(1/2)
With thanks to Aiechi, who did a chunk of the writing and characterisation, and Brigante, whose original fic about the letterbomb I've spent the last year taking liberties with ;)
---
A year ago yesterday, Iolanthe sits in the garden, almost too old to make-pretend; the gyropcopter’s time as a toy is being replaced by its use as a climbing-frame. Aiechi makes plans to expand on it occasionally - monkey bars and ropes, climbing walls and tunnels. But to turn his home into a training yard is to invite the war back in. And their war is over.
Or his war, anyway. For Yasmyr, he’s not sure it’ll ever be. And Io, raised on Glory and Duty, hers is still to come. But they have a few more years, at least. Another year without every breath being a fight, without the ever-present smell of blood and dirt and smoke in your skin. Another year without burying your loved ones.
She glances up at him, petulantly, her face a death-glare, still not quite without the insolent pout of youth, before turning back to look at the door to the shed. By the time he’s crossing the garden, she’s kicking stones. Not hard enough to bounce off the wall, of course – she’s not quite ready to escalate Yasmyr’s ire for that. But without intervention, it’ll happen, and then he’ll have to talk both of them down.
“It’s not fair” she mutters, leaning against her father, hands wrapped around the cold glass of water he brings her “I can’t go in there because I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’ll never know what I’m doing if she never lets me in there. I can’t win. She just doesn’t Want me in there.”
Aiechi lets out a long sigh. Io’s right. She knows it, he knows it, as so does Yasmyr. Acknowledging that won’t make it hurt any less, but neither would lying.
“Your mother loves you. She’s proud of you, of everything you are and you’re becoming. Even if she never says it, it’s still true. But what’s she’s doing in there – that’s not what you learn with. You’ll get frustrated, she’ll get frustrated, someone’ll drop something and I’ll have to clean you both off the inside of the shed.”
Iolanthe giggles, despite herself, and Aiechi puts an arm around her shoulder, hugging her to his side
“Look. I’ll have a word with her. If you really want to learn, maybe we’ll be able to convince her to show you the basics, put a couple of evenings aside to teach you. Just you and her.”
---
It's not unusual for there to be guards stationed outside the officers' quarters, especially since Green Two's defection reminded everyone that the Aerie, while home, can never truly be considered 'safe' as long as the Rainmaker lives (nor, though nobody wants to admit as much, at any point after he dies; the Sun Hawks are far better at flying than at making friends). Summerisle's orders are simple – if the Lieutenant of the First (having made her opinion on where he could stick his Compassionate Leave order entirely clear) will not go home, then she is not to be disturbed while she remains.
Lightsbreach regards her companion with a weary eye. He's young enough he hasn't yet learned to relax the moment the Brass have turned to leave, spear still gripped fiercely, gaze fixed on the wall opposite as if daring anyone to try and get past him. She sighs, deciding against lighting the cigarette she's craving. It's not worth word of any dereliction of duty reaching the Old Man. Not today.
“... so did you know her?” The kid jolts, as if he's forgotten he has a second guard with him and assumes she's a suit of armour come to life. She laughs. “Easy, junior. You'll do yourself an injury, jumping at shadows. I asked if you knew her.”
“Hmm? Knew who?”
Lightsbreach angles her head none-too-subtly towards the closed door behind them. “The girl. Y'know, the one who...”
Junior flinches. “Not personally. I'd graduated before she enlisted with the Seventh. But- is that glass?!”
“Yeah, she's been doing that all day. You get used to it.”
“But protocol says-”
“Swive protocol. Commandant says do not disturb, we do not fething disturb, understood?”
Junior looks like he wants to protest, but thinks better of it (smart kid, no doubt has a bright future in the fourth or sixth if he flies half as well as he holds his tongue), and Lightsbreach goes back to counting the minutes until shift handover. Somewhere between ninety-nine and a hundred minutes later (in between the silences: three more crashes, one torrent of what she thinks is dwarven abuse, a fit of ugly, raw sobbing through which she grits her teeth and refuses to think about her own niece – same age the girl was, thankfully more interested in conjuring snowflakes than riding eagles) an elf steps past with a stride that suggests he's far more comfortable with the officer quarters than his rank would indicate - the Hawk pin attached to the shoulder not carefully and tightly bound in bandage. His face is pale and gaunt, his hair crackling with the unmistakable aura of magic. He steps past the guards without looking up, without hesitating, his eyes fixed a few steps ahead of his, his face drawn, practically daring someone to suggest he might not be allowed to go where he's going
Her hand's on Junior's shoulder before he can move to intercept, silently shaking her head and averting her gaze until the door clicks shut.
“The husband.” she says, before he can ask. The minutes keep ticking.
---
A year ago tomorrow, two small white legs lie on a mortuary slab in the Aerie Sanitorium, the femurs terminating in jagged shards, the flesh around them blackened and blistered. All they were able to take from the Commandant's office, everything above the thigh reduced to a thick red paste.
Yasmyr does not yet know; neck deep in brackish water, her priority right now is avoiding her instructors long enough to graduate from Pathstalker 101. At first she'll think the cries are part of the test, designed to lure her from her hiding place. Aiechi, however, has taken to civilian life far better than he’d ever expected. His weapons have been put away, his armour would gather dust if he didn’t keep it so carefully maintained. His hands are still calloused, still marked with nicks and scratches, but it’s from woodwork – the lathes and the files and the paint, of the toys he builds, carefully and meticulously. War took his childhood, and there’s peace in trying to find it now, in the joy he creates, and in the laughter of his daughter.
The knock is unexpected, but when it comes, he knows. A sickening, tearing hole in his stomach, the pride he’d expected overwhelmed entirely with grief.
Fliers do not get open casket funerals; they go home in buckets. But Cadet Lieutenant Iolanthe Starglow is not yet a flier, and now she never will be.
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2/2
Other Hawks reside in their fancy estates, or else in the barracks; the Starglows – when they aren't at the Aerie, which is increasingly infrequently since their respective promotions - have what might be termed a Converted Barn, though that possibly grants it a little more grandeur than it deserves. Once part of a larger estate - the other, fancier buildings (and their former owners) presumably lost to the Dead Scar- all that remains is their house and a nearby structure that once housed livestock, now bearing a handmade sign - "Workshop". The space between the two has been corralled into something resembling a garden (albeit one suffering from its owners' absence) in which a rusted gyrocopter sits mouldering.
None of the furniture matches. It's obviously been salvaged from other lost estates or bought for a few copper second-hand. In the main chamber some vague efforts have been made to disguise this with throws and cushions, elsewhere it is more apparent. There are crayon drawings of dragonhawks pinned to some of the cabinets, and marks tracking Iolanthe's height on one of the columns supporting the mezzanine. In the rafters are strung several kites, both Hawks and Flying Machines.
In that more private upstairs space is what might be termed a 'shrine' - the black and red Sunfury banner draped over a crate and flanked by formal armour posed on rigid stands, blues and golds not seen in polite society for over a decade. Their medals (not just from the Hawks, but back as far at the First War) are here, along with a scrapbook of more personal mementos. A row of figurines sits by the book, the oldest simple poppets of woven straw with scraps of fabric, the more recent lovingly-carved likenesses, each with a date either written on a tag or burned or carved into the figure itself.
On the altar tonight sits only one figure. Smaller than the others. Nestled in a wreathe of papery marigolds, the once-vibrant petals now the colour of old rust, the edges browning and beginning to crumble. On a plate before it, sweet bread rolls, shaped like skulls and glazed with colored sugar. They are faithful, but not devout, and their enemies have conjured her spirit so many times this past year – to stop them in their tracks, to stay their hands or break their will – that perhaps there is nothing left to make the trip home. But still they try.
In the morning the Starglows will wake before the altar, stretching aching limbs and wiping gritty dried tears from their cheeks, seeking solace in the dregs of last night's bottles.
---
A year ago today, a cadet knocks on the Commandant's door. Seven years old (seven and three quarters, she insists), four rubies on her chest, maybe the youngest Lieutenant in the history of the Seventh Escadrille. Three weeks since she bought her insignia home, her parents filled with pride (at least, she thinks it's pride; there's something else, when her father looks at her, that she doesn't quite understand but makes her want to hug him until he smiles again).
The box she's carrying is small, but heavy; she balances it awkwardly against her hip, freeing her arm to offer a crisp, clean salute to the elf at the desk and trying not to look at the portrait behind it – Jander Featherwing, with his burned and blackened face and crooked grimace. Outside the window the other cadets dart through the sky; she can hear (or feel, maybe?) Cloudkisser whickering, eager to join them, but she has duties now and opening the Commandant's mail is one of them. Part of Junior Officer training, as she's spared the endless tide of correspondence she's heard the adult Lieutenants complaining about. It doesn't sound so bad, she thinks, being sent so many interesting things.
“Commandant Sir, a box arrived for you, and Cadet Commander Sunshimmer said I should bring it to you”
“You should not ope-”
Other Hawks reside in their fancy estates, or else in the barracks; the Starglows – when they aren't at the Aerie, which is increasingly infrequently since their respective promotions - have what might be termed a Converted Barn, though that possibly grants it a little more grandeur than it deserves. Once part of a larger estate - the other, fancier buildings (and their former owners) presumably lost to the Dead Scar- all that remains is their house and a nearby structure that once housed livestock, now bearing a handmade sign - "Workshop". The space between the two has been corralled into something resembling a garden (albeit one suffering from its owners' absence) in which a rusted gyrocopter sits mouldering.
None of the furniture matches. It's obviously been salvaged from other lost estates or bought for a few copper second-hand. In the main chamber some vague efforts have been made to disguise this with throws and cushions, elsewhere it is more apparent. There are crayon drawings of dragonhawks pinned to some of the cabinets, and marks tracking Iolanthe's height on one of the columns supporting the mezzanine. In the rafters are strung several kites, both Hawks and Flying Machines.
In that more private upstairs space is what might be termed a 'shrine' - the black and red Sunfury banner draped over a crate and flanked by formal armour posed on rigid stands, blues and golds not seen in polite society for over a decade. Their medals (not just from the Hawks, but back as far at the First War) are here, along with a scrapbook of more personal mementos. A row of figurines sits by the book, the oldest simple poppets of woven straw with scraps of fabric, the more recent lovingly-carved likenesses, each with a date either written on a tag or burned or carved into the figure itself.
On the altar tonight sits only one figure. Smaller than the others. Nestled in a wreathe of papery marigolds, the once-vibrant petals now the colour of old rust, the edges browning and beginning to crumble. On a plate before it, sweet bread rolls, shaped like skulls and glazed with colored sugar. They are faithful, but not devout, and their enemies have conjured her spirit so many times this past year – to stop them in their tracks, to stay their hands or break their will – that perhaps there is nothing left to make the trip home. But still they try.
In the morning the Starglows will wake before the altar, stretching aching limbs and wiping gritty dried tears from their cheeks, seeking solace in the dregs of last night's bottles.
---
A year ago today, a cadet knocks on the Commandant's door. Seven years old (seven and three quarters, she insists), four rubies on her chest, maybe the youngest Lieutenant in the history of the Seventh Escadrille. Three weeks since she bought her insignia home, her parents filled with pride (at least, she thinks it's pride; there's something else, when her father looks at her, that she doesn't quite understand but makes her want to hug him until he smiles again).
The box she's carrying is small, but heavy; she balances it awkwardly against her hip, freeing her arm to offer a crisp, clean salute to the elf at the desk and trying not to look at the portrait behind it – Jander Featherwing, with his burned and blackened face and crooked grimace. Outside the window the other cadets dart through the sky; she can hear (or feel, maybe?) Cloudkisser whickering, eager to join them, but she has duties now and opening the Commandant's mail is one of them. Part of Junior Officer training, as she's spared the endless tide of correspondence she's heard the adult Lieutenants complaining about. It doesn't sound so bad, she thinks, being sent so many interesting things.
“Commandant Sir, a box arrived for you, and Cadet Commander Sunshimmer said I should bring it to you”
“You should not ope-”
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Brigante held the older man's hand, still unconscious in his bed "We thought....no...-I- thought I was so clever, but...we weren't"
It had been an arsenal, once, a prepared place of safety. A place someone had prepared to fall back to when the worst had happened….and then the worst had happened, and they had never made it here..
Now it was a Rangers playground, they took up the rifles, cocked them, and grabbed the ammunition “Look at this Sir!” or grabbed the munitions “These bombs!”
He couldn’t see it that way. He just saw those last minutes of despair in someone’s eyes at having prepared so vigorously, so precisely, only for them to die never having to have made it here. Had they had a family they were hoping to protect? When the Forsaken crashed through the walls, did that person have someone they called ‘beloved’ as he did Tarri? Did they have children they were trying to save?
Had they planned and failed?
Were they just like him?
The thought almost moved him to tears.
Of course they had been...People were the same...mostly.
This was Quel’thalas on a smaller scale.
This was one person’s Quel’thalas.
Not for the first time he wondered on the forces they sided with...what they were. He looked to one side, at his Lieutenant, her eyes too hidden behind a gasmask, as all of theirs were, she looked blankly at him, the green glass lenses showing nothing, as the blue ones on his did.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. His cane playing the third leg, then a pointer as he barked through the mask “Pick up ammunition, grenades, rifles….Not food, we can’t trust the ….food here. We might be short on arrows, but we’re not short on common sense...not yet”
“We press on”
He threw aside introspection and fell back on humour, as he often did when things turned black.
Behind them Alliance, ahead of them Salamanca….and the rest of the City.
He held the door open as his Hawks exited.
“You’re seriously going through with this Boss?” Yasmyr asked.
Brigante relented “I don’t have a choice. I show, or he takes out Tarri, or the kids, one at a time, who knows, I don’t…” His helm lowered. “And I don’t want to find out”.
The Green lensed eyes turned on him “Got to stop making yourself famous boss”
Brigante barked a laugh “Could do that, but then I’d only get to hire substandard people, instead of you guys, eh, might be an improvement”
Yasmyr looked at him levelly, her voice muffled by the mask “Were you always an !@#$%^- Sir?”
Brigante shrugged. “I’m mostly self taught, now lets get...what the hells is -that?”
Heartforge emerged, cradling four of the munitions from the arsenal, each bigger than an elven head, and taking both arms to carry. “Bombs, I thought we might need them”
Brigante almost screamed inside his gasmask “Who are we fighting, the Titans?”
Lieutenant Starglow waggled her head “They might come in useful”
“Of course she would think that” Brigante muttered to himself before turning,
“Fine, bring them…”
Their first encounter, thankfully a simple one, a crazed old noble, Sir Gideon or something. He seemed….demented, demented but harmless, he did not even seem to realise that the Elves were Horde…
The next…
Not so much.
At every step, his Lieutenant was using her grappling gun to pull herself to the roofs, and so kept them informed as to what was ahead, so they were warned of the shamblers, aimless and mindless Undead, four of them.
Brigante spoke back “These are not Forsaken, they are not our Allies, they will kill us and eat us as surely as those feral dead we saw the other night, take them down without hesitation or mercy”
Still no sign of the Golden Arrow, he nocked his own and loosed at an Undead forehead, sending it spiralling down…. Something about these grey streets preyed on the mind….
Throughout those grey streets, soaked in rain, grey ghosts moved, until finally there was a pause. Aiechi pointed down, Narme pointed across, everyone it seemed pointed somewhere except Brigante who was too rapt in his own worries…About what would happen when they found Salamanca. He’d played it over in his head, he’d talked to Dae’anneth about it, and they both knew what was going to happen.
The signals were confused. There was blood, there was the signature arrow, there was a blood trail, but also random undead killed with a gunshot, but then...they were carrying rifles now too…
There was a host of the shambling dead, the by-blows of the Gilnean War, but focused, focused...something was in the chapel, and they wanted it….
From inside the besieged chapel, a hoarse shout “We deal with these, then...Parley?”
Brigante snarled “He might know something, we could take him alive”
Yasmyr barked back “He’s here for -You- you fething idiot Sir!”
Brigante growled “Then at least I can do something useful! I can show you where he is!”
“Don’t do that! Don’t do that!” Brigante ignored the call and raised his head, his rifle aimed, no shot came.
“See!” “We can take him in, interrogate hi- What the hells are you doing!”
Heartforge had vaulted the wall “We don’t have enough bullets Sir!”
Brigante looked at his Rangers, and through his gasmask he barked “Keep them off him!”
Over the ruined wall they let fly shot after shot, as Heartforge lit one bomb after another, rolling them into the mass of the Shamblers, the explosions cutting a bloody swathe through them, as they turned back, the Hawks rifles cracked out, head shots all, downing the shamblers as they turned, the numbers were thinning.
Brigante reloaded mechanically, firing bullets into heads of Gilneans long dead, forgotten remnants of the War, until his rifle clicked on an empty chamber. A couple more shots, then the air fell silent, nothing but powder and smoke, the twitch of limbs, wait, one shambler, advancing on the exhausted Heartforge. Narme raised her rifle “I’ve got him”. She aimed slowly, her one eye tracking the shambler. Brigante checked his quiver...one arrow left.
This had taken everything they had.
Reddawn knew that, she aimed slowly, and carefully, and as the Shambler neared the exhausted bombardier she squeezed the trigger gently. A Cracking boom, and the unfortunate mindless undead joined the pile.
Silence….
Brigante started to clamber over the wall, to advance on the chapel, but was stopped by the Flight Surgeon.
“Not this time Sir. I’ll take this”
The Sun Hawks advanced through the smoke and the charnel house that was the chapel steps, the stink of cordite and blood and *!@#, as Aiechi was the first into the breach, and saw him. Ernesto Salamanca, the Man with the Golden Bow….
It had been an arsenal, once, a prepared place of safety. A place someone had prepared to fall back to when the worst had happened….and then the worst had happened, and they had never made it here..
Now it was a Rangers playground, they took up the rifles, cocked them, and grabbed the ammunition “Look at this Sir!” or grabbed the munitions “These bombs!”
He couldn’t see it that way. He just saw those last minutes of despair in someone’s eyes at having prepared so vigorously, so precisely, only for them to die never having to have made it here. Had they had a family they were hoping to protect? When the Forsaken crashed through the walls, did that person have someone they called ‘beloved’ as he did Tarri? Did they have children they were trying to save?
Had they planned and failed?
Were they just like him?
The thought almost moved him to tears.
Of course they had been...People were the same...mostly.
This was Quel’thalas on a smaller scale.
This was one person’s Quel’thalas.
Not for the first time he wondered on the forces they sided with...what they were. He looked to one side, at his Lieutenant, her eyes too hidden behind a gasmask, as all of theirs were, she looked blankly at him, the green glass lenses showing nothing, as the blue ones on his did.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. His cane playing the third leg, then a pointer as he barked through the mask “Pick up ammunition, grenades, rifles….Not food, we can’t trust the ….food here. We might be short on arrows, but we’re not short on common sense...not yet”
“We press on”
He threw aside introspection and fell back on humour, as he often did when things turned black.
Behind them Alliance, ahead of them Salamanca….and the rest of the City.
He held the door open as his Hawks exited.
“You’re seriously going through with this Boss?” Yasmyr asked.
Brigante relented “I don’t have a choice. I show, or he takes out Tarri, or the kids, one at a time, who knows, I don’t…” His helm lowered. “And I don’t want to find out”.
The Green lensed eyes turned on him “Got to stop making yourself famous boss”
Brigante barked a laugh “Could do that, but then I’d only get to hire substandard people, instead of you guys, eh, might be an improvement”
Yasmyr looked at him levelly, her voice muffled by the mask “Were you always an !@#$%^- Sir?”
Brigante shrugged. “I’m mostly self taught, now lets get...what the hells is -that?”
Heartforge emerged, cradling four of the munitions from the arsenal, each bigger than an elven head, and taking both arms to carry. “Bombs, I thought we might need them”
Brigante almost screamed inside his gasmask “Who are we fighting, the Titans?”
Lieutenant Starglow waggled her head “They might come in useful”
“Of course she would think that” Brigante muttered to himself before turning,
“Fine, bring them…”
Their first encounter, thankfully a simple one, a crazed old noble, Sir Gideon or something. He seemed….demented, demented but harmless, he did not even seem to realise that the Elves were Horde…
The next…
Not so much.
At every step, his Lieutenant was using her grappling gun to pull herself to the roofs, and so kept them informed as to what was ahead, so they were warned of the shamblers, aimless and mindless Undead, four of them.
Brigante spoke back “These are not Forsaken, they are not our Allies, they will kill us and eat us as surely as those feral dead we saw the other night, take them down without hesitation or mercy”
Still no sign of the Golden Arrow, he nocked his own and loosed at an Undead forehead, sending it spiralling down…. Something about these grey streets preyed on the mind….
Throughout those grey streets, soaked in rain, grey ghosts moved, until finally there was a pause. Aiechi pointed down, Narme pointed across, everyone it seemed pointed somewhere except Brigante who was too rapt in his own worries…About what would happen when they found Salamanca. He’d played it over in his head, he’d talked to Dae’anneth about it, and they both knew what was going to happen.
The signals were confused. There was blood, there was the signature arrow, there was a blood trail, but also random undead killed with a gunshot, but then...they were carrying rifles now too…
There was a host of the shambling dead, the by-blows of the Gilnean War, but focused, focused...something was in the chapel, and they wanted it….
From inside the besieged chapel, a hoarse shout “We deal with these, then...Parley?”
Brigante snarled “He might know something, we could take him alive”
Yasmyr barked back “He’s here for -You- you fething idiot Sir!”
Brigante growled “Then at least I can do something useful! I can show you where he is!”
“Don’t do that! Don’t do that!” Brigante ignored the call and raised his head, his rifle aimed, no shot came.
“See!” “We can take him in, interrogate hi- What the hells are you doing!”
Heartforge had vaulted the wall “We don’t have enough bullets Sir!”
Brigante looked at his Rangers, and through his gasmask he barked “Keep them off him!”
Over the ruined wall they let fly shot after shot, as Heartforge lit one bomb after another, rolling them into the mass of the Shamblers, the explosions cutting a bloody swathe through them, as they turned back, the Hawks rifles cracked out, head shots all, downing the shamblers as they turned, the numbers were thinning.
Brigante reloaded mechanically, firing bullets into heads of Gilneans long dead, forgotten remnants of the War, until his rifle clicked on an empty chamber. A couple more shots, then the air fell silent, nothing but powder and smoke, the twitch of limbs, wait, one shambler, advancing on the exhausted Heartforge. Narme raised her rifle “I’ve got him”. She aimed slowly, her one eye tracking the shambler. Brigante checked his quiver...one arrow left.
This had taken everything they had.
Reddawn knew that, she aimed slowly, and carefully, and as the Shambler neared the exhausted bombardier she squeezed the trigger gently. A Cracking boom, and the unfortunate mindless undead joined the pile.
Silence….
Brigante started to clamber over the wall, to advance on the chapel, but was stopped by the Flight Surgeon.
“Not this time Sir. I’ll take this”
The Sun Hawks advanced through the smoke and the charnel house that was the chapel steps, the stink of cordite and blood and *!@#, as Aiechi was the first into the breach, and saw him. Ernesto Salamanca, the Man with the Golden Bow….
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BO1qcWa6blQ
The Cold bit deep. An old wives tale they often said, that broken bones ached more in the cold, as snow settled on his hair, barely noticeable against the ash blond, not the white hair of age as his more impertinent fliers would remark, but his hair since birth, Brigante stalked over to the tavern, it was a small operation, small as to avoid detection. Old wives tale my backside, he thought, as he looked bitterly down at his bootprints, treading through Winterspring snow, with each step a smaller footprint, his walking cane, almost a full stop next to his trail, and wasn’t that a damning indictment…
He barked over his shoulder “CAG, get us ready for a Flight” They had travelled light, no Handlers, no resupply, just what they had, him, Reddawn, Arowik and Heartforge. The ‘Hoods’ were not fliers, they were skilled supremely in Fieldcraft, Espionage, Sabotage, or as some called it ‘Thuggery, muggery and buggery’ Reddawn nodded and wheeled off back to the Dragonhawks. She was shaping up well, what he described in his more whimsical moments as ‘A useful piece of kit’, High praise from him. A Flier could generally tell when the Commandant was displeased, his usual expressions of dissatisfaction being “If that lad was livestock, I wouldn’t breed from him” or even worse “You’re not much use to me alive, are you?”
It was a Good team he had, So many losses after Legionfall, so many new threats. Never enough fliers.
But then, when had there ever been enough?
He huffed out a breath, as the snowflakes landed on snow white hair and eyebrows, and ‘Gold Thirteen’ came out of the tavern. Her drunken swagger vanished, all an act, she was all business. “A Barrow Den Sir, thats what Green Eight reported, that's where the Statue is, same deal, Highborne in origin”
Brigante nodded slowly, then turned as Reddawn trotted up “Ready to Scramble Sir”
Brigante shook his head “We’re not doing this on foot, not in this weather. I’m not risking broken ankles or frostbite before we get there, we fly. CAG, assign duties”
Reddawn considered, her one remaining eye blinking “You on Overwatch Sir, myself and Heartforge as Redwing, We keep in communicator range to relay information?”
“Wasn’t a question CAG, that your disposition?”
“It is”
“I concur, lets go”
He Punched Sunspear on his scarred beak, vast as an elf’s leg, and capable of severing such in a heartbeat, to such a vast creature, the punch would be an affectionate pat. Sunspear moved his vast head, meeting Brigante’s gaze “We dost fly again, Wingless Self?” Brigante nodded, then realised such an expression would have no meaning to his battle brother, and met his gaze, his mind searching “We dost, Winged Self, not too cold for thee nay?”
Sunspear Whickered “And I, with the very breath of flame within me, and thee ask me if I am cold, Should ask thee, with thy featherless pallid flesh, like a plucked hatchling!” Brigante grinned and clambered into his Saddle, doing up his Flight Harness, the ‘Nine’ the nine buckles giving more accurate sensory information than any flight gauge on a mechanical flying machine, The nine buckles snapped home. He reached his gauntlet to his lips and pressed the dial.
“This is Sun Hawk Actual, All Hawks, are you ready to fly?”
A series of clicks indicated they were.
“Sun Hawks, Grab some Sky!”
The Snow churned under them as the wings beat a furious tempo, lofting them into the skies, behind their wings a vortex of snow, lessening as they climbed, into the clouds.
It was some minutes, before they reached the Barrow Den. But then, the best laid plans of Elves and Men oft go Awry.
Around the entrance of the Den, a flock of Harpies.
“Hawks, we have trade. Activate the ‘Heartracers’ and descend, no idea if it works on Harpies but...no harm trying! Dive on my mark, Three, Two, One...MARK!”
The Strident, insistent sound, that would send a normal heart into a panic attack started to ring out, as with the Dragonhawk’s natural wailing call, they fell from the clouds onto the Harpies….
But then...just like Dragonhawks, Harpies too are born to this world of sky and clouds....
So as a thing of fire and fury the Dragonhawk riders dived, their sirens screaming to set a heart to burst, yet the Harpies rose to meet them, flame and Lightning flashes in the frozen skies, The Sun Hawks were outnumbered two to one. Good Odds, Brigante reckoned, as he dived with his Battle Brother, Arcane Lance held aloft.
The Comms chatter played the orator then, along with the flame and crackle of Lightning.
“Redwing Engaging!”
“Sun Hawk Actual, got a straggler, on her”
“Heartforge here, I’ve got one on me!”
“Thats alright, I’m on Her”
It was an impossible battle to describe, it took seconds, yet to its participants it was as hard fought and long as any protracted ground engagement, the Elven fliers hyperventilated, their eyes flickered around, their adrenaline kicked in and they were living on nervous tension, reserves of nerves, not stamina, as they looped, dived and sang an aerial song that was nonetheless a hideous scream of death and destruction, Just aerial torment writ large in those snow filled skies;
“Sun Hawk Actual, Climb, drag them together, then hurl Arcane Javelins into them!”
“CAG Receiving, lets do that”
The Dragonhawks rose, for all the world looking like they were fleeing, until their riders turned and hurled Mark Two Falcons, Arcane Javelins, that exploded with a satisfying blue globe as they struck.
Brigante span Sunspear in the skies, and charged the suddenly surprised Harpies, his lance of flame arcing through his protagonist. Below they screamed a name, and the name was ‘Surfal’
“What fresh hell is this?” Brigante uttered through cold-chapped lips, before the vast form lofted itself, it has many names in mythology, in deification even, but amongst Fliers, but one name.
Roc.
“Well….hells…” He muttered as he hurtled towards the foe “Thou certain of this, Wingless Self?” Sunspear said. “No, be thou?”
“No”
“Redwing, you on this thing?”
“On it Sir”
Brigante grinned and lofted his last Arcane Javelin, before hurling it at the emerging aerial behemoth “Come on you bastard! Follow Me!”
Sunspear Whickered “Dost pretend to be braver than thou art Wingless self” Brigante leant low over his Dragonhawk as the two dodged the vile issuings from the Roc’s beak “Thou art not aiding, Winged self”. Sunspear barked as they span left to avoid a spew of horror and vile matter from the Roc “Thou wanted meek compliance, couldst have chosen a Red” A whickering laugh as they span upside down, both elf and Dragonhawk screaming as a torrent of horror washed past them
“Sun Hawk...Actual...Can...someone please do something about that thing on my tail?”
“We’re trying Sir! But you keep dodging all over the Sky!”
“I’m not going to sit still to find out what happens if it hits!”
And so it was, the Blue/silver Dragonhawk kept spinning and turning, and the Roc persistently stayed on its tail, even after its rider launched his last Arcane Javelin over his shoulder, exploding upon the creature.
“Alright...I’ll give you a shot, I’ll level out. “
The Dragonhawk started flying slowly “Stupidest Idea thy have had, Wingless Self”
Brigante grinned “You only say that because you haven’t known me as long as some have”
The Roc settled in behind, sure of its attack, and then the other two Dragonhawks fell upon it, flames sending it screeching in a ball of flame to the ground.
Sunspear rocked his head “Something else, Wingless Self”
Brigante looked the same way…”No..No we can…”
He envisioned the possibilities, a massively costly battle of attrition,possible, but …
The Zeppelin loomed, not a Horde one.
They could take it down but…
The Losses…
His blood was up, he was tempted, but…
“Sun Hawk Actual, Land, and get within the Barrow, set the Hawks free!”
He unbuckled his harness in a hurry, Sunspear cocked his head “Willst be good?”
Brigante flicked both thumbs up “Get out of here!”
As the Sun Hawks hurried into the Barrow, the bombardment started, or something did, either way, the rocks and dirt fell upon them, cutting them off. What came next, was down to this horrific den they found themselves in.
The Cold bit deep. An old wives tale they often said, that broken bones ached more in the cold, as snow settled on his hair, barely noticeable against the ash blond, not the white hair of age as his more impertinent fliers would remark, but his hair since birth, Brigante stalked over to the tavern, it was a small operation, small as to avoid detection. Old wives tale my backside, he thought, as he looked bitterly down at his bootprints, treading through Winterspring snow, with each step a smaller footprint, his walking cane, almost a full stop next to his trail, and wasn’t that a damning indictment…
He barked over his shoulder “CAG, get us ready for a Flight” They had travelled light, no Handlers, no resupply, just what they had, him, Reddawn, Arowik and Heartforge. The ‘Hoods’ were not fliers, they were skilled supremely in Fieldcraft, Espionage, Sabotage, or as some called it ‘Thuggery, muggery and buggery’ Reddawn nodded and wheeled off back to the Dragonhawks. She was shaping up well, what he described in his more whimsical moments as ‘A useful piece of kit’, High praise from him. A Flier could generally tell when the Commandant was displeased, his usual expressions of dissatisfaction being “If that lad was livestock, I wouldn’t breed from him” or even worse “You’re not much use to me alive, are you?”
It was a Good team he had, So many losses after Legionfall, so many new threats. Never enough fliers.
But then, when had there ever been enough?
He huffed out a breath, as the snowflakes landed on snow white hair and eyebrows, and ‘Gold Thirteen’ came out of the tavern. Her drunken swagger vanished, all an act, she was all business. “A Barrow Den Sir, thats what Green Eight reported, that's where the Statue is, same deal, Highborne in origin”
Brigante nodded slowly, then turned as Reddawn trotted up “Ready to Scramble Sir”
Brigante shook his head “We’re not doing this on foot, not in this weather. I’m not risking broken ankles or frostbite before we get there, we fly. CAG, assign duties”
Reddawn considered, her one remaining eye blinking “You on Overwatch Sir, myself and Heartforge as Redwing, We keep in communicator range to relay information?”
“Wasn’t a question CAG, that your disposition?”
“It is”
“I concur, lets go”
He Punched Sunspear on his scarred beak, vast as an elf’s leg, and capable of severing such in a heartbeat, to such a vast creature, the punch would be an affectionate pat. Sunspear moved his vast head, meeting Brigante’s gaze “We dost fly again, Wingless Self?” Brigante nodded, then realised such an expression would have no meaning to his battle brother, and met his gaze, his mind searching “We dost, Winged Self, not too cold for thee nay?”
Sunspear Whickered “And I, with the very breath of flame within me, and thee ask me if I am cold, Should ask thee, with thy featherless pallid flesh, like a plucked hatchling!” Brigante grinned and clambered into his Saddle, doing up his Flight Harness, the ‘Nine’ the nine buckles giving more accurate sensory information than any flight gauge on a mechanical flying machine, The nine buckles snapped home. He reached his gauntlet to his lips and pressed the dial.
“This is Sun Hawk Actual, All Hawks, are you ready to fly?”
A series of clicks indicated they were.
“Sun Hawks, Grab some Sky!”
The Snow churned under them as the wings beat a furious tempo, lofting them into the skies, behind their wings a vortex of snow, lessening as they climbed, into the clouds.
It was some minutes, before they reached the Barrow Den. But then, the best laid plans of Elves and Men oft go Awry.
Around the entrance of the Den, a flock of Harpies.
“Hawks, we have trade. Activate the ‘Heartracers’ and descend, no idea if it works on Harpies but...no harm trying! Dive on my mark, Three, Two, One...MARK!”
The Strident, insistent sound, that would send a normal heart into a panic attack started to ring out, as with the Dragonhawk’s natural wailing call, they fell from the clouds onto the Harpies….
But then...just like Dragonhawks, Harpies too are born to this world of sky and clouds....
So as a thing of fire and fury the Dragonhawk riders dived, their sirens screaming to set a heart to burst, yet the Harpies rose to meet them, flame and Lightning flashes in the frozen skies, The Sun Hawks were outnumbered two to one. Good Odds, Brigante reckoned, as he dived with his Battle Brother, Arcane Lance held aloft.
The Comms chatter played the orator then, along with the flame and crackle of Lightning.
“Redwing Engaging!”
“Sun Hawk Actual, got a straggler, on her”
“Heartforge here, I’ve got one on me!”
“Thats alright, I’m on Her”
It was an impossible battle to describe, it took seconds, yet to its participants it was as hard fought and long as any protracted ground engagement, the Elven fliers hyperventilated, their eyes flickered around, their adrenaline kicked in and they were living on nervous tension, reserves of nerves, not stamina, as they looped, dived and sang an aerial song that was nonetheless a hideous scream of death and destruction, Just aerial torment writ large in those snow filled skies;
“Sun Hawk Actual, Climb, drag them together, then hurl Arcane Javelins into them!”
“CAG Receiving, lets do that”
The Dragonhawks rose, for all the world looking like they were fleeing, until their riders turned and hurled Mark Two Falcons, Arcane Javelins, that exploded with a satisfying blue globe as they struck.
Brigante span Sunspear in the skies, and charged the suddenly surprised Harpies, his lance of flame arcing through his protagonist. Below they screamed a name, and the name was ‘Surfal’
“What fresh hell is this?” Brigante uttered through cold-chapped lips, before the vast form lofted itself, it has many names in mythology, in deification even, but amongst Fliers, but one name.
Roc.
“Well….hells…” He muttered as he hurtled towards the foe “Thou certain of this, Wingless Self?” Sunspear said. “No, be thou?”
“No”
“Redwing, you on this thing?”
“On it Sir”
Brigante grinned and lofted his last Arcane Javelin, before hurling it at the emerging aerial behemoth “Come on you bastard! Follow Me!”
Sunspear Whickered “Dost pretend to be braver than thou art Wingless self” Brigante leant low over his Dragonhawk as the two dodged the vile issuings from the Roc’s beak “Thou art not aiding, Winged self”. Sunspear barked as they span left to avoid a spew of horror and vile matter from the Roc “Thou wanted meek compliance, couldst have chosen a Red” A whickering laugh as they span upside down, both elf and Dragonhawk screaming as a torrent of horror washed past them
“Sun Hawk...Actual...Can...someone please do something about that thing on my tail?”
“We’re trying Sir! But you keep dodging all over the Sky!”
“I’m not going to sit still to find out what happens if it hits!”
And so it was, the Blue/silver Dragonhawk kept spinning and turning, and the Roc persistently stayed on its tail, even after its rider launched his last Arcane Javelin over his shoulder, exploding upon the creature.
“Alright...I’ll give you a shot, I’ll level out. “
The Dragonhawk started flying slowly “Stupidest Idea thy have had, Wingless Self”
Brigante grinned “You only say that because you haven’t known me as long as some have”
The Roc settled in behind, sure of its attack, and then the other two Dragonhawks fell upon it, flames sending it screeching in a ball of flame to the ground.
Sunspear rocked his head “Something else, Wingless Self”
Brigante looked the same way…”No..No we can…”
He envisioned the possibilities, a massively costly battle of attrition,possible, but …
The Zeppelin loomed, not a Horde one.
They could take it down but…
The Losses…
His blood was up, he was tempted, but…
“Sun Hawk Actual, Land, and get within the Barrow, set the Hawks free!”
He unbuckled his harness in a hurry, Sunspear cocked his head “Willst be good?”
Brigante flicked both thumbs up “Get out of here!”
As the Sun Hawks hurried into the Barrow, the bombardment started, or something did, either way, the rocks and dirt fell upon them, cutting them off. What came next, was down to this horrific den they found themselves in.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NujlXgBmUoU&start_radio=1&list=RDNujlXgBmUoU
The dust cleared, he hacked a cough, clearing stone dust and detritus from his face, “Heartforge, you alright?” a screech of armour readjusting and he turned in the near pitch darkness, seeing a vague greenish glow from Heartforge’s eyes, as his own sight adjusted he could make out the armoured elf, seemingly unharmed, but like himself recovering from the sudden rockfall from the Zeppelin’s bombardment. Two figures.
There should have been four.
“Hells” he muttered, before raising his left gauntlet, depressing the switch and speaking into it. “Reddawn, Arowik, can you hear me?”
Silence.
“Reddawn, Arowik, this is Sun Hawk Actual, can you hear me?”
A Tinny voice came back “Reddawn receiving Sir, Arowik’s fine too, we’re both just a bit shook up from the rockfall, I don’t think we can get to you Sir”
Brigante regarded the rubble and tested a hand against it “I Concur, we won’t get through from this side. It is a Barrow Den, there must be connecting tunnels, We’re going to have to advance, cautiously, there is…” He looked around, and saw faintly luminescent red veins riven through the rock, cursing.
“There is something wrong with this place, expect hostiles”
“Understood Sun Hawk Actual, it looks like a giant spider in the corridor ahead, it is just sitting there, it might be dead”
Brigante rubbed his lips, licking them clear of dust and spitting the detritus onto the floor.
“Don’t bank on it.”
“Will proceed with Caution Sun Hawk Actual, Reddawn, Over”.
“Rather them than me, Sir” Heartforge rumbled, the warrior drawing his sword and vast shield. “I can’t stand insects”.
Brigante nodded, clipping his bow to his back, instead drawing his two sabres, much better for close quarter combat. “Remind me never to tell you of something that once happened to me whilst on a reconnaissance mission against Amani during a spell of time as a ‘ground pounder’ rather than a flier. Let us just say it involved a hidden wasps nest, me needing to urinate, and the not unreasonable response of the inhabitants of the nest I used as a urinal inadvertently”
Heartforge winced in the pale light. “They stung you on the-”
“Yes, Not fond of some insects myself...now lets crack on, link up with the others…”
The two Elves crept forwards, there was only one aperture leading away from the rockfall, and they slowly advanced, Kiallen trying to be as quiet as he could in plate mail, Brigante padding almost silently in his oiled chain and leather. A Strange bioluminescence came from ahead, a reddish glow, as they rounded the corner, they saw why, and both elves breaths caught in their mouths.
A Chamber, to the left, -towards- the entrance, and hopefully Reddawn and Arowik, but the chamber itself was filled with the faintly glowing reddish black veins, stemming mainly from one of two bears, its body dessicated and if not dead, then so far gone that it was likely to be no threat, another bear by its side, this one showing signs of corruption, though nowhere near as bad as the other. It slumbered. A mercy. Both for them, and probably -it-. Probably a mated couple, no cubs visible, but this bear had stayed, even when it’s partner was a twisted flesh tapestry of horror, the very stuff of life to knit it now criss crossing the chamber as fleshy tendrils.
Brigante turned and gestured in the silent sign language of Farstriders, before remembering that Heartforge would have no idea what he was trying to indicate, not being of that order, he leant in and whispered “Lets not wake that one, lets try and get to the far exit as quiet as we can”. Heartforge just nodded.
It was a forlorn hope, they placed their feet carefully, slowly ducking under low hanging tendrils of fleshy veins, that dripped, sometimes carefully stepping over the really low hanging ones, feet placed carefully. They were nearing the exit.
The Bear, the more healthy one, woofed in its sleep, Brigante slowly turned, before suddenly looking down. As he had turned, his boot had connected with one of the tendrils. The more healthy Bear stirred, and cracked open an eager eye, that showed only madness, then another, Brigante looked at those eyes and knew there was no Farstrider trick, no Ranger control he could impose on such madness, such tormented rage. He hissed “Run”. Then as the Bear reared up with a roar he shouted “RUN!”
Both Elves pelted towards the exit, the tendrils giving off screams as they ran across them, behind them the foetid breath of the bear, closer, closer, closer!
“We have to fight!, Turn and Brace!”
Heartforge to his credit did his best, the Elf braced and slammed Shield before him, the Bear sent him skidding several feet back, but he held his footing, Brigante slammed a sabre into the beasts side, drawing blood? Ichor? But not causing much harm. It reared up, and roared, its mouth opening in a ferocious roar of pain and rage….
And kept opening...and kept opening...with a sound like tearing linen the creature’s maw opened from jaw to crotch, inside pink and dark tissue pulsing with the red veins that swarmed this place. Brigante understood then, the creature hadn’t stayed out of some care for a mate, it had stayed because -it was next-.
The rank stench of the beast filled the corridor, like unwashed carpets that an itinerant had urinated on then left in the sun, and yet there was something horribly hypnotic about how a creature could be so debased and yet still move. Voices came to Brigante slowly “Sir! Sir, we have to kill it!” Then over the communicators “This is Reddawn, we’re proceeding, this place is...we mentioned Val’sharah and it went crazy, are you on your way Sir?”
Brigante swallowed as he saw that vast maw, the size of a bear, and a tongue lash out, spiked with thorns, the tongue longer than an elf.
“Little busy right now!”
Everything snapped into focus, He somersaulted over the tongue, lashing out at it to no avail, as Heartforge drove his sword into the bear’s flank. The bear raked with its claws, scratching deep marks down Heartforge’s shield, even as Brigante slipped on his bad leg, and the spined tongue wrapped around him. He felt his armour creak, he could not draw in a full breath, and could just gaze into the black pools of eyes, his hands slowly lowering. Despite the pain...would it be so bad? Oblivion? No more care or responsibility. All the people he had killed..to not see their faces anymore… His eyes fluttered. The young Stormwind soldier looking up with wonder as the Dragonhawks passed overhead, their gift a ceramic cannister, glowing blue even as it fell, the furious glance of a Wildhammer over his shoulder as flame, white hot and deadly engulfed him, his first Kill, the Amani Batrider looking with hate and inevitability in her eyes as he had outmaneuvered her, all her totems and fetishes not saving her in that one crystalline moment as her features were turned to blackened ash, the screams and cries of the wounded as his Hawks rose and flew away from another bombing mission, The...No! This Hurt!
He lashed both sabres across the vast tongue drawing him to the maw, there was a rattling roar from the ...thing...that had once been a bear and he fell to the ground as Heartforged once more engaged, sword slamming into the creature, Heartforged had done the lions share of the work, but he drove both sabres up into its neck, and with a final growling rattle, the bear died.
He lay there a moment, in the pool of ichor, Heartforge hobbling over “You alright Sir?”
He just wanted to lie still, to just close his eyes and sleep, the exhaustion from the aerial combat had caught up with him, but he smiled faintly, and he steadied his stick under him, forcing himself to his feet.
“Never better, Heartforge, never better, now lets be along with this bloody business”.
He raised his Gauntlet to his lips and pressed the button “Reddawn, status report?”
The tinny voice came through “We seem to be on a rise sir, This place, you’re right, definitely corrupted, I mentioned to Arowik that I had seen similar in Val’Sharah, and when I mentioned that place, it receded briefly, for perhaps a heartbeat or so, there were a lot of corrupted animals and plants there Sir”
Brigante paused, breathing heavily, painfully aware the creaking noise was not just his sorely tested armour, but likely a rib or two as well. “As always proceed with caution, we -should- be heading your way soon. New Protocol, if I comms you and you are in a fight, just click twice, don’t waste time giving me a full answer.”
“Understood”
Brigante fastened his walking cane to his belt, his limp becoming more pronounced as he drew both sabres again “Good work Heartforge, right, lets see if we can link up with the others…”
The two battered and bruised Elves advanced slowly, the strange luminescence and tendrils in the barrow den almost making it organic in nature, before Heartforge laid a hand on Brigante’s shoulder and pointed forwards.
The dust cleared, he hacked a cough, clearing stone dust and detritus from his face, “Heartforge, you alright?” a screech of armour readjusting and he turned in the near pitch darkness, seeing a vague greenish glow from Heartforge’s eyes, as his own sight adjusted he could make out the armoured elf, seemingly unharmed, but like himself recovering from the sudden rockfall from the Zeppelin’s bombardment. Two figures.
There should have been four.
“Hells” he muttered, before raising his left gauntlet, depressing the switch and speaking into it. “Reddawn, Arowik, can you hear me?”
Silence.
“Reddawn, Arowik, this is Sun Hawk Actual, can you hear me?”
A Tinny voice came back “Reddawn receiving Sir, Arowik’s fine too, we’re both just a bit shook up from the rockfall, I don’t think we can get to you Sir”
Brigante regarded the rubble and tested a hand against it “I Concur, we won’t get through from this side. It is a Barrow Den, there must be connecting tunnels, We’re going to have to advance, cautiously, there is…” He looked around, and saw faintly luminescent red veins riven through the rock, cursing.
“There is something wrong with this place, expect hostiles”
“Understood Sun Hawk Actual, it looks like a giant spider in the corridor ahead, it is just sitting there, it might be dead”
Brigante rubbed his lips, licking them clear of dust and spitting the detritus onto the floor.
“Don’t bank on it.”
“Will proceed with Caution Sun Hawk Actual, Reddawn, Over”.
“Rather them than me, Sir” Heartforge rumbled, the warrior drawing his sword and vast shield. “I can’t stand insects”.
Brigante nodded, clipping his bow to his back, instead drawing his two sabres, much better for close quarter combat. “Remind me never to tell you of something that once happened to me whilst on a reconnaissance mission against Amani during a spell of time as a ‘ground pounder’ rather than a flier. Let us just say it involved a hidden wasps nest, me needing to urinate, and the not unreasonable response of the inhabitants of the nest I used as a urinal inadvertently”
Heartforge winced in the pale light. “They stung you on the-”
“Yes, Not fond of some insects myself...now lets crack on, link up with the others…”
The two Elves crept forwards, there was only one aperture leading away from the rockfall, and they slowly advanced, Kiallen trying to be as quiet as he could in plate mail, Brigante padding almost silently in his oiled chain and leather. A Strange bioluminescence came from ahead, a reddish glow, as they rounded the corner, they saw why, and both elves breaths caught in their mouths.
A Chamber, to the left, -towards- the entrance, and hopefully Reddawn and Arowik, but the chamber itself was filled with the faintly glowing reddish black veins, stemming mainly from one of two bears, its body dessicated and if not dead, then so far gone that it was likely to be no threat, another bear by its side, this one showing signs of corruption, though nowhere near as bad as the other. It slumbered. A mercy. Both for them, and probably -it-. Probably a mated couple, no cubs visible, but this bear had stayed, even when it’s partner was a twisted flesh tapestry of horror, the very stuff of life to knit it now criss crossing the chamber as fleshy tendrils.
Brigante turned and gestured in the silent sign language of Farstriders, before remembering that Heartforge would have no idea what he was trying to indicate, not being of that order, he leant in and whispered “Lets not wake that one, lets try and get to the far exit as quiet as we can”. Heartforge just nodded.
It was a forlorn hope, they placed their feet carefully, slowly ducking under low hanging tendrils of fleshy veins, that dripped, sometimes carefully stepping over the really low hanging ones, feet placed carefully. They were nearing the exit.
The Bear, the more healthy one, woofed in its sleep, Brigante slowly turned, before suddenly looking down. As he had turned, his boot had connected with one of the tendrils. The more healthy Bear stirred, and cracked open an eager eye, that showed only madness, then another, Brigante looked at those eyes and knew there was no Farstrider trick, no Ranger control he could impose on such madness, such tormented rage. He hissed “Run”. Then as the Bear reared up with a roar he shouted “RUN!”
Both Elves pelted towards the exit, the tendrils giving off screams as they ran across them, behind them the foetid breath of the bear, closer, closer, closer!
“We have to fight!, Turn and Brace!”
Heartforge to his credit did his best, the Elf braced and slammed Shield before him, the Bear sent him skidding several feet back, but he held his footing, Brigante slammed a sabre into the beasts side, drawing blood? Ichor? But not causing much harm. It reared up, and roared, its mouth opening in a ferocious roar of pain and rage….
And kept opening...and kept opening...with a sound like tearing linen the creature’s maw opened from jaw to crotch, inside pink and dark tissue pulsing with the red veins that swarmed this place. Brigante understood then, the creature hadn’t stayed out of some care for a mate, it had stayed because -it was next-.
The rank stench of the beast filled the corridor, like unwashed carpets that an itinerant had urinated on then left in the sun, and yet there was something horribly hypnotic about how a creature could be so debased and yet still move. Voices came to Brigante slowly “Sir! Sir, we have to kill it!” Then over the communicators “This is Reddawn, we’re proceeding, this place is...we mentioned Val’sharah and it went crazy, are you on your way Sir?”
Brigante swallowed as he saw that vast maw, the size of a bear, and a tongue lash out, spiked with thorns, the tongue longer than an elf.
“Little busy right now!”
Everything snapped into focus, He somersaulted over the tongue, lashing out at it to no avail, as Heartforge drove his sword into the bear’s flank. The bear raked with its claws, scratching deep marks down Heartforge’s shield, even as Brigante slipped on his bad leg, and the spined tongue wrapped around him. He felt his armour creak, he could not draw in a full breath, and could just gaze into the black pools of eyes, his hands slowly lowering. Despite the pain...would it be so bad? Oblivion? No more care or responsibility. All the people he had killed..to not see their faces anymore… His eyes fluttered. The young Stormwind soldier looking up with wonder as the Dragonhawks passed overhead, their gift a ceramic cannister, glowing blue even as it fell, the furious glance of a Wildhammer over his shoulder as flame, white hot and deadly engulfed him, his first Kill, the Amani Batrider looking with hate and inevitability in her eyes as he had outmaneuvered her, all her totems and fetishes not saving her in that one crystalline moment as her features were turned to blackened ash, the screams and cries of the wounded as his Hawks rose and flew away from another bombing mission, The...No! This Hurt!
He lashed both sabres across the vast tongue drawing him to the maw, there was a rattling roar from the ...thing...that had once been a bear and he fell to the ground as Heartforged once more engaged, sword slamming into the creature, Heartforged had done the lions share of the work, but he drove both sabres up into its neck, and with a final growling rattle, the bear died.
He lay there a moment, in the pool of ichor, Heartforge hobbling over “You alright Sir?”
He just wanted to lie still, to just close his eyes and sleep, the exhaustion from the aerial combat had caught up with him, but he smiled faintly, and he steadied his stick under him, forcing himself to his feet.
“Never better, Heartforge, never better, now lets be along with this bloody business”.
He raised his Gauntlet to his lips and pressed the button “Reddawn, status report?”
The tinny voice came through “We seem to be on a rise sir, This place, you’re right, definitely corrupted, I mentioned to Arowik that I had seen similar in Val’Sharah, and when I mentioned that place, it receded briefly, for perhaps a heartbeat or so, there were a lot of corrupted animals and plants there Sir”
Brigante paused, breathing heavily, painfully aware the creaking noise was not just his sorely tested armour, but likely a rib or two as well. “As always proceed with caution, we -should- be heading your way soon. New Protocol, if I comms you and you are in a fight, just click twice, don’t waste time giving me a full answer.”
“Understood”
Brigante fastened his walking cane to his belt, his limp becoming more pronounced as he drew both sabres again “Good work Heartforge, right, lets see if we can link up with the others…”
The two battered and bruised Elves advanced slowly, the strange luminescence and tendrils in the barrow den almost making it organic in nature, before Heartforge laid a hand on Brigante’s shoulder and pointed forwards.
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In the dim light, another rockfall, but this one had less solidity to it. Heartforge whispered “I reckon we could get through that” Brigante nodded, then pointed upwards. A ledge, high up, too high for an elf to fall from without severe risk of death. “Reddawn said they were heading up a rise, I wonder if…” He whispered back as suddenly all hell broke loose.
Sounds of fighting on the Ledge. “Reddawn, is that you? What is going on?”
“Click Click” was the only sound. Then a slow gasp…”Oh no…Insects…”
Brigante whirled around, pain stabbing through his left leg.
Insects was not the word, He did not know what manner of creature they had been, lice? Beetles? Whatever they once were, they most assuredly were -not- now. The size of dogs, limbs unfolding, mandibles clacking, antennae testing the air, their carapaces, black, with veins of red striations running across them. There was a horrible silence to their appearance, as they unfurled and dropped to the floor. Brigante could hear up above shouts of pain and clash of weapons, shouts in Thalassian. Reddawn and Arowik. He spoke out the side of his mouth “Alright, lets back to the doorway.” Heartforge just pointed mutely. Similar creatures had dropped to the floor there also. They were surrounded.
He raised his hand to his mouth and pressed the communicator switch. “Reddawn I do not expect a response, but we are on the level below you, I think we are about to be attacked”
A Clearer response this time “Sir, we have a giant bug up here...Its sending more down your way if thats so…”
“Kill it.”
“Trying”
“Try harder”
“Click Click” The sounds of combat on the ledge redoubled just as the insects, mandibles splayed in hunger rushed the two Elves.
Even as Brigante readied himself he could see more lowering themselves, skittering down the Walls.
He and Heartforge stood back to back as the swarm enveloped them, and then it was just a thing of sheer, naked survival. He stamped, kicked, punched, stabbed, One of them had grabbed his fist, sending a sabre to the floor, he raised his left arm, slamming it against the wall, a secret part of him laughing as he realised the creature was keying his Communicator, incoherent screeching down the channel and Reddawn answering “What now?, Try not to die down there!” He had pinned it against the wall before punching with his right fist until the insects head was a paste on the wall, even as he felt another leap on his shoulder, the weight almost bearing him down. He heard Heartforge scream in terror? Anger? Tearing his helm from his head and smashing it like a bludgeon at the oncoming swarm.
He knew Insects were Heartforge’s terror...But this was his. Dying underground...not seeing the Skies one last time.
Pain as a mandible raked across his cheek, he could feel the blood run down his face with a coppery taste of shock as his own blood ran into his lips, an animalistic scream building in him as he slashed with his remaining sabre, and with satisfaction heard Heartforge hacking and hewing, despite his brief moment of panic. He shoulder barged the rock structure of the walls, crushing the mutated insect even as another sank mandibles around his left greave, its jaws sawing at the armour.
More were coming.
“We’re surrounded, we need to get to the entrance to the cavern, give Reddawn and Arowik time!, on my mark! Three, Two One, Mark!”
Both he and Heartforge stamped and kicked and punched their way to the exit and span,
Heartforge seemed to be having a rough time of it, perhaps some memory of Silithid. As the Swarm closed in, Brigante readied his sabre, and took the dagger from his belt, and winked at the other veteran.
“Don’t worry, I had my future told at the Darkmoon Faire. This isn’t how I die. And if I don’t die this way, nor do you”.
The pretty lies…
“They tell you you’d meet a tall, dark handsome stranger as well Sir?” Heartforge spat blood out of his mouth and grinned, sword ready.
Brigante smiled wanly as the swarm came at them. “Seen the size of me? Everyone’s tall in comparison to me”.
The blades flashed, the Insects chittered, the fight seemed to last for hours, at the end of which both elves were bloodied and their armour pierced, they stood swaying in the dripping pools of their own blood, as the insects suddenly withdrew, and went to hide in dark corners, the Insects suddenly reverting to type.
Sounds of fighting on the Ledge. “Reddawn, is that you? What is going on?”
“Click Click” was the only sound. Then a slow gasp…”Oh no…Insects…”
Brigante whirled around, pain stabbing through his left leg.
Insects was not the word, He did not know what manner of creature they had been, lice? Beetles? Whatever they once were, they most assuredly were -not- now. The size of dogs, limbs unfolding, mandibles clacking, antennae testing the air, their carapaces, black, with veins of red striations running across them. There was a horrible silence to their appearance, as they unfurled and dropped to the floor. Brigante could hear up above shouts of pain and clash of weapons, shouts in Thalassian. Reddawn and Arowik. He spoke out the side of his mouth “Alright, lets back to the doorway.” Heartforge just pointed mutely. Similar creatures had dropped to the floor there also. They were surrounded.
He raised his hand to his mouth and pressed the communicator switch. “Reddawn I do not expect a response, but we are on the level below you, I think we are about to be attacked”
A Clearer response this time “Sir, we have a giant bug up here...Its sending more down your way if thats so…”
“Kill it.”
“Trying”
“Try harder”
“Click Click” The sounds of combat on the ledge redoubled just as the insects, mandibles splayed in hunger rushed the two Elves.
Even as Brigante readied himself he could see more lowering themselves, skittering down the Walls.
He and Heartforge stood back to back as the swarm enveloped them, and then it was just a thing of sheer, naked survival. He stamped, kicked, punched, stabbed, One of them had grabbed his fist, sending a sabre to the floor, he raised his left arm, slamming it against the wall, a secret part of him laughing as he realised the creature was keying his Communicator, incoherent screeching down the channel and Reddawn answering “What now?, Try not to die down there!” He had pinned it against the wall before punching with his right fist until the insects head was a paste on the wall, even as he felt another leap on his shoulder, the weight almost bearing him down. He heard Heartforge scream in terror? Anger? Tearing his helm from his head and smashing it like a bludgeon at the oncoming swarm.
He knew Insects were Heartforge’s terror...But this was his. Dying underground...not seeing the Skies one last time.
Pain as a mandible raked across his cheek, he could feel the blood run down his face with a coppery taste of shock as his own blood ran into his lips, an animalistic scream building in him as he slashed with his remaining sabre, and with satisfaction heard Heartforge hacking and hewing, despite his brief moment of panic. He shoulder barged the rock structure of the walls, crushing the mutated insect even as another sank mandibles around his left greave, its jaws sawing at the armour.
More were coming.
“We’re surrounded, we need to get to the entrance to the cavern, give Reddawn and Arowik time!, on my mark! Three, Two One, Mark!”
Both he and Heartforge stamped and kicked and punched their way to the exit and span,
Heartforge seemed to be having a rough time of it, perhaps some memory of Silithid. As the Swarm closed in, Brigante readied his sabre, and took the dagger from his belt, and winked at the other veteran.
“Don’t worry, I had my future told at the Darkmoon Faire. This isn’t how I die. And if I don’t die this way, nor do you”.
The pretty lies…
“They tell you you’d meet a tall, dark handsome stranger as well Sir?” Heartforge spat blood out of his mouth and grinned, sword ready.
Brigante smiled wanly as the swarm came at them. “Seen the size of me? Everyone’s tall in comparison to me”.
The blades flashed, the Insects chittered, the fight seemed to last for hours, at the end of which both elves were bloodied and their armour pierced, they stood swaying in the dripping pools of their own blood, as the insects suddenly withdrew, and went to hide in dark corners, the Insects suddenly reverting to type.
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Brigante limped over, took up his other sabre. “Tell me a story Reddawn”
“Was some kind of mother insect up here, she called flying insects to her aid”
Brigante muttered to Heartforge “Hear that? Wasps. Told you...never trust them”
“You killed it?”
“Yes Sir, but there is no way out here…”.
“I think we have that covered, stand away from the edge.”
Brigante took a wooden stave from his back, and unfolded two arms, locking them into place, before drawing back the corded string, and setting a Grappling bolt, making sure the rope was clear, before aiming and loosing the bolt, which soared up, and hooked onto the ledge.
He tested the strength of the rope, before indicating to Heartforge to climb, then following himself.
Up top it was as Reddawn had said, a vast carcass, and smaller insect bodies around it.
He looked around, sniffed.
“Down the rope, we may have a way out”
As his elves descended, he frowned. Something was not right..this was not….
Over.
Minutes of removing rocks, light from a chamber, Light from above! If there was light, that meant the Sky! He forced himself to stay methodical, to remove the rubble piece by piece, they would all get out of here, or none would..
As the elves stepped into the antechamber, they saw it. What they had come here for, a statue, about three quarters the size of a life model, a Kaldorei, bent over, in despair? Pain? From its shoulders two feathered wings, and yet the sculptor had taken the effort to show, in carving, that these wings were stitched on to her, though they too were of stone, the statue’s face was buried in her hands...Was it despair? Was it pain? Shame? Loss?
The problem was rapidly superceded, as two spectral figures emerged, male and female, ghostly Kaldorei, they floated towards the Elves. Not hostile, nor welcoming, The female spoke “Do you serve her?”
Brigante growled “Who speaks Darnassian best?” Reddawn nodded “Probably me Sir”
“Tell her we’re not here for war, but we are taking that statue”
Brigante could follow some of the fluting speech, it was not after all, so different from Thalassian, he could get the context, if not the exact nuances.
The back and forth went on “Just tell her we’re here for the statue”
“She’s still hung up on Queen Aszhara Sir, she asks if we worship a star?”
Brigante scowled and stepped forwards “Big Star, Yes, Sun, We do that?” His broken Darnassian a clear impediment to his intentions.
The spirits grew agitated, tendrils of eldritch hair flew around their heads, and they cast stern gazes on the Hawks. Segtillis Arowik snarled “Enough of this” and drew his axe.
Diplomacy ceased.
With Screams the spirits descended upon the Sun Hawks, Brigante growled as they neared, clearly trying to scare them away. He was tired, cold, wet, he just wanted to get the job done, and go home, and perhaps because of this, the eyes he turned on his Elves were hardened, he pointed at the Spirits.
“DRAIN THEM!”
He set eyes upon the ghost nearest, his hands starting low, fingers curled upwards, as he started to ingest it’s very essence, the magic that kept it here, The creature howled in anger and turned upon him, yet even as he gagged and choked he kept his hands raised, the magical energy glutting him, the Spirit wailed and turned even more translucent, as he shook and trembled with the sensations roaring through him, he did not need to turn his head to hear that the same was happening to the other Spirit, by one of his fliers, A Tiny part of his mind was screaming “NO NO NO NO NO! This is how Kayrissa went!” But it felt….
So…
Good.
He stumbled, like a drunkard, his sight blurred, His Hawks were...no, they were not fit for purpose, they had to get out. With the...thing, the thing they had come for...He pointed at the Statue “Th-That”
He bent over and laughed, a strange mix of emotions giddily rushing through him, before straightening “That comes with us, or this was for nothing…”
In the Blue Skies above, he saw their Dragonhawks slowly circling, settling to land, he leaned back against the stone wall, blood smearing it as he sagged, and smiled.
“Hello Sky” he muttered.
“Was some kind of mother insect up here, she called flying insects to her aid”
Brigante muttered to Heartforge “Hear that? Wasps. Told you...never trust them”
“You killed it?”
“Yes Sir, but there is no way out here…”.
“I think we have that covered, stand away from the edge.”
Brigante took a wooden stave from his back, and unfolded two arms, locking them into place, before drawing back the corded string, and setting a Grappling bolt, making sure the rope was clear, before aiming and loosing the bolt, which soared up, and hooked onto the ledge.
He tested the strength of the rope, before indicating to Heartforge to climb, then following himself.
Up top it was as Reddawn had said, a vast carcass, and smaller insect bodies around it.
He looked around, sniffed.
“Down the rope, we may have a way out”
As his elves descended, he frowned. Something was not right..this was not….
Over.
Minutes of removing rocks, light from a chamber, Light from above! If there was light, that meant the Sky! He forced himself to stay methodical, to remove the rubble piece by piece, they would all get out of here, or none would..
As the elves stepped into the antechamber, they saw it. What they had come here for, a statue, about three quarters the size of a life model, a Kaldorei, bent over, in despair? Pain? From its shoulders two feathered wings, and yet the sculptor had taken the effort to show, in carving, that these wings were stitched on to her, though they too were of stone, the statue’s face was buried in her hands...Was it despair? Was it pain? Shame? Loss?
The problem was rapidly superceded, as two spectral figures emerged, male and female, ghostly Kaldorei, they floated towards the Elves. Not hostile, nor welcoming, The female spoke “Do you serve her?”
Brigante growled “Who speaks Darnassian best?” Reddawn nodded “Probably me Sir”
“Tell her we’re not here for war, but we are taking that statue”
Brigante could follow some of the fluting speech, it was not after all, so different from Thalassian, he could get the context, if not the exact nuances.
The back and forth went on “Just tell her we’re here for the statue”
“She’s still hung up on Queen Aszhara Sir, she asks if we worship a star?”
Brigante scowled and stepped forwards “Big Star, Yes, Sun, We do that?” His broken Darnassian a clear impediment to his intentions.
The spirits grew agitated, tendrils of eldritch hair flew around their heads, and they cast stern gazes on the Hawks. Segtillis Arowik snarled “Enough of this” and drew his axe.
Diplomacy ceased.
With Screams the spirits descended upon the Sun Hawks, Brigante growled as they neared, clearly trying to scare them away. He was tired, cold, wet, he just wanted to get the job done, and go home, and perhaps because of this, the eyes he turned on his Elves were hardened, he pointed at the Spirits.
“DRAIN THEM!”
He set eyes upon the ghost nearest, his hands starting low, fingers curled upwards, as he started to ingest it’s very essence, the magic that kept it here, The creature howled in anger and turned upon him, yet even as he gagged and choked he kept his hands raised, the magical energy glutting him, the Spirit wailed and turned even more translucent, as he shook and trembled with the sensations roaring through him, he did not need to turn his head to hear that the same was happening to the other Spirit, by one of his fliers, A Tiny part of his mind was screaming “NO NO NO NO NO! This is how Kayrissa went!” But it felt….
So…
Good.
He stumbled, like a drunkard, his sight blurred, His Hawks were...no, they were not fit for purpose, they had to get out. With the...thing, the thing they had come for...He pointed at the Statue “Th-That”
He bent over and laughed, a strange mix of emotions giddily rushing through him, before straightening “That comes with us, or this was for nothing…”
In the Blue Skies above, he saw their Dragonhawks slowly circling, settling to land, he leaned back against the stone wall, blood smearing it as he sagged, and smiled.
“Hello Sky” he muttered.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7pXzeACwf8
He dressed quietly, slowly, but not quietly enough. In the pale light Tarri’s eyes watched him. His hand faltered as he had to pick up -The Ring-. Not the one that bound him to his wife, he happily bore that, and never removed it. As ever, his hand fluttered, and he could not. He rested his hands on the dresser, and glared at the Ring. His eyes heavy and glowing, he pinched his brow and moved to the crib, the children, the twins, both in the blameless sleep of infants, a shock of white hair upon both their heads. Tears welled up in his eyes, that such beautiful, perfect little creations could in some way have come from him, him and Tarrithael. And then he stopped, why not cry? He let the tears fall as he knelt before the crib. He laid out a hand, touching their small heads gently “I’m so sorry, Papa has to go away...I can’t stay”
He had no prepared words, he was a soldier, not a father, never anything other than a killer. He just stroked their heads, and cried “Some day...You will have a good world. A Good World to grow up in, and perhaps..perhaps your mother will remember me kindly, and that I fought for you, for your good world” He bit back a sob and smiled as he looked down at the twins. “Thats all I fight for. For you”
“A Good World”
“For you”
The elf stood. Frowned, buckled his cloak, turned to the bed he shared with his wife, and Tarrithael pretended she was asleep, she knew it would be easier for him. He planted a kiss on her brow and whispered in her tender ear “Never let them turn out like me...anything but that...promise me, they never have to make these choices….”.
He turned to the dresser again, his hand open, but still reluctant.
He looked upwards, only to the roof of his lodgings, no sky, no guidance.
He took the Truesilver ring, and slid it over his gauntlet.
His ‘Key’. He felt his gaze harden, all this frippery behind him, Half of the opening mechanism for the crates of the Mana Weaponry.
Brigante Summerisle, lover, father, husband, was gone. All that remained was the stern faced ‘Red Death’ so feared by Alliance Fliers.
He opened the door, he could not stay, the orders had come, to take him away.
With a solid click, the door closed behind him, a wife wept, children slept fitfully and would worry as to where their father was,
He was gone where he always belonged. To his one true love. War in the Skies!
He dressed quietly, slowly, but not quietly enough. In the pale light Tarri’s eyes watched him. His hand faltered as he had to pick up -The Ring-. Not the one that bound him to his wife, he happily bore that, and never removed it. As ever, his hand fluttered, and he could not. He rested his hands on the dresser, and glared at the Ring. His eyes heavy and glowing, he pinched his brow and moved to the crib, the children, the twins, both in the blameless sleep of infants, a shock of white hair upon both their heads. Tears welled up in his eyes, that such beautiful, perfect little creations could in some way have come from him, him and Tarrithael. And then he stopped, why not cry? He let the tears fall as he knelt before the crib. He laid out a hand, touching their small heads gently “I’m so sorry, Papa has to go away...I can’t stay”
He had no prepared words, he was a soldier, not a father, never anything other than a killer. He just stroked their heads, and cried “Some day...You will have a good world. A Good World to grow up in, and perhaps..perhaps your mother will remember me kindly, and that I fought for you, for your good world” He bit back a sob and smiled as he looked down at the twins. “Thats all I fight for. For you”
“A Good World”
“For you”
The elf stood. Frowned, buckled his cloak, turned to the bed he shared with his wife, and Tarrithael pretended she was asleep, she knew it would be easier for him. He planted a kiss on her brow and whispered in her tender ear “Never let them turn out like me...anything but that...promise me, they never have to make these choices….”.
He turned to the dresser again, his hand open, but still reluctant.
He looked upwards, only to the roof of his lodgings, no sky, no guidance.
He took the Truesilver ring, and slid it over his gauntlet.
His ‘Key’. He felt his gaze harden, all this frippery behind him, Half of the opening mechanism for the crates of the Mana Weaponry.
Brigante Summerisle, lover, father, husband, was gone. All that remained was the stern faced ‘Red Death’ so feared by Alliance Fliers.
He opened the door, he could not stay, the orders had come, to take him away.
With a solid click, the door closed behind him, a wife wept, children slept fitfully and would worry as to where their father was,
He was gone where he always belonged. To his one true love. War in the Skies!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlcUwUwjLrs
The Gyrocopter trailed black smoke, Sunspear’s flame having set its internal combustion engines into external combustion ones, a Parachute forlornly trailing down, a human flier beneath it, around it Brigante circled, as the flier landed, Brigante did too. Hand ready on his bow, as they spat out Durotar’s sand, and shook their head, tearing their helm off, a female, blonde hair flowing in the wind.. She knelt in the sand, and raised her hands. “This how I die then, another kill on your saddle?”
“Is this how you want to die?” He said softly, in Gilnean accented Common.
“Who wants to die?” the woman laughed hardly, before trying to take a cigarillo from a packet, her hands shaking so badly as to make such a practice impossible.
Brigante smiled sadly and sat next to her on the dunes, the burning wreck of her Gyrocopter the light, he took out a packet of his own, and extended one to her “Take one of mine”. He extended a hand and lit it with his Will, he may be bad by the standards of his race at magic, but some things, some he could do.
“I know how it is, you will shake, and probably want to be sick in an hour or so” He nodded as he lit his own cigarillo.
“It was bad luck” He nodded. “I was taking a last training flight, getting Sunspear used to Kalimdor’s heat, or I would not have seen you. A reconnaisance flight I take it?”
“Seven six two seven zero zero four, Pilot-Sergeant, Hurrell, J” She intoned as she dragged on the cigarette.
“This is not an interrogation, Sergeant Hurrell” He sighed and dragged on his cigarillo “Yes, you will count as a ‘Kill’ on my Saddle, you won’t be the first, as I am sure you know, and you won’t be the last either, unless tomorrow it is me who has ‘bad luck’”
“I ain’t dead yet” the woman growled.
“ A Bold claim, given your situation, but a valid one. I am not interested in actually Killing Alliance fliers. I am interested in shooting them down”
Brigante sighed and looked out to the sea, past the burning gyro. “They sent you out alone, without a wingman, which means they are worried, and they needed a recon flier out as soon as they could, or that it was a small vessel, with only one pilot” He nodded and puffed on his cigarillo “They sent you flying south, so are worried about our deployments to Silithis” He huffed. “Its not a secret, or if it is, it is the worst kept secret on Azeroth, given you already have forces there.”
“You say -was-”
A Boom rattled over the horizon, a flash of light, and the human’s shoulders sagged.
“My Commiserations. It is War, Sergeant, doesn’t make it easier on any of us, but yes, I communicated the location of your ship as it turned south, Like I say. Bad Luck, if they’d maintained stealth discipline and not sent you off the deck I would never have seen you, and then them, and then sent a message to our fleet. He dragged from his cigarillo “A short engagement, it was a small vessel then, perhaps a corvette?”
He uncorked the bottle of port with his teeth, and passed it over to her. The woman took a slug from it dejectedly.
“There is no shame in it, the ‘Bloodied Spear’ is a Dragonhawk carrier now, aye, but it was a Thalassian Cruiser originally, before it was repurposed. Lieutenant Autumnlight is a skilled Captain, who follows the rules of the Sea, just as I follow the rules of the Air. He will be rescuing those sailors of your ship that they can find, right now, with luck, they too will live to see home once more”
He took the bottle and swigged from it himself, as Sunspear, the vast Silver-Blue hybrid Dragonhawk, coiled his way around the sands near the burning Gyrocopter, but not -too- close, he had learned that lesson in the past. Behind his saddle small pennons trailed, red, with white writing upon them, in Thalassian and Common. A Kill Tally. A Boast. The woman nodded “The Red Death.. I should be honoured”
Brigante sighed and puffed on his cigarillo “I hate the name, I did not choose it. Alliance fliers did, and then our propaganda industry seized upon it, and now, I cannot escape it. Such melodrama, such a...cliche”.
The female pilot drew from her cigarillo. “They say you are merciful, not in the skies, but to those you shoot down?”
“Whoever -they- are, they would be right. I am a soldier, not an aerial assassin. I am no butcher. The instant I shot you down, you are not a threat to me. I do not war on those who are no threat.”
He sighed and flicked the remains of the cigarillo towards the burning Gyrocopter, before nodding. “Did it have a name?”
The woman looked askance at the face, glowing green eyes, scarring around the right eye, both fixed upon her, like a cats upon a mouse.
“Did..who?”
“Your Gyrocopter. I am trying to work out whether you are a flier”
The woman dipped her head and murmured. The elf spoke somewhat acerbically “I can hear you, but you looked down, that shows no pride, what was its name”
The woman looked up, a faint glisten in her eyes, reflected by the firelight. “Lucky Flynn”.
The woman nodded “Named after a childhood sweetheart, who always dreamed of being a Gryphonrider, Flynn McDermott.”
Brigante nodded slowly, “And did he get lucky?”
The woman looked with a shocked expression, mistaking the question for a sexual innuendo, before she realised that was not what was on the Elf’s face. “No...he was..his eyesight wasn’t good enough. He never made the grade, so became a soldier. He was, good at it too, he was original Seventh Legion, he was...at the Wrathgate, so no, he was not lucky” she barked the last.
“My Commiserations. A horrific act of treachery and a horrible way to die, truly, my commiserations”.
“How many kills do you have, Sergeant Hurrell?”
The woman sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Six”
“Did you mark them on your aircraft, knowing they were lives you had extinguished?”
She closed her eyes and nodded, saying softly, “Yes”.
The curious voice spoke again, a blend of Gilnean brassiness and Thalassian soft sibilant sounds, even in Common.
“I think you are a flier, Sergeant Hurrell” He held up his hand as a small group of Sin’dorei approached, their colours of Silvermoon, not the Sun Hawks, but each with a Dragonhawk Pectoral badge, marking them as Handlers. They paused in place.
“That makes you my prisoner. Divest yourself of any weapons, including the boot knife you have been trying to hide. Your flight armour too. You keep your clothes and your dignity. I notice you have a medal. You may keep that too. Any mementoes or keepsakes will be checked over and returned to you unless they are items that could facilitate an escape. We have means via neutral parties of getting word to any relatives or loved ones that you are alive. You will be provided paper and quill to write such, but obviously we reserve the right to read them first and censor anything that contains military information. You will not be subject to torture or any acts of indignity whilst my Prisoner, your incarceration will be upon our Dragonhawk Carrier in case any of our rather more...overzealous allies get ideas of executing you. Once this War is over, you will be paroled back to Alliance forces and see your loved ones again, or be exchanged for Horde prisoners of interest to me”
The woman nodded, removing her flight rig and weapons “There is a price upon your head”
The elf smiled coldly “I know, I cherish it. I hope to see the value increase. It shows me their true feelings, that they are -scared- of me. Besides, there are plenty in Silvermoon who would gladly take that money and hand me over, fortunately as you humans say they ‘lack the balls’ to try it. Now are you my prisoner Sergeant Hurrell, or do I hand you over to the Orgrimmar defence forces?”
The human huffed in a breath. “Joan, and yes, I yield”.
The elf nodded “Brigante”, he extended a hand to shake, with the other holding out a packet of the cigarillo’s they had been smoking. “Do not do anything stupid Joan, and you shall live to see your loved ones again, once this War is over”.
The woman shook his hand, took the cigarettes and looked at him, even as the Elven soldiers came to march her to the docks, the dimly visible lights of the ‘Bloodied Spear’ approaching Bladefist bay.
“There isn’t a War, Silithis is a brushfire conflict, it will pass”
The Elf looked at her with glittering eyes, the green glow suddenly hungry for conflict.
“The War is over for you now, do not worry”.
“What War, there is no War”
The Elf smiled sadly and shook his head, braids and trinkets rattling.
“Oh yes. There is. There is a War.”
“You just don’t know it yet”
The Elf watched the burning remnants of ‘Lucky Flynn’ for another hour, before he mounted up on Sunspear, fixed his Flight Harness, and the pair arrowed back to Orgrimmar.
The dread beat of his wings heralding a prelude to War.
The Gyrocopter trailed black smoke, Sunspear’s flame having set its internal combustion engines into external combustion ones, a Parachute forlornly trailing down, a human flier beneath it, around it Brigante circled, as the flier landed, Brigante did too. Hand ready on his bow, as they spat out Durotar’s sand, and shook their head, tearing their helm off, a female, blonde hair flowing in the wind.. She knelt in the sand, and raised her hands. “This how I die then, another kill on your saddle?”
“Is this how you want to die?” He said softly, in Gilnean accented Common.
“Who wants to die?” the woman laughed hardly, before trying to take a cigarillo from a packet, her hands shaking so badly as to make such a practice impossible.
Brigante smiled sadly and sat next to her on the dunes, the burning wreck of her Gyrocopter the light, he took out a packet of his own, and extended one to her “Take one of mine”. He extended a hand and lit it with his Will, he may be bad by the standards of his race at magic, but some things, some he could do.
“I know how it is, you will shake, and probably want to be sick in an hour or so” He nodded as he lit his own cigarillo.
“It was bad luck” He nodded. “I was taking a last training flight, getting Sunspear used to Kalimdor’s heat, or I would not have seen you. A reconnaisance flight I take it?”
“Seven six two seven zero zero four, Pilot-Sergeant, Hurrell, J” She intoned as she dragged on the cigarette.
“This is not an interrogation, Sergeant Hurrell” He sighed and dragged on his cigarillo “Yes, you will count as a ‘Kill’ on my Saddle, you won’t be the first, as I am sure you know, and you won’t be the last either, unless tomorrow it is me who has ‘bad luck’”
“I ain’t dead yet” the woman growled.
“ A Bold claim, given your situation, but a valid one. I am not interested in actually Killing Alliance fliers. I am interested in shooting them down”
Brigante sighed and looked out to the sea, past the burning gyro. “They sent you out alone, without a wingman, which means they are worried, and they needed a recon flier out as soon as they could, or that it was a small vessel, with only one pilot” He nodded and puffed on his cigarillo “They sent you flying south, so are worried about our deployments to Silithis” He huffed. “Its not a secret, or if it is, it is the worst kept secret on Azeroth, given you already have forces there.”
“You say -was-”
A Boom rattled over the horizon, a flash of light, and the human’s shoulders sagged.
“My Commiserations. It is War, Sergeant, doesn’t make it easier on any of us, but yes, I communicated the location of your ship as it turned south, Like I say. Bad Luck, if they’d maintained stealth discipline and not sent you off the deck I would never have seen you, and then them, and then sent a message to our fleet. He dragged from his cigarillo “A short engagement, it was a small vessel then, perhaps a corvette?”
He uncorked the bottle of port with his teeth, and passed it over to her. The woman took a slug from it dejectedly.
“There is no shame in it, the ‘Bloodied Spear’ is a Dragonhawk carrier now, aye, but it was a Thalassian Cruiser originally, before it was repurposed. Lieutenant Autumnlight is a skilled Captain, who follows the rules of the Sea, just as I follow the rules of the Air. He will be rescuing those sailors of your ship that they can find, right now, with luck, they too will live to see home once more”
He took the bottle and swigged from it himself, as Sunspear, the vast Silver-Blue hybrid Dragonhawk, coiled his way around the sands near the burning Gyrocopter, but not -too- close, he had learned that lesson in the past. Behind his saddle small pennons trailed, red, with white writing upon them, in Thalassian and Common. A Kill Tally. A Boast. The woman nodded “The Red Death.. I should be honoured”
Brigante sighed and puffed on his cigarillo “I hate the name, I did not choose it. Alliance fliers did, and then our propaganda industry seized upon it, and now, I cannot escape it. Such melodrama, such a...cliche”.
The female pilot drew from her cigarillo. “They say you are merciful, not in the skies, but to those you shoot down?”
“Whoever -they- are, they would be right. I am a soldier, not an aerial assassin. I am no butcher. The instant I shot you down, you are not a threat to me. I do not war on those who are no threat.”
He sighed and flicked the remains of the cigarillo towards the burning Gyrocopter, before nodding. “Did it have a name?”
The woman looked askance at the face, glowing green eyes, scarring around the right eye, both fixed upon her, like a cats upon a mouse.
“Did..who?”
“Your Gyrocopter. I am trying to work out whether you are a flier”
The woman dipped her head and murmured. The elf spoke somewhat acerbically “I can hear you, but you looked down, that shows no pride, what was its name”
The woman looked up, a faint glisten in her eyes, reflected by the firelight. “Lucky Flynn”.
The woman nodded “Named after a childhood sweetheart, who always dreamed of being a Gryphonrider, Flynn McDermott.”
Brigante nodded slowly, “And did he get lucky?”
The woman looked with a shocked expression, mistaking the question for a sexual innuendo, before she realised that was not what was on the Elf’s face. “No...he was..his eyesight wasn’t good enough. He never made the grade, so became a soldier. He was, good at it too, he was original Seventh Legion, he was...at the Wrathgate, so no, he was not lucky” she barked the last.
“My Commiserations. A horrific act of treachery and a horrible way to die, truly, my commiserations”.
“How many kills do you have, Sergeant Hurrell?”
The woman sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Six”
“Did you mark them on your aircraft, knowing they were lives you had extinguished?”
She closed her eyes and nodded, saying softly, “Yes”.
The curious voice spoke again, a blend of Gilnean brassiness and Thalassian soft sibilant sounds, even in Common.
“I think you are a flier, Sergeant Hurrell” He held up his hand as a small group of Sin’dorei approached, their colours of Silvermoon, not the Sun Hawks, but each with a Dragonhawk Pectoral badge, marking them as Handlers. They paused in place.
“That makes you my prisoner. Divest yourself of any weapons, including the boot knife you have been trying to hide. Your flight armour too. You keep your clothes and your dignity. I notice you have a medal. You may keep that too. Any mementoes or keepsakes will be checked over and returned to you unless they are items that could facilitate an escape. We have means via neutral parties of getting word to any relatives or loved ones that you are alive. You will be provided paper and quill to write such, but obviously we reserve the right to read them first and censor anything that contains military information. You will not be subject to torture or any acts of indignity whilst my Prisoner, your incarceration will be upon our Dragonhawk Carrier in case any of our rather more...overzealous allies get ideas of executing you. Once this War is over, you will be paroled back to Alliance forces and see your loved ones again, or be exchanged for Horde prisoners of interest to me”
The woman nodded, removing her flight rig and weapons “There is a price upon your head”
The elf smiled coldly “I know, I cherish it. I hope to see the value increase. It shows me their true feelings, that they are -scared- of me. Besides, there are plenty in Silvermoon who would gladly take that money and hand me over, fortunately as you humans say they ‘lack the balls’ to try it. Now are you my prisoner Sergeant Hurrell, or do I hand you over to the Orgrimmar defence forces?”
The human huffed in a breath. “Joan, and yes, I yield”.
The elf nodded “Brigante”, he extended a hand to shake, with the other holding out a packet of the cigarillo’s they had been smoking. “Do not do anything stupid Joan, and you shall live to see your loved ones again, once this War is over”.
The woman shook his hand, took the cigarettes and looked at him, even as the Elven soldiers came to march her to the docks, the dimly visible lights of the ‘Bloodied Spear’ approaching Bladefist bay.
“There isn’t a War, Silithis is a brushfire conflict, it will pass”
The Elf looked at her with glittering eyes, the green glow suddenly hungry for conflict.
“The War is over for you now, do not worry”.
“What War, there is no War”
The Elf smiled sadly and shook his head, braids and trinkets rattling.
“Oh yes. There is. There is a War.”
“You just don’t know it yet”
The Elf watched the burning remnants of ‘Lucky Flynn’ for another hour, before he mounted up on Sunspear, fixed his Flight Harness, and the pair arrowed back to Orgrimmar.
The dread beat of his wings heralding a prelude to War.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UB_GbMQftkA&start_radio=1&list=RDUB_GbMQftkA
The Magister shifted in his robes, adjusting the spectacles on his nose, searching through his communique’s , before one struck his eye, written in a handwritten script he knew well. He sat back his hand raising to the Spire courier who had delivered the latest missives, who left and closed the door behind him. He opened the letter carefully, as if it were explosive, as well it may be. It was from his elder brother, the middle brother of the Summerisles, He recalled their father, proud of Trinovante and Kayrissa, proud of Maladante, the eldest brother. He remembered his words as if just yesterday, even though that grandee had died with Silvermoon’s fall.
“Your brothers, my Son, you are younger than them...younger by far, You and Kayrissa have the Summerisle talent for magic, you have the Gift for it. They will be jealous of you, do not let them mock you, for all you have the talents our birthright granted us. Maladante, he is tall, like you, he is brawny, as a city guard, he will do well, and guarding our King Anasterian I am proud of him, you and Kayrissa have the magical might of our Kingdom, of myself and your mother...You have our stature, our majesty, our grace.
Your middle brother...Brigante, better he was not born at all, stunted, both physically and magically, no surprise he rejected his magical teachings and chose to become a Ranger. He has some success in the skies as a Flier, but he...is an embarrassment to me, to your mother who died when you were young. He is a bomb, a thing of compacted rage that will go off, you however, You my boy. You are the true upholder of the Summerisle legacy, so never let them mock you”
He remembered that ‘Embarassment’ defending him and Kayrissa, unsuccessfully against the purges that happened, was Kayrissa Wretched, was she headed that way, no one would know for sure, not anymore, Maladante had strangled her in the name of ‘Family Honour’ Whilst Brigante had screamed and howled, his arm broken under one of the newly formed ‘Blood Knight’s’ boots.
He recalled, two weeks after Brigante had been released from hospital and healing, two tragic accidents befalling a pair of Blood Knights, found hanging from trees, arrows in their eye sockets, tongues hanging grotesquely out from their mouths. The same two who had pinned Brigante down when Maladante had strangled their sister… The same two who had broken his arm, the….
Trinovante calmed himself and breathed slowly in.
He had only asked Brigante once about it. His brothers response, a curse and a growl, “Should have been three hanging from that tree”
“It wasn’t you?” he said, semi joking, smiling nervously at his brother, the ‘bomb’ as their father called him.
Brigante had just looked at him, before grinning “There’s a little switch, behind your ear, Trin” He had reached up and tweaked Trinovante’s ear before laughing.
“Stops you thinking so much…”
Trinovante knew then, from a young age, that his brother would murder, and yet to him, he had always been kind, he had helped him with his nervousness, had helped him with social interaction, a thing he still found awkward, had even helped him find attraction and love for women, and helped him in seduction. The Brothers Summerisle, a smiling pair, the lanky thin one, and the short one with the fire and vigour. Maladante was long out of the picture, Brigante’s standard response was “Don’t worry about him, he won’t be coming back”
For years he was terrified. What did that mean? Had Brigante killed their eldest brother? Their father had laid a curse, magical, that any Summerisle who spilt family blood would be damned. Thats why Maladante had strangled Kayrissa, rather than stabbing her or slitting her throat. The thought of the death of his twin caused him pain to this day, it was why he stuttered, could not get his words correct, could not talk to women, could not talk at all unless it was magical.
But What had Brigante meant? “He won’t be coming back?”
Had he broken family taboo?
Some days he looked in his brothers eyes and saw only fire. Fire and desolation. He understood then. His older brother was a bomb waiting to explode. But he understood better than his father, oh he did. His brother had a fuse burning down alright, but -he- would choose when it went off.
Then came the day he had read about Project Blue Desolation. Tactical Mana Bombs. The units they were to be deployed to, and he buried his eyes in his hands.
They had given the bomb, the unwanted middle child, the disappointment, who never felt important, a literal bomb...a way to make the world shut up and listen...to -be- important.
He forced his eyes open and read the letter.
Trin.
Brother dearest. I write to you from Orgrimmar, all is dust here, dust and breast beating, Trolls and Orcs shouting at each other, at least they hate each other, and not us for once. Our forces here are of good cheer, and despite the usual naysayers, are ready to protect our people. It is a remarkable thing to see, remarkable and entirely unbelievable in the times of our childhood? Orcs, Trolls, Taurens, such races as we never even knew of, all making common accord, and the Forsaken. Them too. You were young,what, sixty? When the Scourge came. You can’t imagine what it was like for me, for Mal, for Father.
But Trin. Something is going wrong here. Something is horribly wrong, we are gathered, and the place buzzes with gossip, Why are so many Horde military in this place, what does it mean.
Nobody knows. I don’t know, Philip doesn’t know, none of the unit commanders know. It is as if we are forming a fist, but we don’t know yet which way we are swinging it. We have it all, Naval units, army units, aerial forces, artillery, but nobody knows to what purpose. I mean we can all surmise, it is not the worlds secret that the Horde has interests in <redacted>
When do we get told a purpose? I need to know where, why and how! How can I plan otherwise? How can I assure a victory?
What use is a fist, if it does not have a target to strike?
We are prepared for our deployment to <Redacted>, as much as the place holds bitter memories, we will do our duty.
Make sure to pay a visit to Tarri, Laindor and Kayrissa, they would love a visit from their uncle, I am sure and, as usual, don’t worry about me, there is nothing in the skies that can bring me down, Nothing ever has, right? I worry about you, little brother, you need some slice of happy, to find a good person in your life, who makes you smile the way you did when you and Kay were twins. Before the Bad Times. Before the Scourge.
I would give up a hundred kills to see you smile that way again, and that is one hell of a boast from a Flier!”
B.
Commandant Brigante Summerisle
Wing Commander, First Escadrille.
Magister Summerisle folded the letter away, blinking a few times, he knew one thing was certain. His brother may come home, but he would never be the same again. The Elf who wrote that letter?
They would not be the same elf who came back.
The Magister shifted in his robes, adjusting the spectacles on his nose, searching through his communique’s , before one struck his eye, written in a handwritten script he knew well. He sat back his hand raising to the Spire courier who had delivered the latest missives, who left and closed the door behind him. He opened the letter carefully, as if it were explosive, as well it may be. It was from his elder brother, the middle brother of the Summerisles, He recalled their father, proud of Trinovante and Kayrissa, proud of Maladante, the eldest brother. He remembered his words as if just yesterday, even though that grandee had died with Silvermoon’s fall.
“Your brothers, my Son, you are younger than them...younger by far, You and Kayrissa have the Summerisle talent for magic, you have the Gift for it. They will be jealous of you, do not let them mock you, for all you have the talents our birthright granted us. Maladante, he is tall, like you, he is brawny, as a city guard, he will do well, and guarding our King Anasterian I am proud of him, you and Kayrissa have the magical might of our Kingdom, of myself and your mother...You have our stature, our majesty, our grace.
Your middle brother...Brigante, better he was not born at all, stunted, both physically and magically, no surprise he rejected his magical teachings and chose to become a Ranger. He has some success in the skies as a Flier, but he...is an embarrassment to me, to your mother who died when you were young. He is a bomb, a thing of compacted rage that will go off, you however, You my boy. You are the true upholder of the Summerisle legacy, so never let them mock you”
He remembered that ‘Embarassment’ defending him and Kayrissa, unsuccessfully against the purges that happened, was Kayrissa Wretched, was she headed that way, no one would know for sure, not anymore, Maladante had strangled her in the name of ‘Family Honour’ Whilst Brigante had screamed and howled, his arm broken under one of the newly formed ‘Blood Knight’s’ boots.
He recalled, two weeks after Brigante had been released from hospital and healing, two tragic accidents befalling a pair of Blood Knights, found hanging from trees, arrows in their eye sockets, tongues hanging grotesquely out from their mouths. The same two who had pinned Brigante down when Maladante had strangled their sister… The same two who had broken his arm, the….
Trinovante calmed himself and breathed slowly in.
He had only asked Brigante once about it. His brothers response, a curse and a growl, “Should have been three hanging from that tree”
“It wasn’t you?” he said, semi joking, smiling nervously at his brother, the ‘bomb’ as their father called him.
Brigante had just looked at him, before grinning “There’s a little switch, behind your ear, Trin” He had reached up and tweaked Trinovante’s ear before laughing.
“Stops you thinking so much…”
Trinovante knew then, from a young age, that his brother would murder, and yet to him, he had always been kind, he had helped him with his nervousness, had helped him with social interaction, a thing he still found awkward, had even helped him find attraction and love for women, and helped him in seduction. The Brothers Summerisle, a smiling pair, the lanky thin one, and the short one with the fire and vigour. Maladante was long out of the picture, Brigante’s standard response was “Don’t worry about him, he won’t be coming back”
For years he was terrified. What did that mean? Had Brigante killed their eldest brother? Their father had laid a curse, magical, that any Summerisle who spilt family blood would be damned. Thats why Maladante had strangled Kayrissa, rather than stabbing her or slitting her throat. The thought of the death of his twin caused him pain to this day, it was why he stuttered, could not get his words correct, could not talk to women, could not talk at all unless it was magical.
But What had Brigante meant? “He won’t be coming back?”
Had he broken family taboo?
Some days he looked in his brothers eyes and saw only fire. Fire and desolation. He understood then. His older brother was a bomb waiting to explode. But he understood better than his father, oh he did. His brother had a fuse burning down alright, but -he- would choose when it went off.
Then came the day he had read about Project Blue Desolation. Tactical Mana Bombs. The units they were to be deployed to, and he buried his eyes in his hands.
They had given the bomb, the unwanted middle child, the disappointment, who never felt important, a literal bomb...a way to make the world shut up and listen...to -be- important.
He forced his eyes open and read the letter.
Trin.
Brother dearest. I write to you from Orgrimmar, all is dust here, dust and breast beating, Trolls and Orcs shouting at each other, at least they hate each other, and not us for once. Our forces here are of good cheer, and despite the usual naysayers, are ready to protect our people. It is a remarkable thing to see, remarkable and entirely unbelievable in the times of our childhood? Orcs, Trolls, Taurens, such races as we never even knew of, all making common accord, and the Forsaken. Them too. You were young,what, sixty? When the Scourge came. You can’t imagine what it was like for me, for Mal, for Father.
But Trin. Something is going wrong here. Something is horribly wrong, we are gathered, and the place buzzes with gossip, Why are so many Horde military in this place, what does it mean.
Nobody knows. I don’t know, Philip doesn’t know, none of the unit commanders know. It is as if we are forming a fist, but we don’t know yet which way we are swinging it. We have it all, Naval units, army units, aerial forces, artillery, but nobody knows to what purpose. I mean we can all surmise, it is not the worlds secret that the Horde has interests in <redacted>
When do we get told a purpose? I need to know where, why and how! How can I plan otherwise? How can I assure a victory?
What use is a fist, if it does not have a target to strike?
We are prepared for our deployment to <Redacted>, as much as the place holds bitter memories, we will do our duty.
Make sure to pay a visit to Tarri, Laindor and Kayrissa, they would love a visit from their uncle, I am sure and, as usual, don’t worry about me, there is nothing in the skies that can bring me down, Nothing ever has, right? I worry about you, little brother, you need some slice of happy, to find a good person in your life, who makes you smile the way you did when you and Kay were twins. Before the Bad Times. Before the Scourge.
I would give up a hundred kills to see you smile that way again, and that is one hell of a boast from a Flier!”
B.
Commandant Brigante Summerisle
Wing Commander, First Escadrille.
Magister Summerisle folded the letter away, blinking a few times, he knew one thing was certain. His brother may come home, but he would never be the same again. The Elf who wrote that letter?
They would not be the same elf who came back.
“I have been ordered to tell no one below the rank of Ranger-Captain” Yasmyr had muttered, her wounds freshly healed, her and Narme had been ‘commandeered’ without his knowledge, for some unknown purpose, and been away for two days, even Yasmyr’s husband, the Sun Hawk’s Flight Surgeon, did not know why…Brigante had asked him just earlier..
“You must know, Chaplain, where are they, where is my Flight Lieutenant, your Wife?”
Aiechi had shook his head “Sir, I can’t say”
“Is that can’t say because you don’t know, or can’t say because you do know but she asked you not to say?”
“The Former”
With the serendipity that exists only in real life, and yet seems so unbelievable in fiction, the Comms crackled into life, “Sir, this is ‘Bandit’, we need an extraction, we’re at Mor’shan ramparts”
Brigante swore but raised his gauntlet to his lips, depressing the button and speaking into it, as Arowik and Aiechi raised their eyebrows in astonishment at the voice that had ‘gone dark’ as they say in the Aerie, their communicator turned off.
“Is Reddawn with you? How many are we extracting, is the ground situation ‘hot’?”
Reddawn’s voice, also absent these last two days came over the Comms “I’m here Sir”
Yasmyr cut in again “Just us two Elves, and Reddawns companion Sabre, the ground situation is -not- ‘hot’ Sir, repeat, -not- ‘hot’.
Brigante cursed, before turning to the other Hawks “Alright, you heard that, get armoured up nonetheless, and to your Hawks, two minute Flight Warning.” He whirled and ran himself, with the other Hawks, to the vast enclave of beasts in the Valley of Honour, the traditional ‘rookery’ when the Hawks landed in Orgrimmar. As he did, he saw Forenth, his Handler, smoking a cigarette and talking with the other Handlers, Brigante raised his hand and twirled his finger around in a circular motion. He was too far away to hear the words said, but he was pretty sure Forenth uttered a curse that would turn the air blue, ditched his cigarette and slapped the Handlers into standing by their Dragonhawks.
As he neared, Forenth was already preparing his battle armour, and flight harness, the two attaching it swiftly, locking Brigante into the saddle, the Thick Kodohide strapping and Thorium buckles making it an impossibility for him to be dismounted. Forenth, that ancient veteran soldier growled “What is it my boy?”
“The Lieutenant and Reddawn called in, they need an extraction”.
Forenth glowered “I’ll let the Handlers know, theirs have been going spare worrying about ‘their girls’”. Brigante nodded, conducting his last flight checks “Tell them they are alive, and coming back home now” Brigante looked at his Handler, who stepped back , crossed his wrists, hands held together, thumbs entwined, fingers splayed wide, forming a set of wings symbol. He was good to go.
“Hawks, this is Sun Hawk Actual, confirm your flight checks are complete and you are ready” He muttered into the Comms.
“This is Arowik, Ready”
“Val’kyr’ Ready”
“Grab some Sky, lets bring them home!”
It was textbook, a straight flight in, a quiet landing zone, ‘Val’kyr’ checked over the two elves, who were bloodied and exhausted, whilst Brigante and Segtillis flew a combat air patrol over the proceedings. Everything seemed so...Quiet. What had happened? Whatever it was, could wait until they reached Orgrimmar, although secretly Brigante was -furious-, whatever ridiculous folly his two scouts had gotten into could have cost him two valuable fliers over Silithus, at just the point when the Horde armies mustered to march there.
“This is ‘Val’kyr’, they’re both stabilised enough for transport”
Brigante sighed and nodded, before responding “Good work ‘Val’kyr’, lets bring them home.”
The journey back was equally quiet, not a far flight, from Mor’shan to Orgrimmar, yet as the two elven scouts were led to the barracks, which would have to make do in lieu of an infirmary, Brigante’s rage increased. It was with teeth gritted that he had assisted the Flight Surgeon, as Aiechi, ‘Val’kyr’ tended their wounds.
And then it was done. And time for some answers.
“I have been ordered to tell no one below the rank of Ranger-Captain” Yasmyr had muttered, and Brigante saw by the direction of her gaze that she even included her husband, who had just healed her, in that. Something was clearly afoot of a greater magnitude than he suspected.
“Sorry you chaps, leave us, I need to know what is going on”
The instant the other elves had left, Brigante whirled upon his executive officer and hissed. “This had better be good”
“Sir, orders were from on high, higher than you”
“What do you mean higher than me, I am the Commandant of the Aerie, I command the Escadrilles, there is no...do you mean a Ranger-Lord?”
Yasmyr nodded tiredly “Thats where -our- part of the orders came from Sir”
Brigante frowned, “What interests does Quel’thalas have in this area, we’re mustering to march on Silithus?, or we were, the others seem to have went their merry way”
Narme and Yasmyr just looked at each other, but Yasmyr spoke “Not just Quel’thalas, Sir. We weren’t alone. The Horde has interests there. The -Entire- Horde.”
The implication was clear. Brigante paused “These orders originated higher than a Ranger-Lord, didn’t they?”
Yasmyr shrugged, wincing in pain at the recently healed arrow wound, Brigante looked at the arrow, so recently removed.. “Darnassian, you were in Ashenvale”.
His eyes grew wide, as the magnitude of what was occurring struck him. It was brilliant, if you had a mind to conceive it, it was genius, if you had the sheer callous will to enact it.
Suddenly with a hollow pit in the seat of his gut, he saw it…
“We’re …..We’re not going to Silithus, are we, Flight Lieutenant?”
“No Sir, we’re not”
“We’re actually going to try and invade Ashenvale, whilst decoying them to Silithus…”
Yasmyr shook her head.
“No Sir. You don’t understand. We’re not going to try and invade Ashenvale…”
“Astranaar has fallen”
“We -have- invaded Ashenvale”
And the last piece fell into place. That is what this fist was, that is why the build up of soldiery, aerial forces, naval and artillery.
Conquest. Domination. Annihilation.
He rubbed his eye, soothing the scar tissue around it.
“We’re not stopping there, are we, we’re using the forces here gathered to push even further?”
“Pretty sure thats the plan Sir”
He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair tiredly.
“And we’re the Sin’dorei unit still here, so will be sent into it..”
He laughed bitterly, as his minds eye raced to the future.
“Another war where we are seen as warmongers then? We can withdraw, and seen to be disloyal to the Horde, or we can follow through, and when we return to Silvermoon….”
Yasmyr looked at him sympathetically, his expression of torment writ large on his face.
“You saw what Conclave is like…”
“This time they’ll hang me”.
His mind raced. “We’re not stopping at Ashenvale, which means our forces gathered will be pushing into Darkshore, and from there…..”
“Sun Above...this is a ‘Scenario: Nightmare Blue’ situation, we’re instigating Nightmare Blue”
Narme looked askance at the pair, as the air thickened between them, not being an Officer of the Aerie, she would not know the various codenames for the threat levels and risk scenarios of the aerial forces of Quel’thalas.
Yasmyr knew though, oh she knew. ‘Nightmare Blue’, a scenario title for full on aggression, either the Alliance attempting to destroy a Horde city, or the Horde attempting to destroy an Alliance one, and the resultant complete intercontinental war that would follow...
“We’re going for Darnassus” Brigante sighed, “And we were ordered here with the Mark One ‘Annihilatrix’ munitions.
Yasmyr nodded, her eyes sleepy, her injuries taxing her strength, but struggling to get across the gravity of the situation to her Commander, she nodded and murmured “We didn’t play you, Sir, I only found out when our orders came through, and by then, too late to tell you, and you -know- my skillset”.
Narme nodded “This was recent, we thought you knew, but, the orders did come through from a Ranger-Lord, and, well, they outrank you.”
Brigante nodded slowly, eyes still staring at the Kaldorei arrow in his hand as he slowly twirled it, the arrow spinning slowly in his grasp.
He sighed and nodded. “All we can do is play the hand that fate has dealt us. If Operation Nightmare Blue it is to be, then Operation Nightmare Blue it must be…” He paused, setting the arrow down.
“In Which case you both need rest, We will be busy about our bloody business soon, you don’t need me loitering around, I need...time, to process what you have just loaded upon me, Flight Lieutenant”. The elven officer’s shoulders sagged as he limped from the Orgrimmar barracks, his mind racing in a panic such as could not be calmed….
By all accounts, it was some six hours later, that the elven officer was laid to rest, practically carried to the barracks by an Orcish comrade of his, reeking of alcohol he could only babble about fire, and hangings, and becoming death, a heavy Orcish cloak laid over him to silence him as much as warm him. One curiosity many noticed was how he kept clutching at a ring on his left hand. It was almost as if he wore two wedding bands, One gold. One Truesilver.
“You must know, Chaplain, where are they, where is my Flight Lieutenant, your Wife?”
Aiechi had shook his head “Sir, I can’t say”
“Is that can’t say because you don’t know, or can’t say because you do know but she asked you not to say?”
“The Former”
With the serendipity that exists only in real life, and yet seems so unbelievable in fiction, the Comms crackled into life, “Sir, this is ‘Bandit’, we need an extraction, we’re at Mor’shan ramparts”
Brigante swore but raised his gauntlet to his lips, depressing the button and speaking into it, as Arowik and Aiechi raised their eyebrows in astonishment at the voice that had ‘gone dark’ as they say in the Aerie, their communicator turned off.
“Is Reddawn with you? How many are we extracting, is the ground situation ‘hot’?”
Reddawn’s voice, also absent these last two days came over the Comms “I’m here Sir”
Yasmyr cut in again “Just us two Elves, and Reddawns companion Sabre, the ground situation is -not- ‘hot’ Sir, repeat, -not- ‘hot’.
Brigante cursed, before turning to the other Hawks “Alright, you heard that, get armoured up nonetheless, and to your Hawks, two minute Flight Warning.” He whirled and ran himself, with the other Hawks, to the vast enclave of beasts in the Valley of Honour, the traditional ‘rookery’ when the Hawks landed in Orgrimmar. As he did, he saw Forenth, his Handler, smoking a cigarette and talking with the other Handlers, Brigante raised his hand and twirled his finger around in a circular motion. He was too far away to hear the words said, but he was pretty sure Forenth uttered a curse that would turn the air blue, ditched his cigarette and slapped the Handlers into standing by their Dragonhawks.
As he neared, Forenth was already preparing his battle armour, and flight harness, the two attaching it swiftly, locking Brigante into the saddle, the Thick Kodohide strapping and Thorium buckles making it an impossibility for him to be dismounted. Forenth, that ancient veteran soldier growled “What is it my boy?”
“The Lieutenant and Reddawn called in, they need an extraction”.
Forenth glowered “I’ll let the Handlers know, theirs have been going spare worrying about ‘their girls’”. Brigante nodded, conducting his last flight checks “Tell them they are alive, and coming back home now” Brigante looked at his Handler, who stepped back , crossed his wrists, hands held together, thumbs entwined, fingers splayed wide, forming a set of wings symbol. He was good to go.
“Hawks, this is Sun Hawk Actual, confirm your flight checks are complete and you are ready” He muttered into the Comms.
“This is Arowik, Ready”
“Val’kyr’ Ready”
“Grab some Sky, lets bring them home!”
It was textbook, a straight flight in, a quiet landing zone, ‘Val’kyr’ checked over the two elves, who were bloodied and exhausted, whilst Brigante and Segtillis flew a combat air patrol over the proceedings. Everything seemed so...Quiet. What had happened? Whatever it was, could wait until they reached Orgrimmar, although secretly Brigante was -furious-, whatever ridiculous folly his two scouts had gotten into could have cost him two valuable fliers over Silithus, at just the point when the Horde armies mustered to march there.
“This is ‘Val’kyr’, they’re both stabilised enough for transport”
Brigante sighed and nodded, before responding “Good work ‘Val’kyr’, lets bring them home.”
The journey back was equally quiet, not a far flight, from Mor’shan to Orgrimmar, yet as the two elven scouts were led to the barracks, which would have to make do in lieu of an infirmary, Brigante’s rage increased. It was with teeth gritted that he had assisted the Flight Surgeon, as Aiechi, ‘Val’kyr’ tended their wounds.
And then it was done. And time for some answers.
“I have been ordered to tell no one below the rank of Ranger-Captain” Yasmyr had muttered, and Brigante saw by the direction of her gaze that she even included her husband, who had just healed her, in that. Something was clearly afoot of a greater magnitude than he suspected.
“Sorry you chaps, leave us, I need to know what is going on”
The instant the other elves had left, Brigante whirled upon his executive officer and hissed. “This had better be good”
“Sir, orders were from on high, higher than you”
“What do you mean higher than me, I am the Commandant of the Aerie, I command the Escadrilles, there is no...do you mean a Ranger-Lord?”
Yasmyr nodded tiredly “Thats where -our- part of the orders came from Sir”
Brigante frowned, “What interests does Quel’thalas have in this area, we’re mustering to march on Silithus?, or we were, the others seem to have went their merry way”
Narme and Yasmyr just looked at each other, but Yasmyr spoke “Not just Quel’thalas, Sir. We weren’t alone. The Horde has interests there. The -Entire- Horde.”
The implication was clear. Brigante paused “These orders originated higher than a Ranger-Lord, didn’t they?”
Yasmyr shrugged, wincing in pain at the recently healed arrow wound, Brigante looked at the arrow, so recently removed.. “Darnassian, you were in Ashenvale”.
His eyes grew wide, as the magnitude of what was occurring struck him. It was brilliant, if you had a mind to conceive it, it was genius, if you had the sheer callous will to enact it.
Suddenly with a hollow pit in the seat of his gut, he saw it…
“We’re …..We’re not going to Silithus, are we, Flight Lieutenant?”
“No Sir, we’re not”
“We’re actually going to try and invade Ashenvale, whilst decoying them to Silithus…”
Yasmyr shook her head.
“No Sir. You don’t understand. We’re not going to try and invade Ashenvale…”
“Astranaar has fallen”
“We -have- invaded Ashenvale”
And the last piece fell into place. That is what this fist was, that is why the build up of soldiery, aerial forces, naval and artillery.
Conquest. Domination. Annihilation.
He rubbed his eye, soothing the scar tissue around it.
“We’re not stopping there, are we, we’re using the forces here gathered to push even further?”
“Pretty sure thats the plan Sir”
He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair tiredly.
“And we’re the Sin’dorei unit still here, so will be sent into it..”
He laughed bitterly, as his minds eye raced to the future.
“Another war where we are seen as warmongers then? We can withdraw, and seen to be disloyal to the Horde, or we can follow through, and when we return to Silvermoon….”
Yasmyr looked at him sympathetically, his expression of torment writ large on his face.
“You saw what Conclave is like…”
“This time they’ll hang me”.
His mind raced. “We’re not stopping at Ashenvale, which means our forces gathered will be pushing into Darkshore, and from there…..”
“Sun Above...this is a ‘Scenario: Nightmare Blue’ situation, we’re instigating Nightmare Blue”
Narme looked askance at the pair, as the air thickened between them, not being an Officer of the Aerie, she would not know the various codenames for the threat levels and risk scenarios of the aerial forces of Quel’thalas.
Yasmyr knew though, oh she knew. ‘Nightmare Blue’, a scenario title for full on aggression, either the Alliance attempting to destroy a Horde city, or the Horde attempting to destroy an Alliance one, and the resultant complete intercontinental war that would follow...
“We’re going for Darnassus” Brigante sighed, “And we were ordered here with the Mark One ‘Annihilatrix’ munitions.
Yasmyr nodded, her eyes sleepy, her injuries taxing her strength, but struggling to get across the gravity of the situation to her Commander, she nodded and murmured “We didn’t play you, Sir, I only found out when our orders came through, and by then, too late to tell you, and you -know- my skillset”.
Narme nodded “This was recent, we thought you knew, but, the orders did come through from a Ranger-Lord, and, well, they outrank you.”
Brigante nodded slowly, eyes still staring at the Kaldorei arrow in his hand as he slowly twirled it, the arrow spinning slowly in his grasp.
He sighed and nodded. “All we can do is play the hand that fate has dealt us. If Operation Nightmare Blue it is to be, then Operation Nightmare Blue it must be…” He paused, setting the arrow down.
“In Which case you both need rest, We will be busy about our bloody business soon, you don’t need me loitering around, I need...time, to process what you have just loaded upon me, Flight Lieutenant”. The elven officer’s shoulders sagged as he limped from the Orgrimmar barracks, his mind racing in a panic such as could not be calmed….
By all accounts, it was some six hours later, that the elven officer was laid to rest, practically carried to the barracks by an Orcish comrade of his, reeking of alcohol he could only babble about fire, and hangings, and becoming death, a heavy Orcish cloak laid over him to silence him as much as warm him. One curiosity many noticed was how he kept clutching at a ring on his left hand. It was almost as if he wore two wedding bands, One gold. One Truesilver.
Wingless Mother was nervous.
She hid it well, but Cloudkisser could tell, the same way she knew it was the same elf despite the blackened hair and the cloying scent of earth-and-leaf masking the more-usual aroma of cigarettes and rocket fuel. The runty little golden had tried her best to look big and brave – puffing up her feathers and trailing smoke from her nostrils - and Mother had laughed softly, and pressed her forehead against the hawk’s, the way she did before they flew together.
Was it time, then? Cloudkisser hoped so - less, granted, than she had before Sunspear returned reeking of the metal death Mother called ‘gyrocopter’, the whirring soulless birds that had taken Solaneith and Thoras from her flock, but the sense of anticipation permeated the city as thoroughly as the stench of wolf and greenskin.
“Not yet.” Mother’s grip on her neck tightened (her hand curiously lighter without the slim band that normally sat upon it, crackling like the air before a storm the way Wingless Father did), as if she could sense the urge to soar rising and thought to push it back down. “Tonight, you stay. There’s no sky where we’re going.”
---
Yasmyr’s cigarettes were the very definition of ‘an acquired taste’. One she’d gained from the bold pioneers of aviation she’d once apprenticed under, harder to maintain now their foolhardy descendents were officially The Enemy. The familiar burned-rubber-and-stale-oil mixed now with copper and salt, her slick and trembling fingers leaving crimson smudges on the packet as she offered one to Narmë before igniting her own.
“That… feth, that was something, wasn’t it?’” She laughed, and immediately regretted it, wounds she’d forced herself to ignore while they slipped through the dense forests (along with whatever noxious concotions the kaldorei favoured, poisons that made her skin itch and her thoughts slow to a crawl) now, with the Mor’shan Rampart safely behind them, intent on making their presence known. ‘”I think you and I just started a war”
“Not sure if it’s an honour or not.” Narmë mumbled, her one-eyed gaze trained on the treeline, left arm cradled, bloody and near-useless, against herself. Nearby her sabre companion prowled, as vigilant as its mistress, its teeth and claws stained purple.
“Won’t know that until the end.’’ Was that a lie? No doubt the likes of Heartforge would consider what they had done craven; there was no glory in driving blades into the eyes of druids who lay sleeping in their Barrow Den. What was necessary was so rarely worthy of praise. “If enough of the other teams feth up....”
“They'd better not”
Yasmyr winced, her fingers tentatively exploring the purple-fletched arrow embedded in her shoulder. Testament to the fact at least one of them already had. “Blightcaller'll have their heads. And the rest of them, back on the front line before their corpses get cold.”
They sat in companionable silence, waiting for extraction and the lecture that would no doubt follow it.
She hid it well, but Cloudkisser could tell, the same way she knew it was the same elf despite the blackened hair and the cloying scent of earth-and-leaf masking the more-usual aroma of cigarettes and rocket fuel. The runty little golden had tried her best to look big and brave – puffing up her feathers and trailing smoke from her nostrils - and Mother had laughed softly, and pressed her forehead against the hawk’s, the way she did before they flew together.
Was it time, then? Cloudkisser hoped so - less, granted, than she had before Sunspear returned reeking of the metal death Mother called ‘gyrocopter’, the whirring soulless birds that had taken Solaneith and Thoras from her flock, but the sense of anticipation permeated the city as thoroughly as the stench of wolf and greenskin.
“Not yet.” Mother’s grip on her neck tightened (her hand curiously lighter without the slim band that normally sat upon it, crackling like the air before a storm the way Wingless Father did), as if she could sense the urge to soar rising and thought to push it back down. “Tonight, you stay. There’s no sky where we’re going.”
---
Yasmyr’s cigarettes were the very definition of ‘an acquired taste’. One she’d gained from the bold pioneers of aviation she’d once apprenticed under, harder to maintain now their foolhardy descendents were officially The Enemy. The familiar burned-rubber-and-stale-oil mixed now with copper and salt, her slick and trembling fingers leaving crimson smudges on the packet as she offered one to Narmë before igniting her own.
“That… feth, that was something, wasn’t it?’” She laughed, and immediately regretted it, wounds she’d forced herself to ignore while they slipped through the dense forests (along with whatever noxious concotions the kaldorei favoured, poisons that made her skin itch and her thoughts slow to a crawl) now, with the Mor’shan Rampart safely behind them, intent on making their presence known. ‘”I think you and I just started a war”
“Not sure if it’s an honour or not.” Narmë mumbled, her one-eyed gaze trained on the treeline, left arm cradled, bloody and near-useless, against herself. Nearby her sabre companion prowled, as vigilant as its mistress, its teeth and claws stained purple.
“Won’t know that until the end.’’ Was that a lie? No doubt the likes of Heartforge would consider what they had done craven; there was no glory in driving blades into the eyes of druids who lay sleeping in their Barrow Den. What was necessary was so rarely worthy of praise. “If enough of the other teams feth up....”
“They'd better not”
Yasmyr winced, her fingers tentatively exploring the purple-fletched arrow embedded in her shoulder. Testament to the fact at least one of them already had. “Blightcaller'll have their heads. And the rest of them, back on the front line before their corpses get cold.”
They sat in companionable silence, waiting for extraction and the lecture that would no doubt follow it.
There's a part of Yasmyr – small, growing smaller with each passing year, but dug in like a hungry tick – that can't help but admire the bloodthirsty artistry of it. The same part that remembers the weight of silver and rubies on her fingers, the heady warmth of blood crystal in her veins, would have been proud to champion such a scheme; consider the poise one must have to shackle your own civilians, drugged into compliance, to a ruined pillar. To garb them, with magic and artistry, as a legitimate military target. Then to wait for the bombs to fall and the screaming, from victim and assailant both, to start.
“When enough Hawks die, Lieutenant,” - the Commandant had said one night ago (or is it two? The days begin to blend and blur, a grey swathe of patrols and investigations and futile skirmishes, of too little sleep and too much war), when she'd broken the news about the 'Firebugs' - “you'll agree. They all do. Eventually.” The little part had mocked her for glancing to the thin silver ring and shaking her head, refusing him their Most Terrible Weapons in retaliation for the loss of Rookie Evergaze.
That same part coos delightedly as she peels back the chitinous plating from the drone she's recovered. Gasps in awe at the fel-iron and spirium payload it discovers within. There's an elegance to it, a very personal hatred. Once, she would have been proud to craft such monsters of her own. Now the Commandant would never countenance it. She's thankful for the leash, she tells herself.
She's grateful for that part now, of course, as she always is when the !@#$ hits the fan. It keeps her moving, when the others freeze. Lets her bark orders when their voices dry up. Gets her Hawks home safe – whole in body, if not in mind – while Reddawn and the Commandant fly the surviving kaldorei back to the Alliance lines, carrying the truth of what happened back with them. Not that the truth will matter, of course. She'd bet her right arm that by tomorrow those two will have had a 'nasty accident'; it does not fit the story their enemies will tell, of how the Evil Sun Hawks chose to be butchers rather than sportsmen...
The comms channel erupts in screams as somewhere over Ashenvale the fel iron rain begins to fall, and that slender truesilver band feels heavier by the second.
Sometimes she wishes the little part wasn't always right.
“When enough Hawks die, Lieutenant,” - the Commandant had said one night ago (or is it two? The days begin to blend and blur, a grey swathe of patrols and investigations and futile skirmishes, of too little sleep and too much war), when she'd broken the news about the 'Firebugs' - “you'll agree. They all do. Eventually.” The little part had mocked her for glancing to the thin silver ring and shaking her head, refusing him their Most Terrible Weapons in retaliation for the loss of Rookie Evergaze.
That same part coos delightedly as she peels back the chitinous plating from the drone she's recovered. Gasps in awe at the fel-iron and spirium payload it discovers within. There's an elegance to it, a very personal hatred. Once, she would have been proud to craft such monsters of her own. Now the Commandant would never countenance it. She's thankful for the leash, she tells herself.
She's grateful for that part now, of course, as she always is when the !@#$ hits the fan. It keeps her moving, when the others freeze. Lets her bark orders when their voices dry up. Gets her Hawks home safe – whole in body, if not in mind – while Reddawn and the Commandant fly the surviving kaldorei back to the Alliance lines, carrying the truth of what happened back with them. Not that the truth will matter, of course. She'd bet her right arm that by tomorrow those two will have had a 'nasty accident'; it does not fit the story their enemies will tell, of how the Evil Sun Hawks chose to be butchers rather than sportsmen...
The comms channel erupts in screams as somewhere over Ashenvale the fel iron rain begins to fall, and that slender truesilver band feels heavier by the second.
Sometimes she wishes the little part wasn't always right.
To change a little from Death, Angst and Misery, some sketch of the faithful companions of our elves.
Represented are Cloudkisser [Yasmyr], Vestige [Narmë], Sunspear [Brigante] and Longfellow [Kialen, who do not post on those forums I believe].
https://i.imgur.com/r6lBRhZ.jpg
Represented are Cloudkisser [Yasmyr], Vestige [Narmë], Sunspear [Brigante] and Longfellow [Kialen, who do not post on those forums I believe].
“When enough Hawks have died,” he'd said, “you'll change your mind.”
How many 'enough' might be Yasmyr didn't know, but it was creeping closer. They had been running on fumes before, and the screams of dying kaldorei and panicked dragonhawks echoed loudly enough in the ear to keep many from sleep. Tired fliers were sloppy, and sloppy fliers made mistakes and got sent home in buckets. Already she'd had to tear strips from Arowik for leaving camp without a working comms unit, determined to rip what small bloody vengeance he could from the enemy lines; he had been lucky to escape with an unbroken jaw after daring to ask if she'd ever lost a child, as if that sort of open wound was any excuse for what he'd done. Heartforge, too, had faced her wrath for being stupid enough to think a lone rendorei truly alone, stumbling into what should have been a screamingly obvious ambush in hopes of easy prey.
She could feel their hatred in their petulant gazes, their anger that she was not equally bent on foolhardy retribution. But at least they were alive to keep hating her. Being thought heartless was a small price to pay. No harder to endure than the scorn the Bilgewater goblins had poured on her for not knowing how to cope with these new mechanical monsters. No worse than the shimmering blue-white powder she rubbed into her gums in place of sleep, the pulls she snuck from her hipflask to keep her hands from shaking. Necessary sacrifices, to keep her Family safe.
He'd come, as she knew he would, no less broken than Heartforge and Arowik, as pale and trembling as Reddawn and Sungazer. For the second time, he'd asked The Question.
“They all say yes in the end, Bandit.”
“My answer is still no, Magni.”
Brigante pinched his brow. “Paint me two pictures. One where we turn the key, and one where we don't.”
The first was not difficult to conjure; Yasmyr might have lacked the oratory skill of her Commander, but poet or not any fool could see where that path would lead. The moment the first bomb fell, everything that had lead them to this point would be forgotten, at best a minor footnote in the story of Why The Sun Hawks Must Be Destroyed. Their enemies, both across the battleline and at home in the High Kingdom , would have all the ammunition they needed, and targets would be painted on each and every hawk, from the Commandant down to the lowliest cadet – better they die, than the Escadrille be allowed to raise more monsters.
The second... The second was not so easy. It relied on believing the Alliance still held some shadow of the one they'd been driven from, some measure of decency and honour that would condemn what happened for the atrocity it was...
“Jack saw what happened?”
“He was as close to me as you are now, Bandit. He nearly died.”
“But he survived, and he knows the truth of things?”
Brigante nodded.
“Then that's something. Feth, I doubt the Stalwart Defenders Of Nature will be best pleased either. So we let that ferment. Let them divide themselves, rather than unifying them against us.”
(The small voice - the one that remembered blood-red skies and the screams of dying draenei - naturally thought this whole thing hilarious, but she could endure its scorn, ignore its 'helpful' suggestions. Chalk it up as another necessary sacrifice)
The Commandant sighed, and nodded, seeming so much older than even his considerable years, smaller than his already-diminutive stature. “Why can't wars be fought with grace? Alright. Let's talk about what we can do....”
How many 'enough' might be Yasmyr didn't know, but it was creeping closer. They had been running on fumes before, and the screams of dying kaldorei and panicked dragonhawks echoed loudly enough in the ear to keep many from sleep. Tired fliers were sloppy, and sloppy fliers made mistakes and got sent home in buckets. Already she'd had to tear strips from Arowik for leaving camp without a working comms unit, determined to rip what small bloody vengeance he could from the enemy lines; he had been lucky to escape with an unbroken jaw after daring to ask if she'd ever lost a child, as if that sort of open wound was any excuse for what he'd done. Heartforge, too, had faced her wrath for being stupid enough to think a lone rendorei truly alone, stumbling into what should have been a screamingly obvious ambush in hopes of easy prey.
She could feel their hatred in their petulant gazes, their anger that she was not equally bent on foolhardy retribution. But at least they were alive to keep hating her. Being thought heartless was a small price to pay. No harder to endure than the scorn the Bilgewater goblins had poured on her for not knowing how to cope with these new mechanical monsters. No worse than the shimmering blue-white powder she rubbed into her gums in place of sleep, the pulls she snuck from her hipflask to keep her hands from shaking. Necessary sacrifices, to keep her Family safe.
He'd come, as she knew he would, no less broken than Heartforge and Arowik, as pale and trembling as Reddawn and Sungazer. For the second time, he'd asked The Question.
“They all say yes in the end, Bandit.”
“My answer is still no, Magni.”
Brigante pinched his brow. “Paint me two pictures. One where we turn the key, and one where we don't.”
The first was not difficult to conjure; Yasmyr might have lacked the oratory skill of her Commander, but poet or not any fool could see where that path would lead. The moment the first bomb fell, everything that had lead them to this point would be forgotten, at best a minor footnote in the story of Why The Sun Hawks Must Be Destroyed. Their enemies, both across the battleline and at home in the High Kingdom , would have all the ammunition they needed, and targets would be painted on each and every hawk, from the Commandant down to the lowliest cadet – better they die, than the Escadrille be allowed to raise more monsters.
The second... The second was not so easy. It relied on believing the Alliance still held some shadow of the one they'd been driven from, some measure of decency and honour that would condemn what happened for the atrocity it was...
“Jack saw what happened?”
“He was as close to me as you are now, Bandit. He nearly died.”
“But he survived, and he knows the truth of things?”
Brigante nodded.
“Then that's something. Feth, I doubt the Stalwart Defenders Of Nature will be best pleased either. So we let that ferment. Let them divide themselves, rather than unifying them against us.”
(The small voice - the one that remembered blood-red skies and the screams of dying draenei - naturally thought this whole thing hilarious, but she could endure its scorn, ignore its 'helpful' suggestions. Chalk it up as another necessary sacrifice)
The Commandant sighed, and nodded, seeming so much older than even his considerable years, smaller than his already-diminutive stature. “Why can't wars be fought with grace? Alright. Let's talk about what we can do....”
Seven flew against six times that number; the last flight of the Red Death and his aerial circus. The highest honour, so their Chaplain preached – to fall in the service of the High Kingdom. They had killed eleven. Reddawn and Heartforge would die as Aces (albeit unnamed), and Sungazer with her record for marking her book on every flight intact. It would have been an end to savour.
Except it was not the end.
One by one their enemies peeled away, with cries of horror and anguish on their lips. The horizon was aglow, an orange-yellow sunburst that might have been eternal summer welcoming her bloody children home, if not for the smoke, and the screaming.
She circled, high above the burning city, as the other Hawks descended into hell. A vengeful, blood-drenched spectre, shot through with purple-fletched arrows; an ungentle goddess, who answered their prayers for a minute more, just one minute more with the command to rise and save themselves first.
“This little one needs a healer. She's so weak... She's not – oh sun's mercy, she's not breathing!”
“You stay to heal her, you kill the others. Move, Heartforge.”
“Kiallen, bring her to m-”
“Belay that, Sungazer. Your duty's to your own payload. Fall back.”
“I can take more! I can-”
“Save the ones you have already, or burn alongside them. Those are your choices, Arowik, and I do not give you permission to burn today. Move!”
In three minutes they would reach the shoreline. In three and a half, the comms channel would explode in ragged sobs as Lorcanne cradled the tiny, smoke-stained body Kiallen handed her. They would hate her, curse her name, but they would be alive to do so. Tonight, they might wish it were otherwise; tomorrow, the wounds would begin to heal. In time, nothing but scar-tissue would remain.
War was no place for Good People.
Except it was not the end.
One by one their enemies peeled away, with cries of horror and anguish on their lips. The horizon was aglow, an orange-yellow sunburst that might have been eternal summer welcoming her bloody children home, if not for the smoke, and the screaming.
She circled, high above the burning city, as the other Hawks descended into hell. A vengeful, blood-drenched spectre, shot through with purple-fletched arrows; an ungentle goddess, who answered their prayers for a minute more, just one minute more with the command to rise and save themselves first.
“This little one needs a healer. She's so weak... She's not – oh sun's mercy, she's not breathing!”
“You stay to heal her, you kill the others. Move, Heartforge.”
“Kiallen, bring her to m-”
“Belay that, Sungazer. Your duty's to your own payload. Fall back.”
“I can take more! I can-”
“Save the ones you have already, or burn alongside them. Those are your choices, Arowik, and I do not give you permission to burn today. Move!”
In three minutes they would reach the shoreline. In three and a half, the comms channel would explode in ragged sobs as Lorcanne cradled the tiny, smoke-stained body Kiallen handed her. They would hate her, curse her name, but they would be alive to do so. Tonight, they might wish it were otherwise; tomorrow, the wounds would begin to heal. In time, nothing but scar-tissue would remain.
War was no place for Good People.
The Elf bristled as he stood in front of the Council, usually six others, himself being the Chairman, but today one of the Ranger-Lords had been drafted in to avoid a tie, he did not know which one, they were cowled for anonymity, he could tell they were male, and that was all. He was trying to keep his thoughts coherent, He had been stood ‘At Attention’ for two hours, but his major concern right now was his fliers. They had had to deploy without him, and that gnawed at him like a dog with a bone. It wasn’t that he doubted the Flight Lieutenants competence, quite the opposite. He had every faith in her.
He recalled an old poem, found in the personal effects of the Commandant before the last, before his predecessor.
‘For atrocities acts, I must take the blame,
The Skies hold no lustre for me anymore
I tried to fight War as the worlds noblest game
But there is nothing of a game in War’
‘Only the Brave’ our battle cry, uttered by lusty voices,
But the sun that shined in my eyes, is over, has shone.
Damned and ruined, by War’s cruel choices
You must be -me- when I am gone.’
Her suicide note, left under her hand, for her successor to find, his predecessor.
That was the Aerie way, for every rank, from Scout Hawk, to Commandant. You trained your replacement. You trained them to be You.
Commandant Autumnspire had penned those words, then drank poison. Poison rather than face a trial she was sure she would lose. He had often wondered, had they given her that choice? Take your own life, and you die with honour intact, or stand trial and be hauled over the coals and your reputation, your families, forever tarnished. For the dread sons and daughters of Quel’thalas had -long- memories…
If this Tribunal went bad for him, he had every faith that Yasmyr could be -Him- when he was gone.
The Ranger Lord was speaking.
“Commandant Summerisle, we have heard your account of events, we will recap.”
“Yessir”
“You do not deny undertaking the bombing of three Moonwells in Ashenvale?”
“No Sir”
“Explain again why?”
“It was a legitimate request given by the Horde commander in the field, as Air Commander I weighed the request, and deemed it a lawful One. The Moonwells were lawful military targets of succour to the enemy, and there was no risk of collateral civilian damage. The Comparison made by one of the Councillors earlier therefore is invalid, it was -not- the same as bombing a hospital, for a hospital is staffed in the main by civilians, and may be treating civilians, this was not the case. These were military facilities, surrounded by enemy combatants, who were armed, and fully able to defend themselves, as they did Sir”
The Ranger Lord’s cowl nodded and a note was written on parchment. Had he condemned himself?
“And...The ..’Incident’? Explain succinctly the chain of events there once more, that we may come to a conclusion”
Brigante sagged...he could still see the tormented and twisted bodies, the screams he could still hear, and the sheer cruelty behind it...it was brilliant, if you had the sort of mind that would allow itself to do it. Whoever had was either very well informed, or very clever, or just a sociopathic monster that happened to wear blue and gold.
“We were informed Sir, of an SI:7 encampment behind our lines, planning to strike at the Horde’s logistics chain, it was decided that it was a viable target, and so we flew to the location Scouts had seen, and commenced offensive operations”
The Ranger Lord held up a hand. “From where did this order originate, Commandant?”
Brigante swallowed, he desperately wanted some of the water in the carafe on the Tribunals table, but remained at attention.
“From myself Sir”
“From yourself.”
“Yes Sir, I was in Command of Horde Aerial forces, there was a legitimate target, and we needed to act quickly. I exercised my judgment, and as the highest ranking Horde officer in camp at the time, I made the call.”
The cowled figures remained silent for some time.
“What happened then?”
“I issued orders to Hawk Reddawn to initiate bombing when we located them, the rest of the Escadrille to provide cover as she did so. The Enemy were positively identifiable as Alliance covert soldiers, human, surrounding a map. Twelve of them Sir. Hawk Reddawn followed a lawful order given by her direct superior, there is no blame to be attached to her”
The hand was raised again “We are not here about her guilt, but yours. What happened then?”
Brigante winced “Sir, I...it was...not pleasant, may I take some water?”
The Ranger Lord gestured and he quickly filled a glass and swigged from it. Truth be? He’d have preferred something stronger.
He resumed his position of attention.
“An Illusion Sir. Ten of the targets were dead, only two left alive, Kaldorei.”
“Kaldorei? Soldiers?”
Brigante looked blankly ahead, “No Sir. Civilians. They were chained to the central position, and seemed to have been drugged in some way Sir, the only thing they could say is that they were taken from their homes by Alliance, and fed drugs, then shackled to this place”
“Did they say why?”
“No Sir”
“Yet you say you think you know why?”
Brigante closed his eyes, trying to forget the tormented voices over the communicators, Reddawns expression as she realised what she had done, and most personal of all, the sinking in his soul that still had not stopped, more than a thousand years of principles betrayed by trickery.
He nodded slowly.
“Speak up!”
“Yes Sir, I do.” He sagged, resting on his cane. “It was a trap, Sir. Not for our bodies, for no physical harm was there, It was a trap up here Sir” He tapped his temple with his free hand.
“We freed the captive civilians and took them to the nearest Alliance outpost, there to hand them over, We Have not, Do Not, and Will not….” He swallowed, remembering the twisted bodies rent asunder, and shook his head “We never will by our own Will or Devising War upon Civilians, Sir, no matter -Who- gives the order. Be they you or Warchief, I would defy it!”
“Bold words, Summerisle”
“Must I be meek when trying to justify what happened?”
“Perhaps not, but a little humility would not do you a disservice”
Brigante gritted his teeth and nodded, “Yes Sir”
The door clicked open, and a messenger from the Spire, their insignia plain upon their chest, entered, they walked swiftly over to the Cowled Ranger Lord, and spoke hurriedly into their ear, that elf then swore, before speaking loudly.
“This Tribunal is suspended, the Alliance have made their move, invasions have started across Lordaeron’s shores, the High Kingdom may well be next. Summerisle, you will grab your gear and meet with your Fliers and commence combat operations against the enemy.”
“Sir, am I innocent, or guilty?”
The Ranger Lord took some time, before sliding the key, the ring across the table, the one Brigante had been relieved of, the one that could unleash terrible things, and pointing at it.
“I honestly do not know. Do you?”
“Take that, perhaps you will find your answer there” He nodded at the Key.
“Sir, you cannot expect me to fight a war of invasion when I am under suspicion of the murder of civilians!”
The Ranger Lord barked harshly “I Can and I do, you will do your damned duty!”
Brigante took the Key, and slid it over his finger, it was like an ex-partner you still harboured feelings for, you hated them, but you loved them too. There was something so….seductive about the power it gave.
“And I my Lord? May I say -Nothing-?
The Ranger Lord sighed, “You may say two words, and two words only, in response to this question. They will be either ‘I Resign’ or ‘Yes Sir’, I ask you a second time. Will you go and do your damned duty, you pig-headed swine?”
Brigante rocked back on his heels. This is what Autumnspire had felt. He understood now, he was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. He thought about his Fliers….
“Yes Sir” He saluted crisply.
“Then get out, and Summerisle?”
He turned, mid stride to the door.
“Sir?”
“Good luck”
He recalled an old poem, found in the personal effects of the Commandant before the last, before his predecessor.
‘For atrocities acts, I must take the blame,
The Skies hold no lustre for me anymore
I tried to fight War as the worlds noblest game
But there is nothing of a game in War’
‘Only the Brave’ our battle cry, uttered by lusty voices,
But the sun that shined in my eyes, is over, has shone.
Damned and ruined, by War’s cruel choices
You must be -me- when I am gone.’
Her suicide note, left under her hand, for her successor to find, his predecessor.
That was the Aerie way, for every rank, from Scout Hawk, to Commandant. You trained your replacement. You trained them to be You.
Commandant Autumnspire had penned those words, then drank poison. Poison rather than face a trial she was sure she would lose. He had often wondered, had they given her that choice? Take your own life, and you die with honour intact, or stand trial and be hauled over the coals and your reputation, your families, forever tarnished. For the dread sons and daughters of Quel’thalas had -long- memories…
If this Tribunal went bad for him, he had every faith that Yasmyr could be -Him- when he was gone.
The Ranger Lord was speaking.
“Commandant Summerisle, we have heard your account of events, we will recap.”
“Yessir”
“You do not deny undertaking the bombing of three Moonwells in Ashenvale?”
“No Sir”
“Explain again why?”
“It was a legitimate request given by the Horde commander in the field, as Air Commander I weighed the request, and deemed it a lawful One. The Moonwells were lawful military targets of succour to the enemy, and there was no risk of collateral civilian damage. The Comparison made by one of the Councillors earlier therefore is invalid, it was -not- the same as bombing a hospital, for a hospital is staffed in the main by civilians, and may be treating civilians, this was not the case. These were military facilities, surrounded by enemy combatants, who were armed, and fully able to defend themselves, as they did Sir”
The Ranger Lord’s cowl nodded and a note was written on parchment. Had he condemned himself?
“And...The ..’Incident’? Explain succinctly the chain of events there once more, that we may come to a conclusion”
Brigante sagged...he could still see the tormented and twisted bodies, the screams he could still hear, and the sheer cruelty behind it...it was brilliant, if you had the sort of mind that would allow itself to do it. Whoever had was either very well informed, or very clever, or just a sociopathic monster that happened to wear blue and gold.
“We were informed Sir, of an SI:7 encampment behind our lines, planning to strike at the Horde’s logistics chain, it was decided that it was a viable target, and so we flew to the location Scouts had seen, and commenced offensive operations”
The Ranger Lord held up a hand. “From where did this order originate, Commandant?”
Brigante swallowed, he desperately wanted some of the water in the carafe on the Tribunals table, but remained at attention.
“From myself Sir”
“From yourself.”
“Yes Sir, I was in Command of Horde Aerial forces, there was a legitimate target, and we needed to act quickly. I exercised my judgment, and as the highest ranking Horde officer in camp at the time, I made the call.”
The cowled figures remained silent for some time.
“What happened then?”
“I issued orders to Hawk Reddawn to initiate bombing when we located them, the rest of the Escadrille to provide cover as she did so. The Enemy were positively identifiable as Alliance covert soldiers, human, surrounding a map. Twelve of them Sir. Hawk Reddawn followed a lawful order given by her direct superior, there is no blame to be attached to her”
The hand was raised again “We are not here about her guilt, but yours. What happened then?”
Brigante winced “Sir, I...it was...not pleasant, may I take some water?”
The Ranger Lord gestured and he quickly filled a glass and swigged from it. Truth be? He’d have preferred something stronger.
He resumed his position of attention.
“An Illusion Sir. Ten of the targets were dead, only two left alive, Kaldorei.”
“Kaldorei? Soldiers?”
Brigante looked blankly ahead, “No Sir. Civilians. They were chained to the central position, and seemed to have been drugged in some way Sir, the only thing they could say is that they were taken from their homes by Alliance, and fed drugs, then shackled to this place”
“Did they say why?”
“No Sir”
“Yet you say you think you know why?”
Brigante closed his eyes, trying to forget the tormented voices over the communicators, Reddawns expression as she realised what she had done, and most personal of all, the sinking in his soul that still had not stopped, more than a thousand years of principles betrayed by trickery.
He nodded slowly.
“Speak up!”
“Yes Sir, I do.” He sagged, resting on his cane. “It was a trap, Sir. Not for our bodies, for no physical harm was there, It was a trap up here Sir” He tapped his temple with his free hand.
“We freed the captive civilians and took them to the nearest Alliance outpost, there to hand them over, We Have not, Do Not, and Will not….” He swallowed, remembering the twisted bodies rent asunder, and shook his head “We never will by our own Will or Devising War upon Civilians, Sir, no matter -Who- gives the order. Be they you or Warchief, I would defy it!”
“Bold words, Summerisle”
“Must I be meek when trying to justify what happened?”
“Perhaps not, but a little humility would not do you a disservice”
Brigante gritted his teeth and nodded, “Yes Sir”
The door clicked open, and a messenger from the Spire, their insignia plain upon their chest, entered, they walked swiftly over to the Cowled Ranger Lord, and spoke hurriedly into their ear, that elf then swore, before speaking loudly.
“This Tribunal is suspended, the Alliance have made their move, invasions have started across Lordaeron’s shores, the High Kingdom may well be next. Summerisle, you will grab your gear and meet with your Fliers and commence combat operations against the enemy.”
“Sir, am I innocent, or guilty?”
The Ranger Lord took some time, before sliding the key, the ring across the table, the one Brigante had been relieved of, the one that could unleash terrible things, and pointing at it.
“I honestly do not know. Do you?”
“Take that, perhaps you will find your answer there” He nodded at the Key.
“Sir, you cannot expect me to fight a war of invasion when I am under suspicion of the murder of civilians!”
The Ranger Lord barked harshly “I Can and I do, you will do your damned duty!”
Brigante took the Key, and slid it over his finger, it was like an ex-partner you still harboured feelings for, you hated them, but you loved them too. There was something so….seductive about the power it gave.
“And I my Lord? May I say -Nothing-?
The Ranger Lord sighed, “You may say two words, and two words only, in response to this question. They will be either ‘I Resign’ or ‘Yes Sir’, I ask you a second time. Will you go and do your damned duty, you pig-headed swine?”
Brigante rocked back on his heels. This is what Autumnspire had felt. He understood now, he was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. He thought about his Fliers….
“Yes Sir” He saluted crisply.
“Then get out, and Summerisle?”
He turned, mid stride to the door.
“Sir?”
“Good luck”
“Summerisle's forces?”
“Starglow's forces. The Old Man isn't here”
Yasmyr was tired. Scratch that, she had passed tired several hours ago, before the Alliance bombardment scarred the coast with smouldering craters, long before the Escadrille had taken wing. Cloudkisser's keening cries as the handlers fussed over her (removing cracked armour, salving the raw patches where scale and feather had been torn from her wings) begged her to stay, elven forehead pressed to dragonhawk's, murmuring praise and apology in equal measure. A Hawk could have, even a Lieutenant, but the Commander? The Commander had their duties, had to be ready with both a cunning stratagem and an inspiring speech, had to rise above the petty concerns of lesser mortals like rest, and fear, and doubt...
“A shame; the Alliance are making their move towards Brill.”
“How long do we have?”
“Judging by the size of the Alliance forces? Not long at all.”
She hissed through her teeth, equal parts frustration at the unwelcome news and discomfort as the Flight Surgeon continued his work, pulling shards of shrapnel from her, searing each wound shut with a flicker of Light. The records would call tonight a victory: twelve fresh kill marks, twelve doughty warriors prevented from reaching the front. They would neglect to mention the cost. For that, she supposed, she should be grateful. It had been a joke at first – Wing Commander or bust!, a smug drunken boast and a softening of the burden of living up to Iolanthe's potential. Then they'd promoted her to Scout Hawk. Her rise was meteoric. Her fall, if she fethed this deployment up, would no doubt be equally swift.
“Has a fallback point been nominated?”
“Brill is the fall back point.”
“And if -fething hells man, why did I marry you? You're a butcher - and if Brill falls?”
“If Brill falls...we all fall... Summerisle had best come quickly, without air support this battle is already lost.”
… and there it was. The question she'd been fielding since they arrived in Lordaeron. It was one thing to gird herself in red and gold, to burden Cloudkisser with streaming banners and roar their battlecry as the Escadrille crashed against the Alliance flotilla. But filling Brigante's shoes was another matter entirely, and she'd seen too many downcast gazes, heard too many fearful voices ask if he'd fallen. She was so tired...
Aiechi pressed his hand to her shoulder, the familiar rush of duty and fervour flooding through her veins as her eyes flared, briefly, more gold than green. As ever, he had her five; as ever, she both loved and hated him for it. She turned to face the one asking, the unsettlingly predatory gaze of the professional flier raking over his glowing tattoos and bloodied glaives. “We don't need Summerisle...”
“Starglow's forces. The Old Man isn't here”
Yasmyr was tired. Scratch that, she had passed tired several hours ago, before the Alliance bombardment scarred the coast with smouldering craters, long before the Escadrille had taken wing. Cloudkisser's keening cries as the handlers fussed over her (removing cracked armour, salving the raw patches where scale and feather had been torn from her wings) begged her to stay, elven forehead pressed to dragonhawk's, murmuring praise and apology in equal measure. A Hawk could have, even a Lieutenant, but the Commander? The Commander had their duties, had to be ready with both a cunning stratagem and an inspiring speech, had to rise above the petty concerns of lesser mortals like rest, and fear, and doubt...
“A shame; the Alliance are making their move towards Brill.”
“How long do we have?”
“Judging by the size of the Alliance forces? Not long at all.”
She hissed through her teeth, equal parts frustration at the unwelcome news and discomfort as the Flight Surgeon continued his work, pulling shards of shrapnel from her, searing each wound shut with a flicker of Light. The records would call tonight a victory: twelve fresh kill marks, twelve doughty warriors prevented from reaching the front. They would neglect to mention the cost. For that, she supposed, she should be grateful. It had been a joke at first – Wing Commander or bust!, a smug drunken boast and a softening of the burden of living up to Iolanthe's potential. Then they'd promoted her to Scout Hawk. Her rise was meteoric. Her fall, if she fethed this deployment up, would no doubt be equally swift.
“Has a fallback point been nominated?”
“Brill is the fall back point.”
“And if -fething hells man, why did I marry you? You're a butcher - and if Brill falls?”
“If Brill falls...we all fall... Summerisle had best come quickly, without air support this battle is already lost.”
… and there it was. The question she'd been fielding since they arrived in Lordaeron. It was one thing to gird herself in red and gold, to burden Cloudkisser with streaming banners and roar their battlecry as the Escadrille crashed against the Alliance flotilla. But filling Brigante's shoes was another matter entirely, and she'd seen too many downcast gazes, heard too many fearful voices ask if he'd fallen. She was so tired...
Aiechi pressed his hand to her shoulder, the familiar rush of duty and fervour flooding through her veins as her eyes flared, briefly, more gold than green. As ever, he had her five; as ever, she both loved and hated him for it. She turned to face the one asking, the unsettlingly predatory gaze of the professional flier raking over his glowing tattoos and bloodied glaives. “We don't need Summerisle...”
i hope you dont mind me asking, but was this the event we stumbled across in brill today?
We were not in Brill this evening, so I would imagine that no.