhawks are honestly a fantastic guild for anyone looking to have Hordeside flying ace roleplay.
I cannot recommend this guild enough.
It's thick with detail and emotion and feels so fantastically raw.
It's very real.
A truly epic read. One day I'll have to try and read all of it.
////
Sunhawks are honestly a fantastic guild for anyone looking to have Hordeside flying ace roleplay.
I cannot recommend this guild enough.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91i7tXtB0fk
“Who do you think you are! TO CHALLENGE ME!” The Nathrezim tried to fly into the skies, but lacking a wing, managed a half jump, before crashing down, one leg lamed, his eyes on the crystal, his remaining hand steadying him as he landed.
Leronath snarled first “A Brother who lost his brother to you...or do you not remember?”
Dawnsear grimaced “You made me a murderer, I had to end a whole -race- because of you”
Yasmyr growled “Your puppet killed my daughter!”
Aiechi nodded “And I had to watch the light die in her eyes when she heard why. Thats why”
Brigante spoke up “You took my wife’s life, and made me slay my own son, and even more..” He paused and admitted what really troubled him.
“You almost turned me into you”.
The Nathrezim laughed.
On the rise, Sunlance signalled Brigante and shook her head, pointing down, to the sounds of furious fighting. Brigante murmured lowly “Oh hells”
Dae’anneth looked over “What?”
“The Pit Lord, this stone is designed to trap a powerful demon soul”
“Yeah, his?”
“No...any..we want to get Him, that Pit Lord needs to die first”
“That wasn’t the plan!”
“The Plan didn’t include a Pit Lord!”
Yasmyr laughed “All plans from now, include a Pit Lord into the equation”
Dawnsear shuddered “Are we going to die here?”
Mikaneth laughed, the ruin of a Nathrezim advancing on them “You lack the courage of your convictions, now that it has come to this, as injured as I am, you realise the dread truth”
Brigante shouldered the reforged spear, ‘Duran’dal the Quickener’ , Dae’anneth nocked an arrow to his bow, and drew the string. Aiechi grasped his staff, and the Light shone around him. Yasmyr grasped her twin daggers, staggering from her injuries less than an hour ago, Dawnsear seized ever tighter on her staff, Leronath glared grimly at his brother’s killer, one hand tightening on his weapon, the other beckoning Mikaneth to them “Bring it” he growled.
They stood as the Nathrezim advanced, around them the lightning and crashing of a Sky enraged.
Around the Nathrezim an unholy light flared, he growled. “Your Bauble stops nothing, Do you know me? Do you know, truly, who I am? I am the King of All Skies, the Prime Manipulator, the Death of a Thousand Worlds, I am the Fear of the Darkened Skies, and Fear of the Sunrise, I am all the world’s Aerial Warriors, and I am the Death of them All! I am the fear you feel when you take off, and the relief you feel when you land! I have as many names as there are ways to die and am as many fears as those you sink in drink. I know you! I know all of you, I am the harsh look on the street, the hard words in rebuke, I am All of this! I -AM- Aerial War!”
On the Rise, to the sound of a thundering crash, Sunlance gave a ‘thumbs up’ as the other Warlocks joined her.
The Nathrezim glowered at the Sun Hawks “but to you...I am something special….”
“I AM THE GLASS MOUNTAIN!”
The Demon looked down upon them and laughed, “Who are you, to do anything other than kneel and beg”.
Brigante lazily drew the spear from across his shoulders, and held it close to his lips.
Yasmyr growled “Tell me he’s not doing that again, I hate it when he does that”
Aiechi raised an eyebrow “Afraid he’s doing it”
Brigante pointed the Spear at Mikaneth “Who are we? We’re the Sun Hawks!, Only the Brave!”
-Duran’dal- granted the Elves quickness, the dread exchange of power they had made with the Mage-Smith of the court of Prince Farondis
So saying he leapt at Mikaneth, landing a telling blow with the spear, only to be smashed aside, but even as Mikaneth swiped Brigante away, Dae’anneth’s arrow exploded with arcane into his chest, the Elves moved swiftly, Duran’dal’s magic granting them such reflexes and speed. Aiechi’s harsh Light, not the caring warm light, but the harsh piercing one lancing into him, to his injured shoulder stump, Dawnsear’s Ice blasted, as Highflame took his vengeance for his brothers death. Mikaneth roared, and a vast cone of pestilential tiny Dragonhawks flew at the Sun Hawks, ripping at flesh and tearing any joints they could find, yet with speed and agility, whilst bearing injuries they danced away from them. Both parties whirled, As the Injured of the Escadrilles, now massing up the slopes added their voices of rage, the Sun Hawks battled on, Arrow, spell, dagger, spear and sheer fury added to the fury of the mudslides and lightning from the skies, Mikaneth fought as would have been expected, as a world defending its skies. They knew the feeling. They had done so against him long enough.
Brigante staggered to his feet, he was battered, wounded, bruised, and just wanted to sleep...He looked over and saw his elves fighting the final foe. With a roar he infused the Spear with his own mana. He saw Light flash from Aiechi, fierce blows, bursts of magic, he saw Yasmyr appear behind the demon and pierce its spine with her daggers, Dae’anneths arrows striking true, Leronath’s fury and Dawnsear’s artistry smashing the demon down. Mikaneth looked up at the last, and mouthed the words “ I made you...Me…”
Brigante smiled “Nearly” and joined his fellows in stabbing and slashing at the foe, until finally the breastplate collapsed to the floor,and a rain of corrupted Dragonhawks flew from the place the Demon had been, The Warlocks on the Rise had waited for this, and those Dragonhawks, or fragments of the Nathrezim’s soul were bound within the crystal, screaming and howling.
He turned, of the mercenaries they had hired, less than a quarter still stood. Dieters Wildcats had fought and died to a man, save their company piper, who now played a dirge. Jon’jin’s Trolls looked discontented, their Chieftain slain.
Behind him a voice. “Sir..Is...Is it Over, have we won?”
He rubbed his eyes as the rain lashed down, normal rain now, not fel tainted by their foe...he sagged to his knees. “Yes, spread it such through our host, such as remains, The Day is Ours.”
He sagged forwards, his gauntlets in the mud and just wept.
Heroic speeches could come later, but for now the faces of the dead flashed behind his closed eyes.
At long last.. After so many Deaths.
Operation Nightmare Green was ended.
The Days of Green Fire were over.
“Who do you think you are! TO CHALLENGE ME!” The Nathrezim tried to fly into the skies, but lacking a wing, managed a half jump, before crashing down, one leg lamed, his eyes on the crystal, his remaining hand steadying him as he landed.
Leronath snarled first “A Brother who lost his brother to you...or do you not remember?”
Dawnsear grimaced “You made me a murderer, I had to end a whole -race- because of you”
Yasmyr growled “Your puppet killed my daughter!”
Aiechi nodded “And I had to watch the light die in her eyes when she heard why. Thats why”
Brigante spoke up “You took my wife’s life, and made me slay my own son, and even more..” He paused and admitted what really troubled him.
“You almost turned me into you”.
The Nathrezim laughed.
On the rise, Sunlance signalled Brigante and shook her head, pointing down, to the sounds of furious fighting. Brigante murmured lowly “Oh hells”
Dae’anneth looked over “What?”
“The Pit Lord, this stone is designed to trap a powerful demon soul”
“Yeah, his?”
“No...any..we want to get Him, that Pit Lord needs to die first”
“That wasn’t the plan!”
“The Plan didn’t include a Pit Lord!”
Yasmyr laughed “All plans from now, include a Pit Lord into the equation”
Dawnsear shuddered “Are we going to die here?”
Mikaneth laughed, the ruin of a Nathrezim advancing on them “You lack the courage of your convictions, now that it has come to this, as injured as I am, you realise the dread truth”
Brigante shouldered the reforged spear, ‘Duran’dal the Quickener’ , Dae’anneth nocked an arrow to his bow, and drew the string. Aiechi grasped his staff, and the Light shone around him. Yasmyr grasped her twin daggers, staggering from her injuries less than an hour ago, Dawnsear seized ever tighter on her staff, Leronath glared grimly at his brother’s killer, one hand tightening on his weapon, the other beckoning Mikaneth to them “Bring it” he growled.
They stood as the Nathrezim advanced, around them the lightning and crashing of a Sky enraged.
Around the Nathrezim an unholy light flared, he growled. “Your Bauble stops nothing, Do you know me? Do you know, truly, who I am? I am the King of All Skies, the Prime Manipulator, the Death of a Thousand Worlds, I am the Fear of the Darkened Skies, and Fear of the Sunrise, I am all the world’s Aerial Warriors, and I am the Death of them All! I am the fear you feel when you take off, and the relief you feel when you land! I have as many names as there are ways to die and am as many fears as those you sink in drink. I know you! I know all of you, I am the harsh look on the street, the hard words in rebuke, I am All of this! I -AM- Aerial War!”
On the Rise, to the sound of a thundering crash, Sunlance gave a ‘thumbs up’ as the other Warlocks joined her.
The Nathrezim glowered at the Sun Hawks “but to you...I am something special….”
“I AM THE GLASS MOUNTAIN!”
The Demon looked down upon them and laughed, “Who are you, to do anything other than kneel and beg”.
Brigante lazily drew the spear from across his shoulders, and held it close to his lips.
Yasmyr growled “Tell me he’s not doing that again, I hate it when he does that”
Aiechi raised an eyebrow “Afraid he’s doing it”
Brigante pointed the Spear at Mikaneth “Who are we? We’re the Sun Hawks!, Only the Brave!”
-Duran’dal- granted the Elves quickness, the dread exchange of power they had made with the Mage-Smith of the court of Prince Farondis
So saying he leapt at Mikaneth, landing a telling blow with the spear, only to be smashed aside, but even as Mikaneth swiped Brigante away, Dae’anneth’s arrow exploded with arcane into his chest, the Elves moved swiftly, Duran’dal’s magic granting them such reflexes and speed. Aiechi’s harsh Light, not the caring warm light, but the harsh piercing one lancing into him, to his injured shoulder stump, Dawnsear’s Ice blasted, as Highflame took his vengeance for his brothers death. Mikaneth roared, and a vast cone of pestilential tiny Dragonhawks flew at the Sun Hawks, ripping at flesh and tearing any joints they could find, yet with speed and agility, whilst bearing injuries they danced away from them. Both parties whirled, As the Injured of the Escadrilles, now massing up the slopes added their voices of rage, the Sun Hawks battled on, Arrow, spell, dagger, spear and sheer fury added to the fury of the mudslides and lightning from the skies, Mikaneth fought as would have been expected, as a world defending its skies. They knew the feeling. They had done so against him long enough.
Brigante staggered to his feet, he was battered, wounded, bruised, and just wanted to sleep...He looked over and saw his elves fighting the final foe. With a roar he infused the Spear with his own mana. He saw Light flash from Aiechi, fierce blows, bursts of magic, he saw Yasmyr appear behind the demon and pierce its spine with her daggers, Dae’anneths arrows striking true, Leronath’s fury and Dawnsear’s artistry smashing the demon down. Mikaneth looked up at the last, and mouthed the words “ I made you...Me…”
Brigante smiled “Nearly” and joined his fellows in stabbing and slashing at the foe, until finally the breastplate collapsed to the floor,and a rain of corrupted Dragonhawks flew from the place the Demon had been, The Warlocks on the Rise had waited for this, and those Dragonhawks, or fragments of the Nathrezim’s soul were bound within the crystal, screaming and howling.
He turned, of the mercenaries they had hired, less than a quarter still stood. Dieters Wildcats had fought and died to a man, save their company piper, who now played a dirge. Jon’jin’s Trolls looked discontented, their Chieftain slain.
Behind him a voice. “Sir..Is...Is it Over, have we won?”
He rubbed his eyes as the rain lashed down, normal rain now, not fel tainted by their foe...he sagged to his knees. “Yes, spread it such through our host, such as remains, The Day is Ours.”
He sagged forwards, his gauntlets in the mud and just wept.
Heroic speeches could come later, but for now the faces of the dead flashed behind his closed eyes.
At long last.. After so many Deaths.
Operation Nightmare Green was ended.
The Days of Green Fire were over.
1 Like
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GswbT5zfmRE
It was a few days later…..
The Dragonhawk took off, its rider punching the skies in exultation, for the first time in years the Skies were -theirs-, not as in owning them, but just as in not the -Legion’s- . Brigante couldn’t help a stupid grin from spreading across his face, as Sunspear looped into the clouds above, and burst through them, trailing cumulo nimbus from his wingtips, the Dragonhawk, a veteran of the war like his rider, picking up on his battle brother’s joy, and his wings spreading exultantly, Sunspear could sense, from his ‘Wingless self’ that everything was going to be fine.
The Skies were blue and lit by the sun, as the duo span and arced down towards Silvermoon City, roaring over the streets, before looping up into the clouds, heading back across the waters between Quel’thalas and Quel’danas, the water scudding up behind Sunspears wings.
Brigante laughed at the sheer exultation of flying for joy again, and not for war. Tarrithael was released from the Sanitorium, Mikaneth was...contained.. Nightmare Green...not a worry!
They looped around the Aerie tower, Brigante giving a cheery wave as he passed, and as they dived over the courtyard and people, who dived for cover, he laughed, and Sunspear Whickered in response. He heeled Sunspear into a tight turn “Time to see if we’re still up to it” He laughed. “It’s over! It’s over, We Won!”.
A lazy parabola, where he hung upside down for a time, before the pair lanced towards the Bridge near the entrance to the Sunwell, the Bridge, forty feet high, sixty wide. “We’ve got this!” Brigante yelled as he flung himself low, clinging to Sunspear as they arrowed towards the aperture. Sunspear just whickered, which, with that bad tempered Dragonhawk could mean anything .
Light-Shadow-Light, and they passed out the other side, screaming up into the skies like homesick stars, They reached the clouds, Brigante punching a fist in happiness “We’ve still got it!” “Hear that, we’ve got it!” Sunspear rolled an eye and huffed a gout of flame.
Together they soared into the blue skies, For once...Blue Skies, not Fel Green.
“This is it, Sunspear, they’ll put us out to pasture, this Was it, the War to End All Wars!”
But of course...it was not.
It was a few days later…..
The Dragonhawk took off, its rider punching the skies in exultation, for the first time in years the Skies were -theirs-, not as in owning them, but just as in not the -Legion’s- . Brigante couldn’t help a stupid grin from spreading across his face, as Sunspear looped into the clouds above, and burst through them, trailing cumulo nimbus from his wingtips, the Dragonhawk, a veteran of the war like his rider, picking up on his battle brother’s joy, and his wings spreading exultantly, Sunspear could sense, from his ‘Wingless self’ that everything was going to be fine.
The Skies were blue and lit by the sun, as the duo span and arced down towards Silvermoon City, roaring over the streets, before looping up into the clouds, heading back across the waters between Quel’thalas and Quel’danas, the water scudding up behind Sunspears wings.
Brigante laughed at the sheer exultation of flying for joy again, and not for war. Tarrithael was released from the Sanitorium, Mikaneth was...contained.. Nightmare Green...not a worry!
They looped around the Aerie tower, Brigante giving a cheery wave as he passed, and as they dived over the courtyard and people, who dived for cover, he laughed, and Sunspear Whickered in response. He heeled Sunspear into a tight turn “Time to see if we’re still up to it” He laughed. “It’s over! It’s over, We Won!”.
A lazy parabola, where he hung upside down for a time, before the pair lanced towards the Bridge near the entrance to the Sunwell, the Bridge, forty feet high, sixty wide. “We’ve got this!” Brigante yelled as he flung himself low, clinging to Sunspear as they arrowed towards the aperture. Sunspear just whickered, which, with that bad tempered Dragonhawk could mean anything .
Light-Shadow-Light, and they passed out the other side, screaming up into the skies like homesick stars, They reached the clouds, Brigante punching a fist in happiness “We’ve still got it!” “Hear that, we’ve got it!” Sunspear rolled an eye and huffed a gout of flame.
Together they soared into the blue skies, For once...Blue Skies, not Fel Green.
“This is it, Sunspear, they’ll put us out to pasture, this Was it, the War to End All Wars!”
But of course...it was not.
1 Like
The first time they wake her she screams herself hoarse, hours of meticulous work undone in a few frantic seconds of thrashing before they find a vein and the soft light and perfumed breeze of Quel'thalas-as-never-was returns.
When Aiechi visits, they tell him she's stable, and resting, and needs more time to recover; when Dae'anneth does they threaten to strap him to a gurney if he doesn't go rest himself.
They don't tell either of them that, amidst the screaming, her first coherent words were “send me back”.
–
“I'm not leaving because I want to.”
“I know.”
“Escadrille needs its Scout Hawk, that's all.”
“I know.”
“This isn't... I'm not choosing them over-”
Iolanthe turns to face her, the braid Yasmyr had been working on unraveling as the strands fall from her fingers (neither Aiechi's crimson nor her own spun straw, but somewhere between the two; rose-gold, when the light hits it just so), her Lieutenant's rubies shining on her chest. “I know, mum. It's alright. I'm not going anywhere.”
Yasmyr smiles, the lack of shrapnel scars here lending her face a softness her usual crooked smirk profoundly lacks.
“I lo-”
The dream shatters.
–
The sun is setting as they reach the San, the sturdier built of the two (naked without her tools and blades, ill-at-ease in the body of a far older elf than she) leaning heavily on the winged pauldrons of the slighter, his hand on the base of her back to keep her from collapsing.
“They ever try giving me one of those swiving posthumous promotions-”
“- you'll crawl out of your grave to reject it, I know.”
“Damn fething straight.”
Yasmyr runs her fingers over the newest of the ribbons decorating her chest, incongruous in a sea of red and gold. Embroidered by widows and orphans, the sickly text reading Nightmare Green. “They're calling this the war to end all wars...”
“They've said that about every war.”
She laughs, and immediately regrets it, wincing. “True”
“You just focus on getting well before the next one's declared.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to the side of her face that isn't mottled purple, black and green. “CK's itching for that thirty-first kill, and Darksoul's boys will want their magic rock back sooner or later...”
When Aiechi visits, they tell him she's stable, and resting, and needs more time to recover; when Dae'anneth does they threaten to strap him to a gurney if he doesn't go rest himself.
They don't tell either of them that, amidst the screaming, her first coherent words were “send me back”.
–
“I'm not leaving because I want to.”
“I know.”
“Escadrille needs its Scout Hawk, that's all.”
“I know.”
“This isn't... I'm not choosing them over-”
Iolanthe turns to face her, the braid Yasmyr had been working on unraveling as the strands fall from her fingers (neither Aiechi's crimson nor her own spun straw, but somewhere between the two; rose-gold, when the light hits it just so), her Lieutenant's rubies shining on her chest. “I know, mum. It's alright. I'm not going anywhere.”
Yasmyr smiles, the lack of shrapnel scars here lending her face a softness her usual crooked smirk profoundly lacks.
“I lo-”
The dream shatters.
–
The sun is setting as they reach the San, the sturdier built of the two (naked without her tools and blades, ill-at-ease in the body of a far older elf than she) leaning heavily on the winged pauldrons of the slighter, his hand on the base of her back to keep her from collapsing.
“They ever try giving me one of those swiving posthumous promotions-”
“- you'll crawl out of your grave to reject it, I know.”
“Damn fething straight.”
Yasmyr runs her fingers over the newest of the ribbons decorating her chest, incongruous in a sea of red and gold. Embroidered by widows and orphans, the sickly text reading Nightmare Green. “They're calling this the war to end all wars...”
“They've said that about every war.”
She laughs, and immediately regrets it, wincing. “True”
“You just focus on getting well before the next one's declared.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to the side of her face that isn't mottled purple, black and green. “CK's itching for that thirty-first kill, and Darksoul's boys will want their magic rock back sooner or later...”
While these elves pale in comparison to the dashing aces of the Stormwind Air Force, I can indeed confirm if you're looking for top quality RP involving flying nonsense, and you're horde side, look no further than the Sun Hawks!
"Down we dive, spouting our flame from under! Off with one terrible roar; we live in fame or go down in flame, for nothing can stop the Stormwind Air Force!"
- Shameless Alliance Propaganda
Back in Silvermoon after the Longest War against the Nathrezim Mikaneth, the self proclaimed 'King of All Skies', the Sun Hawks are again recruiting, so if you ever wanted to fly the friendly skies, or as is usually our fate, the -unfriendly- skies, now is your time, get measured for your 'Nine', take up your 'Revenger', bond with your Hawk, and show the world who truly owns the wild blue yonder...
1 Like
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t708lUjzz6U
Three months…
Three months, whilst the world went to war, the green planet in the skies, and not a word...but that's what it was, to be undercover.
Even when the planet went, work at the facility only increased, her suspicions arose, but it wasn’t until that last day.
‘Swive me’ she thought, ‘the Old Man isn’t as daft as he looks’.
Day in, day out, the same routine, She was showering at the end of a shift, when the work siren blew, which was strange, it wasn’t a time for a shift change…
She hurriedly dressed and...because this was unusual, she went under her cot, taking out the ‘special’ packages. Now she was properly dressed. Not just as a shift worker for Venture Company, her cover.
As a Hood.
Tetralia Sundance, or ‘Blue Six’ as she was known in some circles, swaggered out with the same bravado as any of the other workers, Orcs, Goblins, humans, Gnolls even. With the same cocksure arrogance she stood in line as Overseer Gritlik marched down the line, clipboard in hand, cigar bobbing in his mouth as he counted off the workers.
Tetralia shook her head slightly. Something was wrong, she breathed slowly, and let her eyes wander.
More guards, they were expecting trouble, or someone important was coming, guns. No one here carried guns, they were either expecting an external threat, or a shooter from within.
She bit back her worry, had someone found her ‘Go’ bag. The one she had just raided, had someone been there before and found what was concealed there?
They couldn’t have, if they had, she’d already be dead, a shot from one of those riflemen would have ended it.
She stood, a length of piping held in one hand over her shoulder. First human that had tried anything funny was ‘retired’ in Venture Company parlance, no use for a man with a broken shoulder after he tried to grab some backside. Everybody learned, you did not mess with ‘Vectrina’, the name she had given when she eventually managed to sign up after months of tracking dead ends in Booty Bay. She’d had no trouble since.
In her leg pocket, the copied documents from ‘Harper Red’s operations desk, more importantly, the arrival of the three ships bringing in Gyro’s and Sky Corvettes to be fuelled here, before used elsewhere. She sighed and hefted the pipe over her shoulder. She was Vectrina.
Overseer Gritlik nodded.
“Alright, Big day, workers, our benefactor is visiting, so be on your best behaviour!” The cigar bobbed as he spoke, something in Tetralia was annoyed about that, such a trivial thing, either smoke it or don’t, having it as a prop was just conforming to a stereotype, and that affronted her professional sensibilities. This was it then, time to see if the Aerie’s hunch was right, or if she had wasted the last four months of her life…
Then he walked in.
Toned, in good shape for a Goblin, pale though, almost yellow in colouration rather than green, a rich fur coat covering most of his torso, one eye beady and yellow, the other covered by a mechanical contrivance, of some nature, in one hand a rod, tipped with a shimmering gem, its shaft encrusted with diamonds. Flanked by burly human and Orcish guards, he moved with the cocksure certainty of someone in absolute control.
Just to look at him, she knew who he was.
The Rainmaker.
It was true then...he had connections to the Venture Company.
Her left hand gripped around the grenade she had secreted, even as her face set in its neutral cocky pose.
The Rainmaker walked up and down “A real War is coming, you think of yourselves as workers, I don’t see workers here, I see future Overseers, you will all get to see it...War as a Spectator Sport, We are emperors of the future we will make together, we are….”
The Rainmaker paused, and his head swivelled to Overseer Gritlik “I thought I was clear, no Elves, not ever, No Elves! This is a vital fuelling depot, No Elves!”
Tetralia felt all eyes upon her, she sighed and breathed in, letting ‘Blue Six’ take over.
The Rainmaker looked at her, his beady eye scrutinizing, she felt her adrenaline build, the training kicking in, one foot slipping behind her to give her the impetus to break into a run.
She was burned. She knew it. Tetralia Sundance, Vectrina Dawnshimmer the name she had lived under for these months, burned, Damn the Rainmaker, he was cleverer than they had thought
She tensed as she heard the guns cocked, then sprinted, the grenade thrown in the direction of the Rainmaker, one knife cutting high on the human’s bicep by the door, the pipe smashing into the Orc’s face. She forward rolled under the swiped swords as she passed and made her break for freedom. Behind her an explosion, and to her regret, the still living howl of the Rainmaker. “After her you Mooks!”
She darted towards the treeline, and the crack of gunfire followed her, a bullet slamming into her shoulder, propelling her into a tree, she staggered back, almost concussed, before seeing the former co-workers and gunmen following her, she gritted her teeth and ran headlong through the jungle…
A Day later, they were still beating the bushes. She moved slower now, two more she had killed, but she was slowing, and the shoulder wound wasn’t helping… She was closer though, closer to Booty Bay, there she could get message through, but….
And then, at the edge of the jungle, something sent by the fates…
A High elf, painting the jungle canopy, within sight of Booty Bay, in no danger. Until now.
She looked alarmed, before seeing the Fel green eyes. She did not have time.
“I’m sorry” Tetralia growled as she broke the woman’s neck, before daubing her strawberry blonde hair with her own blood, making it as red as her own. She quickly stripped, changing her clothes for the other elf’s, and grabbed her painting easel and brushes, limping towards Booty Bay.
They were looking for a red headed elf woman.
Blue Six had just given them one.
Aldo Ferranti looked up, few people visited him, the woman was injured, dressed in a painters smock, she collapsed in the chair.
“I have a message, it is for Universal Exports”
He looked up, his drug addled persona gone, a facade easily dropped.
“From?”
“Blue Six” the woman gasped.
“To?”
“Sun Hawk Actual”
It was Aldo’s turn to gasp.
The Message was relayed.
Someone was trying to start a War.
They were about to learn what War really was.
Three months…
Three months, whilst the world went to war, the green planet in the skies, and not a word...but that's what it was, to be undercover.
Even when the planet went, work at the facility only increased, her suspicions arose, but it wasn’t until that last day.
‘Swive me’ she thought, ‘the Old Man isn’t as daft as he looks’.
Day in, day out, the same routine, She was showering at the end of a shift, when the work siren blew, which was strange, it wasn’t a time for a shift change…
She hurriedly dressed and...because this was unusual, she went under her cot, taking out the ‘special’ packages. Now she was properly dressed. Not just as a shift worker for Venture Company, her cover.
As a Hood.
Tetralia Sundance, or ‘Blue Six’ as she was known in some circles, swaggered out with the same bravado as any of the other workers, Orcs, Goblins, humans, Gnolls even. With the same cocksure arrogance she stood in line as Overseer Gritlik marched down the line, clipboard in hand, cigar bobbing in his mouth as he counted off the workers.
Tetralia shook her head slightly. Something was wrong, she breathed slowly, and let her eyes wander.
More guards, they were expecting trouble, or someone important was coming, guns. No one here carried guns, they were either expecting an external threat, or a shooter from within.
She bit back her worry, had someone found her ‘Go’ bag. The one she had just raided, had someone been there before and found what was concealed there?
They couldn’t have, if they had, she’d already be dead, a shot from one of those riflemen would have ended it.
She stood, a length of piping held in one hand over her shoulder. First human that had tried anything funny was ‘retired’ in Venture Company parlance, no use for a man with a broken shoulder after he tried to grab some backside. Everybody learned, you did not mess with ‘Vectrina’, the name she had given when she eventually managed to sign up after months of tracking dead ends in Booty Bay. She’d had no trouble since.
In her leg pocket, the copied documents from ‘Harper Red’s operations desk, more importantly, the arrival of the three ships bringing in Gyro’s and Sky Corvettes to be fuelled here, before used elsewhere. She sighed and hefted the pipe over her shoulder. She was Vectrina.
Overseer Gritlik nodded.
“Alright, Big day, workers, our benefactor is visiting, so be on your best behaviour!” The cigar bobbed as he spoke, something in Tetralia was annoyed about that, such a trivial thing, either smoke it or don’t, having it as a prop was just conforming to a stereotype, and that affronted her professional sensibilities. This was it then, time to see if the Aerie’s hunch was right, or if she had wasted the last four months of her life…
Then he walked in.
Toned, in good shape for a Goblin, pale though, almost yellow in colouration rather than green, a rich fur coat covering most of his torso, one eye beady and yellow, the other covered by a mechanical contrivance, of some nature, in one hand a rod, tipped with a shimmering gem, its shaft encrusted with diamonds. Flanked by burly human and Orcish guards, he moved with the cocksure certainty of someone in absolute control.
Just to look at him, she knew who he was.
The Rainmaker.
It was true then...he had connections to the Venture Company.
Her left hand gripped around the grenade she had secreted, even as her face set in its neutral cocky pose.
The Rainmaker walked up and down “A real War is coming, you think of yourselves as workers, I don’t see workers here, I see future Overseers, you will all get to see it...War as a Spectator Sport, We are emperors of the future we will make together, we are….”
The Rainmaker paused, and his head swivelled to Overseer Gritlik “I thought I was clear, no Elves, not ever, No Elves! This is a vital fuelling depot, No Elves!”
Tetralia felt all eyes upon her, she sighed and breathed in, letting ‘Blue Six’ take over.
The Rainmaker looked at her, his beady eye scrutinizing, she felt her adrenaline build, the training kicking in, one foot slipping behind her to give her the impetus to break into a run.
She was burned. She knew it. Tetralia Sundance, Vectrina Dawnshimmer the name she had lived under for these months, burned, Damn the Rainmaker, he was cleverer than they had thought
She tensed as she heard the guns cocked, then sprinted, the grenade thrown in the direction of the Rainmaker, one knife cutting high on the human’s bicep by the door, the pipe smashing into the Orc’s face. She forward rolled under the swiped swords as she passed and made her break for freedom. Behind her an explosion, and to her regret, the still living howl of the Rainmaker. “After her you Mooks!”
She darted towards the treeline, and the crack of gunfire followed her, a bullet slamming into her shoulder, propelling her into a tree, she staggered back, almost concussed, before seeing the former co-workers and gunmen following her, she gritted her teeth and ran headlong through the jungle…
A Day later, they were still beating the bushes. She moved slower now, two more she had killed, but she was slowing, and the shoulder wound wasn’t helping… She was closer though, closer to Booty Bay, there she could get message through, but….
And then, at the edge of the jungle, something sent by the fates…
A High elf, painting the jungle canopy, within sight of Booty Bay, in no danger. Until now.
She looked alarmed, before seeing the Fel green eyes. She did not have time.
“I’m sorry” Tetralia growled as she broke the woman’s neck, before daubing her strawberry blonde hair with her own blood, making it as red as her own. She quickly stripped, changing her clothes for the other elf’s, and grabbed her painting easel and brushes, limping towards Booty Bay.
They were looking for a red headed elf woman.
Blue Six had just given them one.
Aldo Ferranti looked up, few people visited him, the woman was injured, dressed in a painters smock, she collapsed in the chair.
“I have a message, it is for Universal Exports”
He looked up, his drug addled persona gone, a facade easily dropped.
“From?”
“Blue Six” the woman gasped.
“To?”
“Sun Hawk Actual”
It was Aldo’s turn to gasp.
The Message was relayed.
Someone was trying to start a War.
They were about to learn what War really was.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86mOFn3V53M
Blood for Blood.
It had to be this way.
They knew, the guilty, and they had accepted the invitations anyway, it was the ‘new’ way of doing things, less pogroms, less knockings on doors at dawn, less Arcane Golems.
A gentler way.
Summerisles Way.
They had fought him, all these years, and now they had lost, and he had won.
It had taken years, all the campaign against Nightmare Green, but one by one, they had been weeded out, some of them not even knowing they had been discovered until this night.
The Party was one of good humour, drinks, food, and shaking of hands, notably, the host, the Commandant, clapped many on the shoulder, and shook hands with few.
Very few.
Very…
Few..
Brigante sat himself at the head of the table, and smiles, laughs at jokes, he is the friendly, affable host, attentive, and the soul of good humour, whilst behind his eyes Mana Bombs flashed and flared, and a hundred deaths were carried out.
What were a few more?
He watched, dispassionately as a ‘Councillor’ was ‘helped’ from their seat, clearly the worse for drink, their death the following morning would clearly be an example to all, of the dangers of over imbibing, the two Hoods would make sure he reached his home. Surely nothing grim would befall him there.
They listened, and laughed to his jokes, and when he suggested a certain dissenting figure was taken outside for a bit of a breather everyone laughed, they had been the bit of a giddy goat after all, but nothing -really- bad happened in Silvermoon, not when it had its defenders. One of whom was feteing them this evening.
The last at least knew...he walked in, heard the music, looked at Brigante and tipped a salute, before looking at the Hood clearly there for the purpose and walking outside for a ‘breath of fresh air’
The Hood followed, By all accounts his last words were “Get it done quick” before the dagger slid into the nape of his neck, and the last of the dissenters against the Sky King was silenced.
Inside the Hall, Brigante nodded and smiled, but inside he was screaming. They had done it alright, they had defeated one King of the Skies.
But they had made another.
Or even worse.
He had.
He stared ahead with glazed eyes as he was asked polite questions, for he had no polite answers, he had just cemented his power by murder, and in a terrible moment, he realised something.
The King of All Skies had won, after all.
He had made him....
Him.
Blood for Blood.
It had to be this way.
They knew, the guilty, and they had accepted the invitations anyway, it was the ‘new’ way of doing things, less pogroms, less knockings on doors at dawn, less Arcane Golems.
A gentler way.
Summerisles Way.
They had fought him, all these years, and now they had lost, and he had won.
It had taken years, all the campaign against Nightmare Green, but one by one, they had been weeded out, some of them not even knowing they had been discovered until this night.
The Party was one of good humour, drinks, food, and shaking of hands, notably, the host, the Commandant, clapped many on the shoulder, and shook hands with few.
Very few.
Very…
Few..
Brigante sat himself at the head of the table, and smiles, laughs at jokes, he is the friendly, affable host, attentive, and the soul of good humour, whilst behind his eyes Mana Bombs flashed and flared, and a hundred deaths were carried out.
What were a few more?
He watched, dispassionately as a ‘Councillor’ was ‘helped’ from their seat, clearly the worse for drink, their death the following morning would clearly be an example to all, of the dangers of over imbibing, the two Hoods would make sure he reached his home. Surely nothing grim would befall him there.
They listened, and laughed to his jokes, and when he suggested a certain dissenting figure was taken outside for a bit of a breather everyone laughed, they had been the bit of a giddy goat after all, but nothing -really- bad happened in Silvermoon, not when it had its defenders. One of whom was feteing them this evening.
The last at least knew...he walked in, heard the music, looked at Brigante and tipped a salute, before looking at the Hood clearly there for the purpose and walking outside for a ‘breath of fresh air’
The Hood followed, By all accounts his last words were “Get it done quick” before the dagger slid into the nape of his neck, and the last of the dissenters against the Sky King was silenced.
Inside the Hall, Brigante nodded and smiled, but inside he was screaming. They had done it alright, they had defeated one King of the Skies.
But they had made another.
Or even worse.
He had.
He stared ahead with glazed eyes as he was asked polite questions, for he had no polite answers, he had just cemented his power by murder, and in a terrible moment, he realised something.
The King of All Skies had won, after all.
He had made him....
Him.
1 Like
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpBd2TB06Uo
The elf arose, looked out through the curtains in his room, it was comfortably furnished, everything laid out as he liked, everything in its place. Through the curtains it was another beautiful day, it always was, Dragonhawks circling around the Aerie, for some reason the sight filled him with dread and fear, he closed the curtains and went to the bay kitchen, taking out his porridge, boiling water, and counting out the spoons of honey “One, two, three four, five”. He relaxed. And sat clamly, awaiting the porridge to be ready. He looked around his room, spartan it must have seemed, he pondered the picture on the wall, it was...familiar. A Young Elf, smiling, a Dragonhawk behind him, below it hung medals. He went to the painting and examined it closely.
“Warhawk Aileron Sunburst”. The Medals. All for the same person. It was his name, he knew that, but he could not reconcile the smiling elf in the painting with him. He would never have flown a Dragonhawk, they scared him, the sight of them, the smell, the sounds, the way they looked at him like they knew, like they were judging him. No, the Skies were scary. They had been ever since….
He turned and paced seven steps to the kitchenette, preparing his porridge, before setting it down neatly in the centre of the table in front of him, taking up his spoon, he ladled the food into his mouth, he didn’t need to, but he chewed ten times, exactly ten, before swallowing. When the bowl was finished, he walked eight steps to the basin, before pouring water from a jug into the bowl and washing it thoroughly. He then washed his hands. He had no idea when he would be back, if he would come back. They never did. He walked to the door, as ever, through his letterbox, stuck the days journals. He took them carefully, straightened them on his table, and examined them. His eyes flickered over the paper in seconds, two thousand and fifty six words, a reference to Forsaken and a presumable picture that had been cut out with crude scissors. Probably good. Forsaken scared him, they reminded him of Operation Gravearrow, when the Sourge came...when……….
Mention of a great Aerial victory, but pictures cut out, Names of new Aces, and their ‘Kill Tallies’, his brain whirred...He had been an Ace once...before……
No. Gone….
He had been….
No…
He donned his thick leather robes, and smoothing them three times, he moved to the door, where hanging on it his helm rested. Silvery Gold, featureless, with eyeslots and a slit for the mouth, his had the numeral ‘8’ upon it.
Thats who he was. He placed the helm securely on his head, and tapped on the door eight times, he was ‘Eight’.
Opening, closing, and locking the door, and checking it eight times he walked through the Aerie.
He was ‘Eight’ of Archivists. People looked and glanced away, some of the younger Cadets of the Seventh Escadrille stared, he wanted to shake them and say “Run! Run whilst you can!” But then part of him couldn’t remember why he would even think that. His life was comfortable here, he even had a kind woman who talked to him each month, trying to help him understand why he felt how he did, he had to wear his mask of course, she couldn’t know who he was outside of it, but she seemed kind, she seemed to care.
The elf arose, looked out through the curtains in his room, it was comfortably furnished, everything laid out as he liked, everything in its place. Through the curtains it was another beautiful day, it always was, Dragonhawks circling around the Aerie, for some reason the sight filled him with dread and fear, he closed the curtains and went to the bay kitchen, taking out his porridge, boiling water, and counting out the spoons of honey “One, two, three four, five”. He relaxed. And sat clamly, awaiting the porridge to be ready. He looked around his room, spartan it must have seemed, he pondered the picture on the wall, it was...familiar. A Young Elf, smiling, a Dragonhawk behind him, below it hung medals. He went to the painting and examined it closely.
“Warhawk Aileron Sunburst”. The Medals. All for the same person. It was his name, he knew that, but he could not reconcile the smiling elf in the painting with him. He would never have flown a Dragonhawk, they scared him, the sight of them, the smell, the sounds, the way they looked at him like they knew, like they were judging him. No, the Skies were scary. They had been ever since….
He turned and paced seven steps to the kitchenette, preparing his porridge, before setting it down neatly in the centre of the table in front of him, taking up his spoon, he ladled the food into his mouth, he didn’t need to, but he chewed ten times, exactly ten, before swallowing. When the bowl was finished, he walked eight steps to the basin, before pouring water from a jug into the bowl and washing it thoroughly. He then washed his hands. He had no idea when he would be back, if he would come back. They never did. He walked to the door, as ever, through his letterbox, stuck the days journals. He took them carefully, straightened them on his table, and examined them. His eyes flickered over the paper in seconds, two thousand and fifty six words, a reference to Forsaken and a presumable picture that had been cut out with crude scissors. Probably good. Forsaken scared him, they reminded him of Operation Gravearrow, when the Sourge came...when……….
Mention of a great Aerial victory, but pictures cut out, Names of new Aces, and their ‘Kill Tallies’, his brain whirred...He had been an Ace once...before……
No. Gone….
He had been….
No…
He donned his thick leather robes, and smoothing them three times, he moved to the door, where hanging on it his helm rested. Silvery Gold, featureless, with eyeslots and a slit for the mouth, his had the numeral ‘8’ upon it.
Thats who he was. He placed the helm securely on his head, and tapped on the door eight times, he was ‘Eight’.
Opening, closing, and locking the door, and checking it eight times he walked through the Aerie.
He was ‘Eight’ of Archivists. People looked and glanced away, some of the younger Cadets of the Seventh Escadrille stared, he wanted to shake them and say “Run! Run whilst you can!” But then part of him couldn’t remember why he would even think that. His life was comfortable here, he even had a kind woman who talked to him each month, trying to help him understand why he felt how he did, he had to wear his mask of course, she couldn’t know who he was outside of it, but she seemed kind, she seemed to care.
As he neared the Archivist chambers, the subterranean warren just known as ‘The Park’ he stilled, he did not know why. He recognised the figure...Blood Hawk Summerisle, he had no idea why everyone was fawning over him these days, He had only been a Blood Hawk, only one Rank above himself when………
Beside him, a thin figure in the same robes as he, but on her mask ( For you can tell by body shape he had re-learned, ) the number ‘1’.
There was a look of infinite sadness in Blood Hawk Summerisles eyes, as if about to burst into tears at the sight of him, but he had no idea why, he wished he did, such a small elf, so much….older looking than last time he remembered him, back when…….
‘1’ Spoke. “We have a special duty, ‘Eight’, something...worse than anything we have ever had to contain.” She nodded, her mask, identical to his bar the number on it dipping, he knew she sometimes had difficulties remembering things, she too was afraid of Dragonhawks...How odd they had all ended up working here, “The Commandant himself commands it”
Eight nodded, “Is he here? I should thank him for my accomodation for free?”
Blood Hawk Summerisle turned away choking a sob.
‘One’ spoke kindly, “We have this conversation every time ‘Eight’, Summerisle is the Commandant now, he pays for us all, houses us, all of the veterans who hit the ‘Glass Mountain, and many besides. You’re getting closer to remembering, soon you, and I may be able to leave here?”
Eight smiled behind his mask “You were always kind, ‘One’, I would like that” he nodded.
Summerisle just glared “She is your wi...no..I leave you to your duties...you know your business best” With a last look of immeasurable sorrow at the two elves in masks now strangers to each other he swallowed and walked away.
Eight frowned behind his mask “He looks so sad, so small”
One nodded. “He always seems worried, anyway, we have a new puzzle to work out. You will like this one..”
Eight smiled “Is it another code? We broke the last one in an hour and twelve minutes. I enjoyed that”
One shook her head, and for a moment there was a smell to her hair that Eight almost recognised, back from ….before…..
They passed between two Arcane Golems, anyone, even the Commandant not wearing one of their masks would have been ripped asunder by them, as it was the Golems stood impassive. The doors slowly slid open, into the dimly lit darkness and ramp downwards, and then….the stacks...The Nightmare Stacks. The places where every horror, everything the Aerie and its Escadrilles had ever encountered that was deemed too dangerous to leave lying around, yet not possible to destroy was kept. Heretical texts that might become useful, Gems and Phylactery’s, Parts of creatures long vanquished, state secrets, whispers and lies. The Aerie was like a grandmother, who hoarded bits and pieces in a drawer, in case they became useful, and this was the drawer.
Trolleys were dragged as items were placed, and more rarely, withdrawn, all the staff in silvery gold masks with a number on them. Eight wondered how the numbers were assigned, he seemed to remember having been Eleven, and Twenty Two before that, and the smell of One’s hair, that was the same as ‘Five’s and ‘Seventeens’ before that. That smell made him happy, just as the sight of the open sky made him afraid.
One nodded “We have a new problem for you, ‘Eight’. We need to seperate and misfile these parts”
Eight Shuddered. “Everything has its right place, everything must be right, you can’t just….you can’t ask me to misfile things, I don’t know how to...Besides, it is broken, Look!”
The Gem indeed seemed to originally have had six parts, and the four remaining ones pulsed with a malignant energy.
“Its broken! I don’t know where the other parts are!” Eight Wailed.
“You don’t need to, they’re safe” One reassured.
“But how can I fix it?”
“You don’t need to. I will give you a list, just file it where it says to, ‘Eight’ it will all be fine, you will not get into trouble, even if the locker title and number does not match the number on the paperwork”
“But two Pieces are missing!”
“We don’t need to worry about that.”
“But it will not be properly filed”
“It isn’t meant to be...it is meant to be lost...for ever”
Eight didn’t understand, but One was starting to, she was remembering who she had been, before her breakdown, when the Scourge had came, and with it, a dreadful realisation as to what she had become, how far she had fallen, The Aerie looked after its own, even when their minds were broken. It didn’t cast them aside, it gave them purpose, and pay, and a home, and one day, when they were better, they went free. She knew who she was now, Lieutenant Seren Suburst. Fliers grew habits, they had rituals, so when they hit the Glass Mountain, how better to help them than by giving them rituals, things to try and make them remember.
None of this helped Eight, as he seperated the parts of the crystal with absolute dexterity, even though he had never seen it before, and misfiled it. No enemy searching the Archives would ever find a list and be able to reassemble the pieces, they would have to open -every- drawer, some of which were trapped, and even then, they would be two pieces short. He had no idea what this crystal was, or why it was so important, and as with everything filed, he would not remember, unless someone gave him an exact number.
Bit by bit, the trapped soul of Mikaneth, the ‘King of All Skies’ was buried deep below the ground, split and imprisoned, never to see the Skies.
As his soul was diminished he at first felt admiration, grudgingly for the plan, then a sense of unease, then horror, then final dread, as the last spark and his cognitive ability was stripped from him, and he became a howling thing of loss and despair, no reason or rationale.
And this.
This is vengeance.
The War for Azeroth’s Skies had been fought and won.
Vae Victus. Woe to the Conquered.
Eight was finished with his task, and One beckoned him over, she leant towards him, their masks touching, that had never happened before, she spoke softly “I think...I think tomorrow there will be a different ‘One’ to me, if all goes well.”
“Are you ill, One? I have always, you have always been kind to me” Eight asked.
Tears ran down the mask from One’s eyes.
“No, I am...not ill anymore, just carry on as you are, and perhaps we will have that ...perhaps we will both leave...and be other people again”
EIght nodded, as One turned, the smell of her hair so hauntingly familiar, he wished he knew why…
….The Next day… After his normal ritual….
He donned his thick leather robes, and smoothing them three times, he moved to the door, where hanging on it his helm rested. Silvery Gold, featureless, with eyeslots and a slit for the mouth, his had the numeral ‘7’ upon it.
Thats who he was. He placed the helm securely on his head, and tapped on the door Seven times, he was ‘Seven’.
Opening, closing, and locking the door, and checking it Seven times he walked through the Aerie.
Miles away a woman, who had once been ‘One’ looked around their house, how everything had changed since the Scourge came and destroyed their minds and wondered how she would fix things if ever her husband, like her, finally won that war. Ten and more years later, and so many veterans, were still fighting the Fall.
She tapped the table top, before realising what she was doing, and stopped. “One, One, One”
For some people, the Scourge War would never truly be over.
Beside him, a thin figure in the same robes as he, but on her mask ( For you can tell by body shape he had re-learned, ) the number ‘1’.
There was a look of infinite sadness in Blood Hawk Summerisles eyes, as if about to burst into tears at the sight of him, but he had no idea why, he wished he did, such a small elf, so much….older looking than last time he remembered him, back when…….
‘1’ Spoke. “We have a special duty, ‘Eight’, something...worse than anything we have ever had to contain.” She nodded, her mask, identical to his bar the number on it dipping, he knew she sometimes had difficulties remembering things, she too was afraid of Dragonhawks...How odd they had all ended up working here, “The Commandant himself commands it”
Eight nodded, “Is he here? I should thank him for my accomodation for free?”
Blood Hawk Summerisle turned away choking a sob.
‘One’ spoke kindly, “We have this conversation every time ‘Eight’, Summerisle is the Commandant now, he pays for us all, houses us, all of the veterans who hit the ‘Glass Mountain, and many besides. You’re getting closer to remembering, soon you, and I may be able to leave here?”
Eight smiled behind his mask “You were always kind, ‘One’, I would like that” he nodded.
Summerisle just glared “She is your wi...no..I leave you to your duties...you know your business best” With a last look of immeasurable sorrow at the two elves in masks now strangers to each other he swallowed and walked away.
Eight frowned behind his mask “He looks so sad, so small”
One nodded. “He always seems worried, anyway, we have a new puzzle to work out. You will like this one..”
Eight smiled “Is it another code? We broke the last one in an hour and twelve minutes. I enjoyed that”
One shook her head, and for a moment there was a smell to her hair that Eight almost recognised, back from ….before…..
They passed between two Arcane Golems, anyone, even the Commandant not wearing one of their masks would have been ripped asunder by them, as it was the Golems stood impassive. The doors slowly slid open, into the dimly lit darkness and ramp downwards, and then….the stacks...The Nightmare Stacks. The places where every horror, everything the Aerie and its Escadrilles had ever encountered that was deemed too dangerous to leave lying around, yet not possible to destroy was kept. Heretical texts that might become useful, Gems and Phylactery’s, Parts of creatures long vanquished, state secrets, whispers and lies. The Aerie was like a grandmother, who hoarded bits and pieces in a drawer, in case they became useful, and this was the drawer.
Trolleys were dragged as items were placed, and more rarely, withdrawn, all the staff in silvery gold masks with a number on them. Eight wondered how the numbers were assigned, he seemed to remember having been Eleven, and Twenty Two before that, and the smell of One’s hair, that was the same as ‘Five’s and ‘Seventeens’ before that. That smell made him happy, just as the sight of the open sky made him afraid.
One nodded “We have a new problem for you, ‘Eight’. We need to seperate and misfile these parts”
Eight Shuddered. “Everything has its right place, everything must be right, you can’t just….you can’t ask me to misfile things, I don’t know how to...Besides, it is broken, Look!”
The Gem indeed seemed to originally have had six parts, and the four remaining ones pulsed with a malignant energy.
“Its broken! I don’t know where the other parts are!” Eight Wailed.
“You don’t need to, they’re safe” One reassured.
“But how can I fix it?”
“You don’t need to. I will give you a list, just file it where it says to, ‘Eight’ it will all be fine, you will not get into trouble, even if the locker title and number does not match the number on the paperwork”
“But two Pieces are missing!”
“We don’t need to worry about that.”
“But it will not be properly filed”
“It isn’t meant to be...it is meant to be lost...for ever”
Eight didn’t understand, but One was starting to, she was remembering who she had been, before her breakdown, when the Scourge had came, and with it, a dreadful realisation as to what she had become, how far she had fallen, The Aerie looked after its own, even when their minds were broken. It didn’t cast them aside, it gave them purpose, and pay, and a home, and one day, when they were better, they went free. She knew who she was now, Lieutenant Seren Suburst. Fliers grew habits, they had rituals, so when they hit the Glass Mountain, how better to help them than by giving them rituals, things to try and make them remember.
None of this helped Eight, as he seperated the parts of the crystal with absolute dexterity, even though he had never seen it before, and misfiled it. No enemy searching the Archives would ever find a list and be able to reassemble the pieces, they would have to open -every- drawer, some of which were trapped, and even then, they would be two pieces short. He had no idea what this crystal was, or why it was so important, and as with everything filed, he would not remember, unless someone gave him an exact number.
Bit by bit, the trapped soul of Mikaneth, the ‘King of All Skies’ was buried deep below the ground, split and imprisoned, never to see the Skies.
As his soul was diminished he at first felt admiration, grudgingly for the plan, then a sense of unease, then horror, then final dread, as the last spark and his cognitive ability was stripped from him, and he became a howling thing of loss and despair, no reason or rationale.
And this.
This is vengeance.
The War for Azeroth’s Skies had been fought and won.
Vae Victus. Woe to the Conquered.
Eight was finished with his task, and One beckoned him over, she leant towards him, their masks touching, that had never happened before, she spoke softly “I think...I think tomorrow there will be a different ‘One’ to me, if all goes well.”
“Are you ill, One? I have always, you have always been kind to me” Eight asked.
Tears ran down the mask from One’s eyes.
“No, I am...not ill anymore, just carry on as you are, and perhaps we will have that ...perhaps we will both leave...and be other people again”
EIght nodded, as One turned, the smell of her hair so hauntingly familiar, he wished he knew why…
….The Next day… After his normal ritual….
He donned his thick leather robes, and smoothing them three times, he moved to the door, where hanging on it his helm rested. Silvery Gold, featureless, with eyeslots and a slit for the mouth, his had the numeral ‘7’ upon it.
Thats who he was. He placed the helm securely on his head, and tapped on the door Seven times, he was ‘Seven’.
Opening, closing, and locking the door, and checking it Seven times he walked through the Aerie.
Miles away a woman, who had once been ‘One’ looked around their house, how everything had changed since the Scourge came and destroyed their minds and wondered how she would fix things if ever her husband, like her, finally won that war. Ten and more years later, and so many veterans, were still fighting the Fall.
She tapped the table top, before realising what she was doing, and stopped. “One, One, One”
For some people, the Scourge War would never truly be over.
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27/02/2018 15:07Posted by Briganteshow the world who truly owns the wild blue yonder..
Reds don't belong into the blue sky!