Far below the bustling city streets, Nordrassil's roots created a cavern of sorts, a network of musty, earth-carpeted tunnels that twisted and turned upon themselves in a jubilant dance of pure bolstering strength. Far below was the new Well of Eternity, forever bound by the clasping hands and feet of Nordrassil, forever protected.
In these caves of twined wood above the Well lived mostly rodents and other woodland creatures who preferred the dank darkness that the tree's roots so satisfactorily provided: bats, and some birds, who feasted upon the many insect grubs nestled deep in the loam. It was here, within a small hollowed-out chamber, that a small group of night elves often congregated, their faces unseen and their voices unheard by the rest of Nordrassil's population.
"Kingsblood climbed to one gold yesterday," a young male presented with a grin. "And purple lotus to 50."
"Bah, herbs are out!" an elder exclaimed. "Cloth! Cloth and skins, I tell you!" His face, though unlined as Kaldorei always were, had a dozen scars about the brow, cheekbones, and jaw, nicks that had healed long ago, and now spoke only of the male's vast experience. He lifted a mug and downed some smuggled dwarven stout, an affectation that he stubbornly refused to give up, no matter the cost to his reputation. His irisless glowing eyes, dimmer than some, slowly scanned the room, taking in the multiple tables of haggling traders, and a pleased smile came to his lips.
He failed to notice the unabashed grimace of an adolescent female seated in the corner of the room, half her body cloaked in shadows. Many failed to notice her, for her movements were slight and precise, even her breath slowed to near motionlessness. She listened for about twenty minutes longer, and then stood with an annoyed sigh. Still frowning, she made her way across the room to stand before the elder male, chest heaving in indignation.
"So this is what the Talons have become!" she blurted without preamble. "Once a well-revered society of assassins, now merchant kings, growing old and fat and lazy while sitting on their piles of gold!"
The elder smiled up at her jovially and motioned to the empty chair beside him. "Come now, Tirasa, not the same subject again. What would you have us do, police the streets? Slit the throat of errant schoolboys who filch an apple?" His companions chuckled, and their attention made him grin widely. "Besides, the Wardens have everything under control."
Tirasa snorted. "The Wardens are corrupt, and you know it," she snarled.
Kythen shrugged and turned away a bit. "Well now, that is none of my concern."
"None of your concern! Malfurion chained his brother up beneath the earth, with a pack of obsessed, power-hungry harpies to watch his every move. That is none of your concern?!" Her eyes narrowed, which served to make the magenta markings across her cheeks grow larger, blood-red as they now appeared in the dim light. "You were there, Father." The title was flung out in sneering disgust, a tribute to the parenting skills he had shown her, his fosterling. "Surely you know that if the Talons had made use of Illidan's knowledge, the war would have ended differently."
The elder's cheeks darkened, and his jaw clenched. "Do not speak to me of the Betrayer in that manner, child! He is no hero, and is rightfully entombed." He raised his mug once again, this time pointedly at her. "Now, you may politely stay with us, or you may continue your ranting in another place."
All eyes in the room were upon her as Tirasa turned without a word and departed the room, sinking into the shadows.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Ah… come to keep your old father company?" Kythen remarked drily as Tirasa stepped from the doorway to stand before him. The other traders had left long ago, and, as was his way after their meetings, he had retired to a small corner alcove to record his journals and ledgers.
Tirasa swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as she watched his eyes slide hungrily over her form. After all the years of his abuse, she'd learned to mask her revulsion, yet, deep down, it never ceased to affect her. "Actually, I wanted to talk with you." She moved to sit across the table from him, donning a gentle smile. "I'm considering that you're right about why the original Talons failed, and I'd like to hear about it."
"Come to your senses at last, eh?" He brushed a finger over his lower lip. "Good. Now, what do you want to know?"
"Tell me how they died." Her gaze was steady, unwavering, without a hint of emotion.
Kythen sighed, pausing, his fingers drumming the table as he fought to prevent being overcome by sorrow. "Well, it was me, and Syla, and Litnas, and…" He coughed, and cleared his throat. "Bah, you know all that already. Pretty much the whole squadron was out there, once the head Tracker Dalric had told us where Illidan was going. Most of the time we watched him, made sure he didn't see us.
Illidan used some kind of cowing spell over the felhounds to bind them to his will. He must have learned some kind of demon magic from them, because every time one of us fought a felhound, well… let's just say it was a fight. Many times we thought that he would hear us fighting and know we were following him.
But he didn't, and the assassins Syla and Theras managed to get into the palace with him. They were the ones who wanted to embrace the fel magic, but the rest of us were against that, of course. I can't say what happened inside, because I was left outside to stand guard and relay news back to Lord Ravencrest. It was a long wait, before the rest of the force caught up to us. When they finally arrived, I found that Lord Ravencrest had been killed by one of Azshara's assassins. We were leaderless, and we had only instinct to act upon."
He paused, shaking his head, blinking furiously.
"You know the rest, Tirasa. There was a great battle, a vicious battle. The Well of Eternity was destroyed, and the Talons along with it. But I was there, on the shore, right when Illidan crept out to fill his vials with the waters. I knew I couldn't face him alone, so I began to move as far from the battle as I could."
Kythen leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "I survived. I was the only Talon who survived." Presently he bent forward again, this time with a proud smile, but looked about the room in confusion when he saw the chair in front of him empty.
"No, you' re wrong," Tirasa stated calmly as she appeared behind him, blithely drawing the cold edge of her dagger across his throat. "None of the Talons survived."
And as the night elf's indigo blood oozed slowly down, soaking and dyeing his fine linen shirt, Tirasa removed the ledger and papers he had been working on, replacing them with a set of her own. A ledger perfectly rendered, seemingly in Kythen's own hand, detailing the many ways he had fixed prices and swindled the traders of the very merchant empire he had founded.
My dearest love,
By my current reckoning, it has been several months since I last heard your voice, and felt your presence by my side, even as we were parted on most occasions due to our respective methods of hunting. You were always in my mind, and I in yours, something only a match of ten thousand years can accomplish. Bound together, yet shunned by our friends and families, we mourned, we laughed, we ate, slept, argued, reveled – in each other’s company alone. We hunted that which would destroy the world. We lived.
When we first met, I knew that your soul could someday be redeemed, and I gave up everything in a wild plea to make it so. Would that you could have ever known that other time, but it is best that you didn’t. You were the water to my air, the earth to my fire. You were my completion.
Our journey was at last at an end, our one great task that sent us spiraling high, consumed in a lick of flames. How cruel of the Timeless One to call in his debt at the very moment our souls would rest together eternally.
You are always with me. Your strength, your magical talents, your stubbornness. Even as I know, now, that I must kill you.
*tosses the letter into the fire with a tear in her eye*
Her head was pounding as she climbed the somewhat steep hill up to the tower. Whatever had been in Jarrax’s flask was definitely poisonous, for it burned in her stomach after she drank it, and it was still affecting her now. Not in a great way, of course, as she had only taken one slightly large sip, but enough to make her feel…unright. Out of sorts. She’d even slapped Taunus across the face for the simple reason of not finding any suitable food for her. And she felt slow to defend, should there come any unwanted attacks. Her brow furrowed. That’s what disturbed her the most. And how silly to even believe that the Legion would strike in obvious ways. Tirasa knew in her heart that the most unobvious and non-combative attacks were often the most effective.
At the keep’s entrance, the two assassin guards nodded to her, motioning for her to enter. The keep itself was dark save for only a few needed candles, as the hour was very late indeed. Or early. Depended upon which shift one was unlucky enough to get, Tirasa mused idly to herself. By the light of the moon she inspected the dress she wore. Still suitable, though still rather uncomfortable, when one is accustomed to being incased in skin-tight leather. Sighing fitfully, she entered the keep and made her way up the stairs to his chamber.
The guard at the chamber door smirked at her, and it took Tirasa all of her remaining willpower to prevent herself from wiping that smirk right off his face. Knocking in a precise pattern of staccato notes upon the door, she heard a voice call out sleepily. “Enter, Tirasa.”
Finding the door unlocked, she entered the darkened room and closed the door behind her. Laying her swords gingerly upon the top of a nearby chest, Tirasa then unfastened her robe, and it fell to a puddle at her feet before she sauntered to the bed.
She remembered the first time she had ever been to Ravenholdt Manor. She’d had no problems passing Fahrad’s initial test, but she had rankled at the sneers the other assassins had given her. Seems they wanted proof of her intentions, well, Tirasa couldn’t really blame them for that, even though petty pickpocketing was well beneath her. Still, they had become more friendly after she’d performed their menial task.
Tirasa had felt his eyes upon her as she had climbed the stairs to speak to Fahrad the first time, but she was accustomed to the leering stares of males across the realm from time to time, so she did not acknowledge him at first. But he was a blood elf, or high elf as the alliance-adhering ones were known, and so she approached him, her chin lifted in a petulant manner.
He smiled as she came near, but the smile never reached the corner of his pale eyes. He wasn’t a particularly handsome elf, though that was not because of the shape of his features, the mane of golden hair flowing down his back, or the sharp scar running down one pale cheek from temple to jaw. She sensed a coldness behind his stare, and immediately flashed him a thin smile in return. Very well, fellow assassin, she thought to herself, I’m listening.
Introducing himself as Myrokos Silentform, he continued enigmatically. “We are all pieces of a much larger puzzle, Tirasa. Just as you guide the piece of a puzzle to its destination, so too are we guided by another.”
“I work for no one but myself,” she countered with a smirk. “Are you still tied to the humans, then?”
Ignoring her jibe, he continued nonplussed. “And perhaps they who guide us are themselves guided by an even greater force.”
Tirasa chuckled. “Oh, you’re religious too? Tell me, do you pray to the Light or Elune?”
“Perhaps neither.” He smiled genuinely this time, which improved his looks considerably.
“A philosopher as well. Interesting.” She eyed him from his toes to the tips of his upwardly pointing ears. Or a spy of the Burning Legion…
He gestured to the two assassins flanking him on either side, and returned the perusal she had given him, his colorless irises lingering upon certain areas of her taut figure for effect. “We could withdraw to a more private place if philosophy truly interests you.”
Flushing in spite of herself, Tirasa nonetheless changed the subject. “Your presence in an obviously human guild of assassins interests me. I know what happened to most of your kind.” She snorted, her eyes narrowing.
Myrokos sighed and put a hand to his cheek dramatically. “Ah, a mystery to plumb. Whatever shall we do?”
Their gazes locked for a few long seconds, Tirasa’s heart pounding wildly, even as her body outwardly hinted at nothing of the sort. “I would hear more of this… philosophy, blood elf,” she responded finally.
With a low chuckle Myrokos escorted her up the stairs.
Follow-up from Jarrax is at http://www.talonsofravencrest.com/ShadowTalons/viewtopic.php?t=35
That they were insane was quite obvious. Every time they attacked one, he or she muttered something about being “tainted by the Scourge”, which was quite ridiculous.
Three of them stood chatting amongst themselves in an alcove filled with books, and Tirasa smiled as she caught the fleeting look of delight on Taunus’ face as his eyes scanned the library. Though these mad humans all wore robes, they had killed enough of them in their trek through the lengthy halls to deduce which were fighters and which were magic-users. Raelis was, as usual, cloaked in shadows, as she was, to her left, and she turned her face to him.
As the two assassins moved slowly forward to their respective targets without so much as a signal or word, Tirasa though it immensely strange yet incredibly gratifying that they had come to this level of attunement with one another. As their poisoned blades slid silently across two fleshy necks at precisely the same moment, it was a deadly ballet she and Raelis danced as their targets stood blinking in shock. Raelis moved to the third, a bald monk with a headband, as Taunus’ arrows rained down upon him, while she and Ithera, Taunus’ owl, finished off the mage before her.
“We are doing very well,” Raelis remarked as they searched the limp bodies. “Better than I expected.”
Tirasa chuckled. “Was there ever any doubt?”
He smiled and then slid back into the shadows, ably seeking out their next set of targets.
*********
A hint of morning light peeped through the tower’s thick glass windows, and Tirasa blinked and rolled over. Looking up, she witnessed the sun’s steady rise over the hillside, its affectionate fingerless rays turning the sky a florid blood red at its ascent, which then faded to a gentler shade of pink, to then disperse completely.
Turning over once again, her gaze met that of a steady colorless stare in a pale moonlike face. Awake and prepared at any sign of sleeplessness, was he. As any good assassin would be, Tirasa nodded to herself. Thoughts of the previous evening’s exploration with the Talons came soon to her mind, all the joy of their deadly journey through the monastery’s halls, and their eventual devastating defeat at the hands of the Scarlet Champion. She spoke, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“Myrokos, what do you know of the Scarlet Monastery?”
He smiled, and then smirked. “You haven’t been talking to the correct people, Tirasa. Information on them is easily found, if you know where to look.” His fingers came forward and brushed a long strand of violet hair from her brow.
Her eyes narrowed. “Very nice. I suppose I shall have to get some salt to massage you with.” She looked pointedly to the Quel’dorei’s chest, which was decorated with more than a few crimson stripes, still fresh and slightly oozing from scant hours before.
“I am quite familiar with those sort of tactics, night flower, and what you would do to me I would hardly consider torture.”
“You’re not going to talk.”
Myrokos merely blinked at her, his face serene.
“You’re despicable.”
He leaned forward and softly pressed his mouth to hers, his tongue sliding teasingly across her lips, and she responded in turn, vowing to herself to seek information elsewhere. Later.
She stretched for a long time, working out the kinks in her sore muscles from sleeping on such a tiny goblin cot. Not since she’d spent a night in the Westfall tavern had she taken such cramped quarters, but the effects of the deviate fish she had consumed made it necessary to bed down here in Ratchet.
“Heheh, you want something for a party, huh?” the goblin by the dock had advised the day before. “Go catch some a’ those yellow fish with red stripes. That’ll liven up your party, heheh!”
So, Tirasa, being the Artisan Fisherwoman that she was, spent a few hours in the Barrens, catching a pile of said fish in preparation for Mirk’s event. And then she would hand them out to whoever went with her when they arrived.
She knew it was a mistake when she watched Lamalas’ eyes roll back in his head. And then, before anyone could stop him, he was attacking Mirk! Of course, the tauren, not wanting to hurt the smaller night elf, tried to gently shove him away with a massive paw, but, as luck would have it, Lamalas reeled back for a moment, and then attacked again! Finally, he regained enough sense to move behind Corpang and Tirasa, the former holding him back from damaging himself any further, the latter applying bandages to his wounds.
The dwarf Corpang, however, reported that he did not suffer any effects whatsoever from the consumption of his fish. So, to test the theory that only night elves were so affected, Tirasa took a few bites from one, and felt a surge of glowing healthiness spread through her body, not unlike that which a druid could bestow upon her. But as soon as that wore off, her eyelids became very heavy. Very heavy, indeed.
She awakened to a large snout hovering scant inches above her face, and as she blinked, it receded, to be replaced by a copious quantity of reddish dwarven facial hair. She smiled at her worried companions, and then found that the sleepiness had passed just as quickly as it had arrived.
But now, here, pondering the next day’s dawn at the tavern in Ratchet, Tirasa felt that strange sluggishness again. Still, she gathered up her strength and shrugged into her leathers, folding up the black dress for some future time. What was this? It was nearly covered with off-white fur, some long, coarse black hairs scattered throughout. Perhaps Mirk was in his shedding season? She did hug him a lot last night during the event, enjoying his musky, smoky scent as she buried her face into his chest.
Testing the edge on her scimitars, she attached them to her belt and stood with a sigh. She knew what she had to do.
*********
Strangely enough, Tirasa was winded as she climbed the three steps into Ravenholdt Manor. Cursing the deviate fish again under her breath, she looked about the room. Yes, he was here, as usual, attending to business at a desk near the far wall.
“Myrokos,” she began without preamble as she approached him, “I won’t be coming to visit you anymore.”
He looked up at her briefly, and then resumed writing in the book in front of him. “I never expected to be the only one, Tirasa.”
She placed her palm down squarely upon the page that he was inscribing, effectively forcing him to look up at her once again. “Things have changed. I love him.”
Myrokos allowed himself a brief look of disgust before replying. “I see. If I had known you wanted a pet, night flower, I could have procured one for you. A gorilla perhaps.”
It was meant to be a slap across the cheek, of course, but it somehow had ended up being more of a punch. A dribble of blood appeared at the edge of the Quel’dorei’s mouth as his assassin guards quickly apprehended Tirasa and dragged her backwards away from him.
“Release her,” Myrokos commanded, dabbing at his lip with the back of one hand. “She is in love, and we all know how love pollutes one’s thoughts and actions.” Turning to the night elf, he flashed her a sugary smile. “Don’t we, Tirasa?”
“I will see you at the battle when Illidan returns to this world, Myrokos,” Tirasa spat before turning on her heel to depart. “And then, we will see which side kills you for your disloyalty first.”
((I'll post the original here first.))
*The letter is written on a tightly bound parchment, kept together with a thick seal of darkened red wax. The seal shows a single sword, held vertically in the circular design, a lightly embossed halo tilted against the middle of the blade - The symbol of High Chaplain of the Crimson Crusade*
My dear Brother-in-arms, I do hope this scroll finds you well. Outside of Stormwind the battle grows darker, yet there is always hope when bathed within the Holy Light. Other than the darkest reaches of the Scourge’s touch, I see us trouncing over the vileness everyday, a step closer to bringing us to our true place in the world.
It is humanity’s burden to rule with a fair hand, and we shall in time.
In that regard, the future must be looked into. How do we deal with land and creatures we will have dominion over? In that thought process, I will be compiling a series of scrolls. The goal of these chapters is to aid the young someday, for when they take up the mantle to rebuild the realm after we’ve achieved total victory.
--------------------------------------------------------
The Horde
A Study in Future Use
Part One: The Upright Bovine (Classified as ‘tauren’ by unknown parties)
After having encountered many of these creatures in my travels, one thing cannot be denied; these beings are physically powerful in a way that we cannot even comprehend. Once having thought they could be nothing more than rabid beasts, my opinion concerning the tauren has changed rapidity. Though the ‘warriors’ of their blood are mainly rabid, much like orcs. I have, however, noticed several I've meet in the wild were quite tame, docile almost. Mostly the female of their breed, as I've learnt.
This has brought me to an inquiry: When the conflict ends, and these creature's masters are defeated, why wipe the land of the beasts? Our domains have suffered horribly during the past. Acres burnt or corrupted; animals diseased beyond help. Lordaeron -it pains me to even put the name to parchment- is in total ruin. We must show compassion even after all this. Whoever is dressing these creatures in armor and clothing have some hold over them. Scourge magic, I am sure. Once that link is severed, these poor beasts of burden will need a true place in the kingdom of animals. The tauren, much as we've accomplished in the distant past, can be bred into a domesticated animal.
Now, I'm sure my theories will raise a few eyebrows. They are willful, yes; however, any beast will submit if a horsewhip is used enough. Will we have upright bulls hauling crates of barley in the next few years? Doubtful. This type of conditioning takes many years to complete. In the beginning stages they will need to be watched and disciplined liberally. Once the calves are born, they will be separated from the grouping to be fed by hand, teaching them their true place under humanity’s rule. The most we could hope for, is plowing of fields during the first generation, with the use of specially made harnesses for the beasts. I am no farmer, having grown up a blacksmiths’ son in Lordaeron, so forgive my lack of knowledge when it comes to agronomic terminology.
--------------------------------------------------------
Now, I am sure such a plan will work. Funding it is another matter, and one I will bring up in my next missive. Until them, may the Light bless us.
Chaplain Marethelm, Healer of the Faithful, Inquisitor of the Crimson Crusade
((I’m posting just to add some flavor to the forum, and some depth to my character. Of course, you’re free to post what you want; just don’t expect me to reply to it ICly (especially if you’re Horde. Two of the four races are mindless animals to Marethelm, not thinking beings that can have a conversation). I’ll be writing more. If this is well received, I will post them in the forums.))
http://forums.worldofwarcraft.com/thread.aspx?fn=wow-realm-argentdawn&t=12829&p=1&tmp=1#post12829
*********
Tirasa poked her fingers through the little wooden crate, making sure that the animal contained therein was still alive. She didn’t particularly like cats, preferring the canine animal type, but she knew that the Scout, Lamalas, would love this little white ball of fluff.
She sighed. Little Timmy didn’t really know how to take care of this creature very well, but, after all, he was human. The papers in the crate were soiled and smelly, and would have to be changed. And that kitten would need a very thorough bath, but that was certainly a task that its new owner would have to undertake.
Opening the cage and shielding the gap with her hand so the animal couldn’t escape, Tirasa pulled out the dirty papers and parchments, replacing them with some linen cloth she had collected in her travels. The kitten curled up into the linen immediately, and soon fell asleep, which prompted Tirasa to quickly address the crate and send it off to her friend.
As Tirasa made to dispose of the used kitten bedding, she noticed some writing upon one of the parchments. Apparently Timmy had used whatever he could find, and perhaps he couldn’t even read. She unfurled it and read, her features contorting in horror as the words became clear, even amidst the young cat’s feces.
Naturally the image of her love, the mighty and proud tauren warrior Mirk, came immediately to her mind. And the second thing that came to her mind was disbelief as to how the humans could be so incredibly ignorant, and so blind that they could not see what was presented directly before their pasty faces.
Tirasa had also just come back from Mulgore, where she had conducted an albeit novice study of the tauren ways from just beyond the tauren guard’s range of sight. She had always known that they were not beasts at all, according to the teachings of Cenarius that she had heard all her life. But spending time in Mulgore, smelling their smoking food, listening to their drums and chanting, beholding the many beautiful colors of their clothes and architecture, Tirasa had come away with a profound appreciation of the tauren society, if only a fairly shallow one. And of course it had made her love her proud warrior even more.
Tirasa immediately jotted off a request to Darnassus requesting a private audience with the High Priestess, and another to Archbishop Benedictus in Stormwind.
And then she penned another missive, heading then to SI:7 headquarters to have it delivered to this Crimson Crusade.
“My dear Chaplain Marethelm,
Your missive entitled “The Upright Bovine” has fallen into my possession. After reading it, I am reminded of how poorly humans are routinely educated. Indeed, either you have been an unfortunate victim of that system, or have completely forgotten that it was the Kaldorei who fought back the Burning Legion from Azeroth the first time they attempted to destroy it.
Furthermore, it is apparent that you have also forgotten that the Legion was again fought back by the Kaldorei the second time, along with the help of the orcs and the very “upright bovines” that you so detest. These are the very same “upright bovines” that have been blessed by those the Kaldorei worship.
Perhaps, then, before penning such tripe in the future, you should consider how the alliance would succeed against the Burning Legion without the help of the Kaldorei when they return to Azeroth.
I thank you for your attention to this matter.
Tirasa Moonwhisper
Commander of the Talons”
She watched mutely, her breath catching in her throat, her feet seemingly rooted to the earth. The mists shrouded them as if a living thing, swirling and sweeping above and around the ruins of the ancient temple. She knew she could leave, she knew that she wouldn’t be followed. For such was his trust, his love for her… or perhaps it was merely his arrogance.
Huge curving horns began to sprout from the smooth violet skin of his temples, ripping apart the flesh with a sizzle. Ligaments stretched and tore, joints popped, as once muscular legs became twisted and covered with coarse, rattily tufted hair, cloven hooves replacing graceful feet. He allowed himself a muted groan of agony as he embraced the fel transformation, Tirasa retching a few scant yards away.
She couldn’t breathe. Perhaps the magic had affected her, perhaps…
Jolting awake, Tirasa found herself on her hands and knees, completely disoriented, as was the usual aftermath of this terrible nightmare. A nightmare that she would be tortured by for the rest of her now-mortal life, the images forever burned into her mind. For she had been there when her Kaldorei mate had transformed, the visual representation of the finality of his choice. Despite his love for her, he had chosen to follow the magic of the Burning Legion, becoming one of the very satyrs that she reviled. The twin daggers of betrayal and abandonment still burned coldly through her heart as the dream faded, and she vaguely wondered if the wounds would ever truly heal.
Looking around finally, she found herself in a small bed in a small dwarven house in Ironforge, remembering now how she came to be there. It had been a long night, a night of celebration and ceremony… and she remembered now with a grin that the one she called mate was no longer a satyr. He was a tauren.
She had spoken the words of pairing to Mirk as they knelt, naked, bathed in Elune’s light at Forest Song. And he had said some words in Taurahe, which she assumed to be some kind of ritual as well. And then they had celebrated their love as only the newly-paired do.
Tirasa frowned as again the doubts crept in. What if he had been telling her something else? What if all of his crying and sighing was a sign of utter despair? He kept saying that he loved her, over and over, and saying goodbye. Well, she knew that he couldn’t stay with her, that wasn’t a problem. But what if he was not the male she thought he was? What if he was a completely dishonorable tauren, who had heard her vows and had lain with her under the stars, with no intention of claiming her as his mate?
Sighing and swallowing the pride that rose heatedly in her throat, she did what Valgard had suggested. Moving over to the small desk to her left, she retrieved parchment and ink, penning the most unemotional letter to Mirk that she could, asking the questions her heart needed him to answer. Signing it “with love”, she waited for it to dry, then folded it up and tucked it in her pocket to take to Booty Bay.
Of course it would take no small amount of gold to persuade Innkeeper Skindle to translate and deliver it for her, but she was prepared to put forth whatever he required.
His story is here:
http://forums.worldofwarcraft.com/thread.aspx?fn=wow-realm-argentdawn&t=27191&p=1&tmp=1#post27191
Tirasa looked up from stirring her pot of dragonbreath chili as a young Sentinel marched toward her. Her heart pounded as she noticed the girl’s face. Something was terribly wrong.
“There is a tauren warrior who came to Darnassus and called for you. The High Priestess insisted upon keeping his body in the temple after he was felled. Will you come?”
But Tirasa was already taking off at a sprint towards the gryphon master. “My love, what have you done?” she whispered to herself as her mount took flight, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Elune, Lady of the Night…” She shook her head and began again. “Lady Ysera, Dreamer… hear this humble Kaldorei, one whom your brother took pity upon once before. Keep Mirk, my mate, safe in your domain, I beg you. For the good of Azeroth…”
A high-pitched whine made Tirasa blink and look around frantically for its source. It took her a few moments of bag searching before she realized what it was: the emergency communication channel of SI:7.
The clipped voice of Matthias Shaw issued forth as she punched the special code into the device. “Lord Ravenholdt wishes to speak with you. I don’t think I have to tell you to hurry.” And the connection was severed.
It was a long trip to the Manor from Feathermoon, but Tirasa knew that she really didn’t have a choice. Kicking the hippogryph, she hoped that the Lord of the Assassin’s League would wait. And she hoped that the news he apparently had to give her was not too disturbing. She decided to be optimistic. Perhaps he had an assignment for her, finally. Yes, that had to be it. After all her work to unite those of the horde and alliance against the minions of the Burning Legion, Lord Jorach now thought her worthy of sharing information with.
*********
The assassins posted on guard saluted her as usual when Tirasa stepped inside the manor, but, looking around, she found the first floor empty. Thinking that this must be an important matter indeed, the night elf assassin mounted the stairs and headed toward Lord Jorach’s library.
She stopped midway on the second flight as Myrokos approached, apparently heading down the stairs. She nodded to him and made room, but he simply slipped by her without so much as a word or gesture of greeting, a somewhat smug smile upon his thin lips.
Strangely enough, the library was deserted as well. No assassin guards joined Lord Ravenholdt at the table at which the graying human sat, a few folders of parchment spread out before him, no guards were posted in the adjoining room, either, as far as she could see.
The human looked up as she entered the room, stood, and bade her come near. He did not gesture for her to sit down, nor did he make to take his seat again either. Tirasa bowed respectfully, and he nodded, then picked up one of the folders, holding it casually in one hand without opening it.
“Tirasa, news of your predicament has reached me, as surely you must know,” he began gently.
The Kaldorei’s heart pounded in her chest as she nodded mutely. Certainly Lord Ravenholdt didn’t concern himself with personal matters, did he?
He continued, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I congratulate you on your… er, wedding, is that it? Forgive my human terms. In any case, I am also truly saddened by the recent events concerning your husband.”
“Mate,” Tirasa corrected. “With Elune’s grace, he shall rise again and return to his brethren soon, my lord.”
The human merely grunted and flipped open the folder in his hand. “Before I continue, I will say that I consider you a strong woman and your squadron an asset to Ravenholdt. Keep this in mind as you peruse these images.” And he passed the folder into her waiting grasp.
Tirasa took the folder while studying Lord Jorach’s face for any clues as to what this could be about. However, she needn’t have bothered, as his features were as impassable as a stone wall. Examining the contents of the folder finally, Tirasa felt her breath grow thin and her knees go weak. For there before her, in her hands, were photographs, no doubt taken with the Super Snapper FX, photographs of Mirk, in various situations and positions, involving various females of almost every race. They all had dates stamped on them, courtesy of the device, and some were as recent as the day before his charge into Darnassus.
Myrokos was suddenly there behind her when her legs did give out, the Quel’dorei’s wiry arms encircling her and keeping her from crashing to the floor. Turning to him with a sneer, Tirasa righted herself, snapping the folder shut. A coldness spread through her body, starting in the center of her chest and then fanning out, a coldness that she had welcomed before, so long ago, after she had witnessed the demonic transformation of her Kaldorei mate. And so, this time, the daggers of betrayal glanced off the ice that now encircled her heart.
“Your reputation is important to us,” Lord Ravencrest stated simply, though his gaze was sympathetic. “An assassin’s proficiency must be pure… her actions… pure.”
Tirasa nodded slowly, gritting her teeth.
“Now is an important time for us. I cannot say if both Horde and Alliance will join forces against attacks on this land by the Burning Legion and others, but we at Ravenholdt serve the leaders of both factions. We will not allow either to take any inappropriate steps against the other. Am I clear?”
“Very,” she stated softly, taking a deep breath.
Lord Jorach nodded again with a half-smile to Tirasa, and then glanced at Myrokos, who was standing silently behind her. “That having been said, there are some that we have been tracking for some time that have just recently shown their intentions against the Alliance.” He sighed. “This, of course, happens routinely on both sides. It is regrettable that we must take action, but it is necessary in order to keep control. My associate will inform you of the details of this mission should you choose to undertake it.” The human gestured to Myrokos and then nodded at Tirasa in dismissal.
The high elf simply turned and headed back down the stairs without a word. Tirasa bowed to Lord Jorach, then followed the blond male to his desk, twin emotions of pride and despair rising in her stomach.
Once seated, Myrokos gestured for her to do so, something he had never once done before. Although part of her longed to wipe that smug self-satisfied smirk off his lips, another part of her reveled in the fact that he now considered her his colleague. He proceeded to slowly and patiently explain to her the nature and whereabouts of her targets, and when their eyes finally met, it was for a long moment. All of the targets were tauren.
******
The Temple of the Moon was filled with soft chanting and unearthly light, as usual. Priestesses and novices alike shot Tirasa sad and sympathetic looks as she passed by, on her way to the High Priestess’ private apartments.
Tirasa had told them it was not necessary to trouble Tyrande herself with this visit. Truth be told, she did want to be with Mirk alone this last time, and pray for him.
He lay amidst snow-white sheets, shimmering with interwoven moon magic. His pale fur shone with an inner light in sharp contrast to the darkness of his mane and beard, and Tirasa remarked to herself that he looked almost angelic in repose. Somewhere, she knew, his spirit wandered, waiting, hoping for resolution.
She knelt at his side, and reached out a hand to stroke one of his velvety ears. Exactly one tear fell from her eye, splashing the pinkness of his snout, before she abruptly rose, a shiver passing through her.
Her booted foot caught Mirk sharply against his ribs. One word escaped Tirasa’s lips as she turned and stalked from the room. “Rot.”
Once out of the temple, she urged her nightsaber to the teleporter. Smiling venomously, she checked the poison supply in her bags. Her next destination was Mulgore, which was fortuitous, since she knew her way around there fairly well. And she had been there recently in her dreams…
Once safely back in Feathermoon Stronghold, Tirasa wearily climbed the stairs and flopped down on one of the available empty beds. Tonight’s expedition had been worrying, and tiring, and not at all successful.
She and Taunus had met at Aerie Peak, both armed with a genuine gnomish Super Snapper FX, both charged with grabbing a photograph of the elusive giant turtle Gammerita.
Things had been fine until they reached the giant waterfall that fell from cliffs high above the ocean. Carefully they edged their nightsabers near the edge, for their prey was a sea turtle, and was most probably down on the shore. And then Tirasa heard a big splash down below, realizing that Taunus had gone over the edge of the cliff. Taking a deep breath, she followed.
Too late, she realized that she should have been paying more attention to Taunus’ technique. The Spirit Guardian loomed over her wisp form once again, and with a wisplike sigh, she made her way back to the cliffs, going over without fear. It was there that she found her body, lying broken on the rocks, indigo blood oozing from a fatal head wound.
The two Kaldorei searched the beach after that, but Gammerita continued to elude them. Feeling exhausted and more than a little cranky, Tirasa had used her hearthstone to return to Feathermoon.
Sleep came easily and immediately. In her dreams, Tirasa relived the moment of going over the cliff, but… differently…
A few moments of falling, and then… soaring. The wind whistled around her ears, she was gaining speed, yet felt utterly weightless. Golden rays of sunshine surrounded her, she was flying upwards, ever upwards… towards the sun, the bright fiery ball stretching its arms out to her, but, oddly enough, she was not burning. She heard whispers, and a female voice singing and cajoling, almost a lullaby. “Can you feel the waves of life? Can you hear the sigh of love? Do you believe in it…?”
Then the pounding of drums, the shaking of rattles. And tauren chanting…
http://www.travellersofworlds.com/Talons/FollowingTheSun.wma
*********
The smell of sweet grass assailed her nostrils and she blinked, finding herself amidst a tauren village, sprawled out under a tree, naked and alone. But, in her hand, a communication device.
Surely, what a strange dream… she was naked, but held a communication device? And then she caught sight of her hand, for she did not see the slender Kaldorei fingers of an indigo hue. Panicking, she clicked on the device, jabbering frantically in Darnassian.
Follow-up from Dreamwalker is at http://www.talonsofravencrest.com/ShadowTalons/viewtopic.php?t=133
It seemed that she was drawn to this place lately, with its brooding, thick sky and withering leaves. Picking over the rocks carefully, Tirasa made her way through the ruins and to the cliffs edge. Standing in the light of the fading sun, one leg propped up cavalierly on a nearby rock, she peered out eastward over the restless sea.
The tips of once-majestic marble towers peeked out from under the tumultuous waves, reflecting the burnt orange coloring of the sunset-laden clouds above. From here, the water was gray… a deceitful, dense gray… a gray of lies, of history unfolding yet undone… a gray of many things.
Tirasa glanced to the south, to a high promontory. The monument to Ravencrest wasn’t where she’d remembered it. And the toppled statue itself – it was female. Strange, that. Lord Kur’talos had definitely been male. And he’d had no family that she’d known about. She wondered who, in fact, had placed this marker on the map she’d found in Darnassus. And she wondered when… when, in this time, that it had all unraveled. What exactly had happened during this War of the Ancients, where she had not been involved? Where had Illidan gone, if not with she? But there was no way of knowing, and she was tired of raising suspicion every time she spoke of Illidan. This world just wasn’t her world… wasn’t her place… wasn’t her… time.
Cursing under her breath, Tirasa’s narrowed eyes searched the horizon once again for some sort of clue. Certainly, eastward was the way she must go, the way all the Kaldorei must go, eventually, for there were many secrets to be had in the realm of Azshara and her naga. If, indeed, that still held true in this time. She smirked, and then a twinkle below caught her attention. It came from an island not too far from the beach. An island she had visited a few times already. She made her way down.
Emerging from the water, she ran her hands over her leather armor to squeeze out some of the moisture. Wringing her waist-length violet hair in her hands, she tossed it over one shoulder, and smiled at the few figures before sauntering forward. Ever the watcher, she knew, and his guardians ever the sniffers.
The assassin commander of the Talons bowed to the humanoid figure respectfully, her eyes guardedly taking in the bare well-muscled chest and the grim determination of his chiseled features. She thought him a fine specimen indeed, but she did not think of him as simply another male, oh no.
“Ishnu alah, Loramus.” Tirasa gestured to the sun slowly sinking below the watery horizon. “I take it this dying day has found you well?”
He turned to her with a slight frown, his head tilting towards her. If he had had eyes, she was sure that he would have looked her over dismissively. “What do you want of me, mortal? I have given you the weapon, yet you have not yet defeated Razelikh.”
Tirasa snorted. “Surely you must know that I cannot face the demon alone. I wait to gather a suitable group of companions.” She smiled silkily. “I simply wished to stop here to bid you a good eve.”
A grunt was all she received in reply, and she studied his face once again, the flat expanse of his forehead, the stark curve of his cheek below the blindfold he wore. “Loramus… you can ‘see’ me, can you not? What do I look like to you?”
Pausing for a moment, he inhaled slowly, presumably deciding if he would answer her or not, and then began. “You are a Kaldorei female, adept at surprise attack.” He shrugged and closed his mouth.
Tirasa simply waited.
A few long moments passed, and Loramus sighed, rubbing his chin. “You are… you are covered from head to toe in a glittering bronze dust, and you leave it upon your footprints. There are… several places, however, where it appears as if it has rubbed off.”
The assassin inhaled sharply. He knew. He… knew. A momentary panic gripped her heart and she shuddered, and then, just as quickly, resumed her pure emotionless mask, and then a slight smile curled around one corner of her mouth. “Show me where it has rubbed off.”
He stepped forward and raised his hand to her face. “There,” he muttered, touching her temple. “And there,” he continued, his fingers brushing her cheekbone. “And…” He hesitated.
Quickly she grasped his wrist and forced his thumb to her lower lip. “There?”
Loramus snatched his hand away and took a step backwards, his jaw clenched.
“Do you think there are other places as well?” Tirasa chuckled. “Perhaps you can show me those?”
His face remained impassive and he did not reply.
Regarding him evenly, she began in a sympathetic tone. “I know of your order. Surely you must feel that. I am not afraid of the force that resides within you.”
“I sense some familiarity, yes. But it is odd when coupled with your other … strange effects.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you have read about my order, but I doubt you truly understand.”
Tirasa threw back her head and chuckled wickedly. “My mate was a Demon Hunter, Loramus, before he died upon Nordrassil. I am not disgusted by your leathery skin, your empty eye sockets, the shimmering evil of your tattoos, nor the rage that you continually struggle to keep in check.” She sighed and bowed her head. “If anything, I am… humbled by your sacrifice.”
He nodded slowly and bestowed something of a smile upon her.
Her voice shaking a bit now, Tirasa continued. “I have… many… memories, Loramus. Memories that are…” She sighed and grimaced. “…breaking me, for lack of a better word. Your presence, it pulls me here. I…” She faltered, no more words coming from her slightly trembling lips.
Sighing gently, he caught her arm. “I will help you. Come.”
“…and that is my story. Do you understand?”
They were sitting at a small table, hewn from a complete tree stump, the remains of a meager but satisfying meal spread out between them. Crystals of a reddish-orange hue glowed in a few places about the room, which was a hollowed cave of sorts. Not cramped by any means, but certainly neither could it be called grand.
Loramus had led Tirasa into a secret door within the small passage that existed upon his island. Down a narrow channel they had gone, heading back in a westerly direction. Eventually this opened up into a series of rooms, once obviously part of the Kaldorei ruins on the surface, which the Demon Hunter had made into his living quarters. It was comfortable, but very dark. However, Tirasa found the underground warm spring delightful. That is, until Loramus’ felhounds had decided to join her.
She sat at the table enfolded into a dark red silken robe that he had given her, open down the front but tied about the waist with a wide sash. Loramus himself had carefully put aside his curved swords and removed the meager armor about his upper body, but wore the same kilt, as he had hastily declined her offer of a shared bath.
He nodded slightly in response to her question, his chin resting upon his steepled fingers, his elbows resting on the table before him. “I do have a theory. You said that you were present when Illidan consumed the Skull of Gul’dan. And that you should have died on Nordrassil beside your mate at the hands of Archimonde.”
“Yes, but neither of those events happened in this time! They do not affect this world, so how am I affected by them if I am here now?” Tirasa groaned. She’d hoped that Loramus, at least, might be able to help her with this ennui she’d assumed lately. Even her closest lieutenants, the ones who knew her story, had commented about the changes they’d witnessed in her. She’d been short of temper, driven to fits of emotionality, and also rather maudlin. “And besides,” she fretted, “how do I know those things even happened at all? For all I know, Nozdormu could have placed these memories in my mind, or both of those other times could have been constructs.” She rubbed her temples.
“No. I am quite sure that what you remember actually happened… sometime, somewhere. Only the Timeless One understands it completely, no doubt.”
She leaned forward, smirking.
“Why, you ask. Because, the scent of those demonic powers, so to speak, is still quite strong upon you. And, I believe, the Burning Legion is attempting to draw your consciousness back through it.”
Frowning, Tirasa crossed her arms over her chest. “That is disgusting. However, I have no reason to disbelieve you.” She bowed her head. “Can you sever these ties, so to speak, and, if so, how do you propose to do it?”
“You are so sure? You have made up your mind? Perhaps if I tell you that there is a danger…”
“No. Do it. What do you need?”
Loramus exhaled sharply at her apparent lack of concern for her safety. “Some of your blood will help me to determine what course of action to take.”
“Hmm… any blood?”
He tilted his head in confusion.
Coloring slightly, Tirasa continued, clearing her throat. “My cycle is upon me.”
Loramus nodded and smiled. “Very good. The blood of your female center is the most powerful.”
She shook her head. “What? You’re telling me that the blood from a woman’s sexual organs is more powerful than the blood that pumps through her heart? You must surely be mistaken.”
Now it was Loramus’ turn to chuckle. “If we were arguing philosophy, I would certainly agree with your point of view. However, my powers have taught me much that holds true in practice, rather than simple theory. The female holds the power of the creation of life. That is one of the most powerful energies in the universe. Surely you cannot deny that.”
Tirasa snorted. “I think you’re forgetting your biology, Loramus. It takes both male and female to create life.”
“Ah, but the spark of creation quickly dies without the lifeblood of the female to nurture it until birth, yes? Now, could you…” He stood and began to move toward another room. “Bring it to me and I will perform the ritual. The cloth will do.”
Loramus returned to the main room with a deep scowl etched across his features. “It is as I had feared.”
Tirasa looked up from the book she was reading and regarded him calmly. “What do you have to do?”
“These… energies are not just upon your surface. They are deep, deep within you.”
She shrugged. “So take them out.”
He frowned at her with impatience. “Have you so little disregard for life that you would throw your own away with so little deliberation? What of your squadron? What of those who need you?”
“You mistake my resolution for disregard. I… cannot continue in this way. Would that I had died on Nordrassil. Perhaps you can release me in this way.”
Loramus’ voice became sharp. “I do not seek to ‘release’ you. ‘Releasing’ you in such a way would strengthen the Legion. You were brought here for a purpose, and I shall not go against the will of the Timeless One.”
Looking down at the table for a few moments, she traced the lines of the wood's grain with one finger before looking up at him again. “I will take the chance.”
He shook his head. “There is more. The coating of the sands of time that is upon you… it is keeping these energies in. I must… reach inside to draw the demon power into myself. I must find a crack in your armor, so to speak. And then, your skin, and perhaps… your organs.”
Tirasa glanced at Loramus’ curved blades, cradled lovingly in their rests upon a shelf. “I have been wounded in battle before. You could do no worse.”
“Very well. You are ready to begin?”
She nodded and stood. The Demon Hunter retrieved one of his swords and held it gracefully in his right hand. He motioned to a wall on the far end of the room that was fairly well-lit, and she moved to stand near it in the umber light.
He advanced on her, and she untied the robe, parting it as she watched his sightless gaze move over her body. He moved closer, and forced her face up to his as he pressed his forehead against hers.
A searing pain tore through her right side and she gasped against his cheek, her eyes closing as she fought to stand. And then, she felt his fingers in the wound, probing gently, brushing up against her very ribs… then deeper. Her breath caught a bit, and then she felt a drawing… a pulling… as if her organs, her muscles, her bones, all had been turned into one long string, that was being slowly pulled out of her skin. She grunted in pain, not knowing how long she would have to endure such unnerving sensations.
He was panting against her cheek now, and then, suddenly, a whispered, “It is done.”
But still he did not release her, and she opened her eyes. Feminine instinct took over, and she licked his upper lip, so close to hers. “Take me,” she whispered huskily.
“Are you sure?” came his whispered reply.
“Yes.”
Tirasa felt herself being lifted against the wall, and then, suddenly, a taloned claw raked her jaw and neck.
******
Gently she was lowered to her feet on the floor, and she looked sleepily upon her lover, the pain of her wounds forgotten for the moment. He swept up his kilt quickly and refastened it around his waist, and Tirasa thought to herself that perhaps she merely imagined the transformation of his hands into demonic clawed limbs.
And then, a wave of pain and exhaustion washed over her, and she fell back against the wall, still on her feet, her knees wobbling. Loramus was there beside her immediately, pressing runecloth bandages to her side and jaw. A gasped “I… I…” fell from her lips, but no other words would come out.
Loramus cursed suddenly through gritted teeth, and she started. “I will have to reknit the flesh of your side,” he muttered, “but your face is healed.”
Looking down, in the dim light Tirasa only saw what looked like a river of blood upon herself, Loramus, and the floor below her, though it looked like it was starting to dry. “I can’t… see,” she replied, and he glanced around, then slowly led her into another room, to finally stand before a mirror.
There was a scar on her face. Starting just above the edge of her jaw, it was practically unnoticeable until she tilted her head back. The rest of it snaked down her neck, almost to the opposite shoulder, another scar about half as long beside it. She frowned. In all her battles, she had never received a scar. Runecloth usually healed completely.
But her bewilderment suddenly evaporated as she took in the wound on her side. It started just in front of her armpit and traveled down the length of her torso, nearly cleaving her right breast in two. There was no blood, but it gaped like an open maw, her ribs showing brightly white through the tattered flesh.
She gagged, and her knees finally gave out.
******
“So I am to remain here? I certainly hope you have a lot of books for me to read.” She moved to sit up, and her side ached, but not nearly as much as she would have expected it to.
Loramus quickly appeared in the doorway and sat down upon the bed beside her. “I have done what little else I could do this eve, but you should be able to go about your business if you are bound tightly. And return to me each night so that I may work upon the wound again.”
“Why can’t I just take a potion or seek out a priest?” Tirasa responded grumpily.
“I believe you know the answer to that.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face. “Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “Just sleepy. Loramus…? How… how easy would it have been for you to kill me? To simply squeeze the life from me, crush me like a grape.”
He remained silent, his face turned to hers as if looking deeply into her eyes.
Chewing her lip, she nodded. “I see. Very well, I shall attempt to carry on, and return to you until you can seal this hole in my side. Is there anything else I should know? And… am I beholden to you now? I think perhaps I am in your debt.”
Caressing her cheek with one hand, his fingers lightly traced the scar across her neck. “Only that my hope is that you remain well, Tirasa. And that you do not become my enemy as so many of the Kaldorei have.”
She reached up and clasped his hand. “Have no worries of that, my friend. Perhaps in the future there may be some of my squadron who will wish to learn your secrets to take up battle as you have. For, now that most idiots have chosen to war with the Horde, I feel we have not many left who would stand against the Burning Legion.”
Azshara’s falling, withered leaves look somehow vibrant today, Tirasa mused to herself as she guided her nightsaber through the ruins of Eldarath and onward towards the switchback that would take her down to the beach. She yawned. True, she hadn’t slept much, perhaps her vision was still nearly clouded with sleep. She shrugged, and then sighed.
The evening with her new lover had exceeded her expectations. Physically, that was, for the emotional void that filled Tirasa’s every waking moment had only been widened by the contact. Widened and then contracted, like some bizarre iris into the darkness. It was as like two vampires trying to feed off one another… at once satiated, and then once again ravenous. Such was his internal anguish that it mirrored hers, and she wasn’t quite sure yet if this was a good thing or a bad thing.
As she neared the shoreline, her silvery eyes caught sight of a squat reddish-black shape running at full four-footed speed along the beach in her direction. It was Rataf, she deduced quickly, one of Loramus’ felhound guardians. It bounded up to her and placed its spiked maw around her ankle in a friendly gesture, only letting its teeth brush her leather boot.
Dismounting, she stared at the foul beast, at a loss as to how to try to comfort such a creature. Tirasa had never been much for animal husbandry, indeed, her nightsaber mount she barely tolerated. Her black king snake amused her, but only because it did not make any demands on her, affectionate or otherwise. The dark dragon whelpling was there, in its tiny cage, for her to take out any aggression upon. And so, the night elf assassin found herself caught between her devotion to Loramus, and her distaste of creatures in general, especially fel ones.
And then she heard it. Or, rather, felt it. It was as if a brutal wind suddenly buffeted her and forced her back a few paces, and yet the trees on the cliff above remained perfectly still. A powerful wave of energy had been unleashed, and it was coming from the direction of the island near which Loramus made his home.
Instinctively slipping into the shadows, Tirasa took off at a sprint towards the disruption. Rataf bounded ahead, as if understanding her need for concealment. An unearthly roar sounded in the near distance ahead, followed by another, and then the clashing of weapons. And then, a sound that stopped her dead in her tracks.
“FOOL! At last we have found you!” The ensuing low chuckle sent shivers up Tirasa’s spine. It had been millennia since she had heard such a voice, and her heart pounded in her chest. Loramus…
Continuing forward, a horrific scene suddenly spread out before her. The corpses of six doomguard lay on the beach near Loramus’ island. Three more now battled the Demon Hunter, who was a whirlwind of glowing warblades. He fended them off easily, his two other felhound guardians, Shatllar and Zaman, joining in the fray.
Looking ahead, Tirasa saw three more doomguard marching in from the south, perhaps a score of satyr, and a few naga accompanying them here and there. But that alone did not strike fear in her heart.
Commanding the onslaught of the doomguard a few yards away could only be a Dreadlord, yet the illogic of a Dreadlord’s presence in Azeroth screamed through her mind. The portal wasn’t open! How was he here?!
Tirasa watched as more enemies descended upon Loramus. He appeared to be tiring, but his face… he wore a determined and mocking grin. Certainly he didn’t think he could go up against all these doomguard, satyr, naga, as well as a Dreadlord? But then, suddenly, he raised his hand towards three of the satyr, and a bolt of white fire shot out, sending them charred and smoking to the ground almost immediately, resuming his deadly warblade dance a split second afterwards. And then it dawned on her.
Loramus didn’t know the Dreadlord was there. Again her mind screamed fallacy. He had demon sight! How could he not see?!
An evil peal of laughter roused Tirasa from her cloud disbelief. “Feel the wrath of Dagiron, mortal!”
The Dreadlord charged, and, from behind him, and in the shadows, Tirasa did the same. Bringing down her swords upon the thick bluish hide of Dagiron’s back, she winced as they merely glanced off with a fleshy bounce. The monster turned on her, one shaggy eyebrow raised, and threw back his great horned head to laugh.
Dark swirling energy appeared around the demon, which he gathered like so much wool from the air, and directed it straight at Tirasa’s chest.
Pain exploded through Tirasa’s mind as she found her body floating a few feet in the air, her back arched, a tortured scream echoing from her lips. Soon a red-gold light of energy began to seep from her chest into the Dreadlord’s waiting hand, and he licked his lips.
With unabashed horror she watched her life essence slowly being drained from her, and she closed her eyes as the landscape of Azshara gradually faded, to be replaced by a pit of belching fire. As a slave of the Burning Legion, her soul would know an eternity of conflagrating torture.
Her last whisper was a half-mad prayer to Elune.
*********
A dark red light was her field of vision. Funny, she didn’t feel any pain. Was her soul protected, even in this place? Had the Moon Mother aided her in this way?
“You awaken. Good.”
Tirasa literally jumped at the familiar voice, and then wondered that her formless soul could startle. And then, she felt a hand on her forehead.
“Be at peace, Tirasa. Your senses will return to you shortly.”
“Loramus! How is it that our souls ended up in the same place?!”
A short snort of amusement sounded in the other’s voice. “You passed out just before you could watch me save the world.”
Tirasa blinked, and then struggled to sit up, but found that she had no more strength than that of an infant. But she could still smirk. “You sound like Illidan.”
“Do I? Or is it that you merely wish me to?”
Suddenly, uncharacteristically, Tirasa wailed. “Loramus, stop! I am… I…” Her voice rose in pitch as she began to panic.
A cup was brought to her lips. “Drink.” The nectar did help her vision clear, and she saw the comforting shape of Loramus, seated on the edge of the bed next to her. But still, she was weak. She pouted.
Loramus sighed. “I could not return your essence to you in entirety, as Dagiron still held quite a bit of it when I slew him. You will have to return to Shadowglen to retrain, I’m afraid.”
Struggling, Tirasa managed to scoot herself up into a semi-seated position. “Sh-shadowglen? I am…?”
“Consider yourself a novice.”
Stunned but for a moment, Tirasa quickly gathered her thoughts. “How will I get there from here?”
“Leave that to me.” The Demon Hunter’s tone softened. “I do have a gift for you.” At the snap of his fingers, what looked like a small, pinkish felhound scampered into the room, jumped onto the bed, and perched itself onto the stomach of a now horrified Tirasa. “The Legion summoned these beasts from the nether some time ago. I believe they are what was used to create felhounds long ago.” He paused. “Tirasa, it is your friend.”
“Ugh! It’s disgusting.”
Unfazed, Loramus continued. “It is called a Zergling. Do not worry, it does not eat, it simply absorbs energy from its surroundings.”
“Why are you giving this… thing to me?”
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I will not see you for some time, Tirasa. This creature will warn you when there are fel in the vicinity. Rest now, and I say my farewell.” He rose, bowed, and then stepped out of the room.
“But…!” And she fell back against the pillow, falling soundly asleep, the drug in the nectar apparently doing what it was designed to do.
THREE DAYS LATER
Tirasa strolled the dusky sands of Darkshore, head down, her eyes barely taking notice of her surroundings. Her head pounded mightily, and she owed that to the copious amounts of Darkmoon Ale she had downed all at once the night before. She’d heard mention later of herself dancing with an orc and tickling him tremendously, but she hadn’t remembered that. She wondered what else she had done that she couldn’t remember.
She sat down suddenly and removed her boots, jabbing her bare toes into the chilly spray. Waves of desire still flowed through her veins like rivers of magma as she thought of the infuriating male, and she gritted her teeth. There was really nothing she could do about that. He had to make things so difficult, fretting and theorizing, why couldn’t he be like the others? He both repelled and attracted her at the same time. It was better, yes, that she didn’t see him anymore. Her mind was all ajumble, she couldn’t remember half the conversations she’d had, and she’d find herself walking along and then stop, with no idea where she’d set off to.
But perhaps Tanna was correct. Maybe it wasn’t Ardanas’ fault. She snorted. Perhaps this is what happened when half your life essence dies with a demon. She rubbed her forehead and frowned, looking up at Elune’s blessed light, misty through the low clouds of the coastline. “Yes, Mother,” Tirasa murmured. “I know. Be strong, that I know how to do.”
An ancient ballad floated through her mind, and she sang to the choppy waves. And then, Tirasa pulled up her knees to her forehead, and cried.
http://www.talonsofravencrest.com/images/Greenwaves.wma
It was darker, smokier than the last time she had been here. Or perhaps it was simply another trick of a wearied mind. The wooden stair creaked as her foot landed, and she frowned. Much time had passed since her footfalls had not been soundless. Yet another blow to my pride, Tirasa mused. Very well, Elune, or Light, or Earthmother, or *whatever*, do your damndest. I’ll always be ready.
A middle-aged male human stood upon the balcony before her, speaking in hushed tones to the female assassin beside him. At the stair’s creak, he turned. “As surprising as ever, Tirasa.” The auburn-haired human chuckled as she approached. “I didn’t expect to see you until you had gained another five ranks of training.”
The night elf drew down the crimson mask she had torn from the dead Edwin Van Cleef’s face and smiled. “You knew I couldn’t wait to see you again, Fahrad.”
He snorted. “Somehow, I believe it was another.” He absently waved his hand. “In any case, on behalf of Lord Jorach, of course, I want to thank you for your continued work with the Ravenholdt Assassins.”
Ignoring his first comment, Tirasa nodded. “It is a pleasure, as always, sir. Azeroth’s leaders are blind to much, and it seems we in the shadows are the only ones who can truly see. Have you any missions for me at this time?”
“None at the moment. But… do not be a stranger.” He bowed dismissively and turned back to his business, leaving Tirasa gritting her teeth and muttering in Darnassian about the audacity of his race.
Making her way back down the stairs, she was hailed by another, all-too-familiar voice.
“Ishnu alah, Tirasa. Alo’dora, sha maeness fala insa suh.” The diction was strangely accented, but the grammar was perfect. She hadn’t heard that phrase in centuries.
“Wonderful to see you again, Myrokos.” A practiced sweet smile settled itself upon her mouth as she moved to face the Quel’dorei in the open room below. His ice-blue eyes showed a hint of triumph as she did this, and Tirasa quickly pulled the red mask up over the lower half of her face as she continued down the stairs.
“The pleasure is indeed all mine, night flower. It has been some time, and you have been missed.” He watched her make for the door. “Might I have a word with you?”
Narrowing her eyes, Tirasa stopped. “One… word.”
Opening his hands in a gesture of surrender, the blonde assassin grinned and chuckled, his eyes crinkling into a rare show of affection.
Tirasa sighed and moved to stand in front of him, glancing at the female human safeguarding him not a few feet away.
He merely shrugged. “The value of silence is priceless here, as you should know. But then again, I seem to remember quite a few nights where you had some trouble with that idea.”
“Enough, blood elf,” she snarled. “Say what you have to say and I’ll be off.”
“So beautiful when you’re angry…” he sighed, his eyes twinkling merrily. “No need to be hostile, I merely wished to congratulate you on the continued success of your latest mission.”
She shook her violet hair and groaned. “If I have *anything* to do about it, he will not fall into the wrong hands. I will protect him to the best of my ability, though I fear my guarding skills are meager at this point.”
“Yes, my condolences for your… condition. Perhaps you have more of a positive effect on the subject than you know.”
Smiling thinly under her mask, she nodded. “That is my hope as well. If that is all, I will take my leave.”
He nodded, and Tirasa turned and took a few steps towards the door.
“Oh, Tirasa…” His voice held a mocking edge, barely discernable. “We all know how things collapse once your feelings get in the way, don’t we?”
The night elf spun, her lip curling dangerously as her hands grasped for the hilts of her swords. “One day you will regret your insults, Myrokos. And, by Elune, I hope retribution comes by my hand.”
She bowed, and her appearance suddenly became one of serene composure. “Until then, I will use you until your secrets are no more.”
He bowed in return, a crooked smile of challenge etched across his harsh features.
http://www.talonsofravencrest.com/images/Myrokos2.jpg
((Ardanas’ story can be found at http://www.reclaimingazeroth.com/RAboard/viewtopic.php?t=136))
“He is a weak, cowardly fool.” Her cheek was resting upon his shoulder, her head curled up under his chin, one of her legs entangled with his.
“He is human.” Myrokos had just debriefed Tirasa, rather informally, on the state of Ardanas’ voyage to Tirisfal. One of the SI:7 agents had been captured and tortured by the Forsaken, though the assassins sent by Ravenholdt had kept themselves safe, as had the mage.
She blinked. “Yet you surround yourself with humans day and night, Mister Duplicity.”
He chuckled, a sound full of blackness and secrecy. “I was merely pointing out the popular Kaldorei opinion, night flower. You see, the humans were the only ones to befriend my people when yours exiled us.”
Raising her head to lay beside his upon the pillow, his silky blonde hair caressing her face and lips, Tirasa regarded him steadily. “Not all of us agreed with that decision. But who am I to interfere with the workings of my employer?”
“Indeed.” He paused but for a moment. “Strange then, how you have begun to fall in love with your subject.”
Tirasa tucked her head back down. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just want this mission to end.” The last sentence held a bit of a whine.
“Diverting a war is never easy, nor quick, Tirasa,” he replied as he gently flipped her onto her back, his hands busying themselves with other parts of her anatomy. “Surely you know how protective the inhabitants of Dalaran are of their own.”
She grabbed his shoulders suddenly, stopping his actions for a half moment. “I do not shirk duty for the sake of personal pursuits.”
“Of course, Tirasa,” he replied, leaning over to kiss her once again.
(Ardanas' story is at http://www.reclaimingazeroth.com/RAboard/viewtopic.php?t=157)
She lay awake long after his exhausted breathing slowed to a reposing one. He had turned to face away from her, and she gazed fondly at his naked shoulders peeking out above the coverlet, adorned with a few scratches made by her own hands. A few silver strands glittered within his black tresses that were spread out upon the pillow, but she thought perhaps that a trick of Ironforge’s ever-present light filtering through the window.
That they hadn’t spoken after his late night arrival had been fortunate, as Tirasa had not yet decided how to react to his confession earlier, before he had embarked upon a dangerous mission of his own. It had obviously been a trying one, as he seemed as much in a dream state as she when they had made love. Words were unnecessary; each other’s presence had been enough.
Did he know just how much he was destroying her mission by loving her? Apparently not. His words came back through her mind in a hush. “Your mission depends on you not loving me, it doesn’t mean I can’t fall in love with you.” She grimaced. His love for her would make him careless, reckless. The demonic energies held within that artifact he carried upon his back would use it to advantage, of that she was certain. Already it directed his dreams, or so she surmised by his discussion of them.
She’d have to be doubly careful now, as he was weakened, vulnerable. And she must be stronger still. How close had she come to relating her true feelings to him? Her fist clenched upon the pillow, and a catty voice, a derivative of her own, filtered through her thoughts.
How perfectly fitting that you fall in love with a human. Your peers would be outraged, were this the Talons’ prime.
Tirasa grunted, and defended herself in her mind. I don’t like it either. But he is like Illidan in so many ways… I… it was not something I could control.
Like Illidan? The voice snorted. Imagine the sneer Illidan would save for you were he to hear that. And the throttling. This one is weak. He is powerful directing the Arcane, yes, but he is no better than an infant at close range. He doubts himself, something Illidan never did.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Illidan was the same before I taught him the ways of the sword. And yes, he doubted… perhaps he doubts still, in this timeline that makes me a stranger to him.
You must kill him. And this one must be taught the strength to stand against those who would hurt him, even if he loves them.
At last the two voices agreed. Yes.
Tirasa gazed once again upon the slumbering mage, and moved over to fit her body against his, frowning as he grabbed up her hand and brought it to his heart. How old did he say he was? Hm, forty years of age… that would leave him another four decades, six at most. Six decades, that was nothing. She could wait.
And also he’d said that he was “quietly jealous”. Perhaps she could find a way to lessen his love for her still…
The brutal winds of the Tanaris Desert did not follow her to the Shimmering Flats. The pinkish early morning light heartened Tirasa now as she rode across the crystalline expanse, and she mused to herself that so long ago, sunrise had been an indication to sleep. But at this time of morning, none would be awake to stop her, none would be awake to argue.
The racetrack bleachers would be relatively empty at this time of morning as well, though lately it seemed as though very few people were interested in the racing at all. Making her way to the center of the rickety construction, she seated herself upon the bleached wooden boards and began to pull some paper and writing instruments from her pack. Her trustworthy accountant, a priestess of Elune, and a friend, would see these letters to their recipients later today. And by that time, Tirasa would be in the throes of her destiny.
The letter to the Talons was difficult, but not overly so. It seemed just another betrayal, and she had betrayed them so often as of late. No fit commander, she. But they were more than just her squadron; they were her companions as well, and Tirasa paused as she remembered the very first excursion she had led. Raelis, Taunus, Tanna, Corpang, and Jarrax to Blackfathom Deeps. They had all fought valiantly, and, against all odds, had emerged victorious against those pawns of the Old Gods. Trackers and Assassins all… no priests or druids were needed when the Talons were on the job.
Of those four, only three remained. Tanna and Taunus were lieutenants, her most trusted. She was sure that Corpang would be promoted upon her departure. And now, once again, she was betraying their trust. Gritting her teeth, she continued the first letter, scratching her G2 Metallic Preciso-Grip 3000 more coarsely across the paper as she signed her name.
Tirasa’s eyes became watery as she gazed out across the salt-whitened landscape, lit up now almost brilliantly with the heralding sun’s colors. Ardanas… what to tell him? For a moment she lay the gnomish writing instrument down, thinking perhaps she was being too hasty. Did she really need to do this? Look at everything she was giving up! Was it truly necessary?
Their last night together, there had been a thunderstorm. The pattering of the rain against the roof of their new house in Stormwind had done little to dampen the passion of their lovemaking, if anything, it had intensified it. Alone together in the midst of nature’s onslaught, they had clung together, the downpour projecting a curtain of secrecy around them. For once, no worries of their relationship being discovered.
And afterwards, as they had settled off to sleep, Tirasa recalled that she had not known such peace in a very long time. Burying her nose into Ardanas’ grey-streaked longish hair, she kissed the nape of his neck, and was comforted even more by the scent of his skin. Tirasa loved the smell of him. She was never sure if it was cologne, though she doubted that. More than likely it was just the soap he used, mingled together with his body’s own aroma, that conspired to make him irresistible to her.
Now, on the deserted bleachers out in the middle of the Salt Flats, a river of tears drenched the paper before her, and she balled it up and tossed it away. But then she remembered how Ardanas suffered each time she became ill. Even if he could bear his own torment by the fel magics of that vile staff, would it be fair to add the burden of her own sickness, which she was sure would double and triple in time, perhaps killing her? The answer made clear to her, Tirasa began the second letter.
Finishing the missive off amidst a bout of petulant hiccups, the sobs began anew when Tirasa gazed at the bracelet upon her left wrist. The small blooms fashioned out of multicolored stones glinted as if in joyful greeting to the sunrise, their intricately carved petals seemingly twisting to get a better view. His mother’s bracelet… given to her by his father before their marriage. Ardanas had made a promise to her, a promise that she would not hold him to upon her imminent disappearance and possible death. Unfastening the delicate clasp, Tirasa brought the bracelet to her lips, and then to her heart, holding it there for several long moments before placing it in a small satin pouch. My heart… my soul…
*********
Tirasa dismounted, smacking the giant black-striped cat on the flank to send him away. Gladly the Kaldorei blacksmith in Gadgetzan had been willing to take the animal in, albeit with a disclaimer should Tirasa ever return. Sinking into the shadows created by the sandy cliff behind her, the assassin slowly moved forward.
Silently jostling several small stones in her hand, she eyed the bronze dragon before her warily. One mistake… and she’d be dead. Of course, there was always the possibility that she wouldn’t be permanently dead… but then, the bronze guardians would be alerted to her designs, and the second attempt would be much more difficult.
She glanced at the glowing indigo door to her left, and she became more aware of the buzzing sensation throughout her body that occurred every time she came near this place. Would the door open for her? She was almost completely sure that it would, however, what lay beyond it, she wasn’t completely prepared for. The Caverns of Time… time itself lay behind that door? The thought was of course incomprehensible, so Tirasa pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on the task of the moment.
A split second from now the flying guardian would be in a position to allow her to slip behind him through the door… there. Holding her breath, Tirasa tossed the pebbles away from her, and the dragon turned.
She hurriedly stepped forward, and her world went black.