A much more accurate rendition of how I picture Tyrosius in my head.
“Your name is Bindon Fizzlebrain.”
“Yes sir! Well, more like Bin-Don, y’know, not Bind-on, that’s just kinda weird and not really-yes. Ah…okay.”
The frown remained on Tyrosius gaze as he looked down at the miniscule gnome with violet irises standing before him. He was not entirely certain of gnome biology or lifespans, but he was almost certainly just barely into adulthood. An oversized coat of shoddily forged chainmail clinked awkwardly around his form, the hauberk nearly reaching down to his feet, and a linen sash which barely passed as a sword belt ringed the tiny man’s waist, upon which a dulled shortsword hung. The only part of him that looked truly intimidating were the ludicrously oversized pauldrons, nastily spiked and ornate in a deadly fashion. Tyrosius gestured.
“Where did you get the, ah, pauldrons?”
“The what?”
“Pauldrons. Shoulderguards…yes, the ones you’re pointing at. No, not the collar, the shoulders.”
“Oh, these? Family heirlooms, sir Tyrosius! Passed down through the ages of the Fizzlebrain family, yes sir! We called ’em…the PAULDRONS OF MIGHT!!!…oh, I see! So that’s where the pauldrons word comes from…”
Tyrosius nodded slowly, privately wondering how the name Fizzlebrain came about and how the Argent Crusade even managed to consider him as an aspirant to join their ranks. Idly he noticed that what little leather remained on the shortsword’s grip was already hanging loosely and looking to fall off.
“Very well. To qualify as an aspirant to join the Crusade, a simple test of martial skill is all that is required, little more. Keep in mind if you succeed, it does not mean you are a ‘Crusader’. You simply…qualify, for further testing and training to be one.”
Bindon nodded eagerly, nearly hopping on his feet, face set in grim determination and a hand resting on the sword’s missing pommel in impressive manner.
“So! When can we start! Sir Tyrosius?”
The soft ring of a beautifully crafted blade being drawn from its scabbard was the only answer, to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ of several onlookers. This was a public event, and many a crusader and simple townsfolk were in attendance. Briefly he wondered whether Aeliwyn was watching, and a smile nearly touched his lips at the thought. But this time, he managed to retain his focus on the task. The arena was a simple square of hard packed clay, with four wooden poles at each corner whose usage he could not truly determine.
“At ready, sir Fizzlebrain.”
“I…ah-right…”
The chirpy voice did not sound quite as bright and confident, facing the crusader in obsidium armour, bearing a fine blade and a nobly wrought shield. The grim determination slowly slid into confidence, then a sheepish neutrality, then a slow terror working upon the face as Tyrosius’ blade swung, point now directly facing the gnome. Perhaps it might have been less frightening, as a matter of fact, were it not known that both combatants armaments had been enchanted to prevent serious damage.
Bindon drew his shortsword, and unslung the piece of metal which he called a ‘shield of righteous fury’ over from his back, settling into an awkward combat stance, somewhat mitigated by the fear which now began to make the young gnome tremble in his boots. Then Tyrosius began to advance, and a slight squeak erupted helplessly from Bindon’s throat. Some of the audience chuckled, believing the outcome settled.
“Hmm…let’s see…combat stance engaged! I am Bindon Fizzlebrain, heir to the family, and I shall do them honooouurrAAAAHHHHHH!!!”
Bindon’s shield came up just in time to block the sweeping overhead stroke that Tyrosius aimed for the gnome, the terrified shriek which now pervaded all ears unhindered nearly masking the clash of metal upon metal. Sparks flew, and Tyrosius nearly lost balance there and then – he had not expected the tiny gnome to be so…unmovably heavy. In his heart, he pitied the boy. But yet he knew even deeper in…this was a test, and all had to learn one day or another whether one was up for it.
With the slashing motion fended off, Tyrosius used the rebound of the blade to aim a stab now, this time angled such that it would slide off the shield if it struck it and spear into his guard. Bindon was still screaming, quivering – and he threw himself forward, scrabbling to escape this terrifying man with a blade several times taller than he was. As it were, he threw himself right between Tyrosius feet, actually managing to somehow slide forward despite the rough ground, a cloud of brownish red dust coming loose in the process.
“AIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
To his credit, Tyrosius had actually seen the move; the blade angled further down as Bindon dove between his feet, as awkward as it was, aiming to catch the gnome in the back and more or less impale him into the dirt.
“NOT THE BACK, DON’T SKEWER-AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
To his credit, it would have succeeded. It would have, were it not for the nastily sharp spike on Bindon’s right pauldron which sliced clean through the gap in the obsidian plating of his boot where his ankle was, protected by thick leathers…but not enough to fend off that unexpectedly sharp piece of metal. The arcanists had dulled their weapons, true…but this was rather unexpected. Some members of audience gasped, the crusaders gaped, but most remained silent.
None of that occurred to Tyrosius as the explosion of pain at his left ankle sent him keeling forward, unbalanced, left knee crashing painfully into the dirt. As he scrabbled to get back up, Bindon more or less valiantly attempted to rush forward to kick Tyrosius in the shin, neglecting the fact that it was covered by a solid piece of obsidium.
“Take that, warrior of the Ligh-OW!”
Leather did not do very well against obsidium plating. Bindon dropped his blade, hopping about on one foot and beginning to shriek and squeal again, desperately attempting to hop away to one of the four wood poles. Tyrosius nearly snarled – nearly. This was getting personal. How many warriors kicked the other in the shin!? Staggering upright, dust staining the formerly pristine white tabard, blood trailing from his ankle, he limped towards Bindon, blade raised, a stern but composed look upon his face. Annoyed, yes. But not angry. He could not afford that.
The miniature thing now had his back to the wooden pole, quite ashen with fear. The trembling was visible for all to see now, and he did the only thing that true warriors could do in the face of inevitable defeat – charge.
With a shout that was supposed to be of courage and defiance but came out as terror and fear, Fizzlebrain rushed Tyrosius, shoulder first. The elegantly crafted blade came down…Bindon saw, and at the last moment desperately tried to back off the charge, flinching away. Yet by some stroke of luck or pure insanity, the flinching caused Tyrosius’ blade to come down hard upon the pauldron, which deflected the blow sideways with ease with no apparent harm upon the gnome. Yet Bindon’s momentum carried him forward – the spiked pauldron impacted hard with the human’s left shin, flinging it backwards and up into the air. Now a full suit of armour with sword and shield was a bit more than most could manage to balance on one foot, and Tyrosius was no exception.
Bindon skittered out of the way just in time to not get pancaked by the crusader who now fell face first into the hard-packed ground. Panting, exhausted, hungry and completely wishing he had never come here, Bindon made for the pole again, not quite sure what to do. With a heroic idea that only Fizzlebrains could come up with, he recalled…DAETA, the avenger of worlds, and how the hero had single-handedly uprooted a tree to thwack a dragon in issue #97 of the Warriors of Azeroth comic strip! Surely he could do that! With a wrapping of arms around the pole, accompanied by gasps of shock from the audience, Bindon heaved and pulled – only to pull himself up onto the pole.
Tyrosius had recovered. Somewhat. The blow had concussed him however slightly, though, and he sort of rolled over onto his back to get a perfect view of Bindon climbing the pole. Bindon, for his part, did not quite seem to realise he was actually climbing, desperately trying to tug the…damnable thing!…out of the ground.
“Come on…come on…get out of the earth, stupid wood, your roots cannot-oh. Hello. Wait…why can I see your eyeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
For the gnome had just realised he was staring a crusader at face level. And he looked down. And noticed the massive height difference. That there was a brown haired crusader, deep blue-green eyes opened wide in astonishment and confusion lying there was not truly noticed. The brown haired gnome immediately felt dizzy, mind swirling. Heights…heights…he never liked…
“Okay…okay…if I cover my eyes, like Avenger Avo…maybe I can…save…mysel-WAIT, no no NO pole, pole! Pole come back here NO!”
Hands reached up to cover his eyes and save himself from the height. It was only when he felt himself falling that he realised the tragic error that saving himself had doomed him in turn.
And the crusader who was lying right under him.
The last thing Tyrosius saw before his world went black was the shield of righteous fury, silhouetted by the bright glow of the noon sun, bearing down at him from above.
The last thing he thought was the hope that Aeliwyn was not there.
———————————————————————————-
(( So. I bought BoA tanking shoulders on WrA, and I thought I could send it across servers to another char. I was wrong. Coincidentally, I had a char of the same name on WrA and I sent it to him instead, making it non-refundable.
This is the story of 2175 JP down the drain. This is the story of a fail, and the character born out of fail. May he have a beautiful RP life.
/sagenod ))
To the High Crusader Danielle Belliveau and the Headquarters of the Argent Crusade in Darnassus,
To the High Crusader James Greysteel and the Offices of the Argent Crusade in Stormwind,
To the High Crusader Thalirien Lightstar and the Argent Domain of Hearthglen and Lordaeron,
Report on entrance to the private-registered military formation Vanguard of the Alliance
Leader: ‘Field Marshal’ Arlen Ironison. Did not appear at recruitment process; rank from Stormwind Army. Leadership has yet to be observed in action, highest ranking a captain seen.
Formation role: unknown. Separation into basic groupings of infantry, medicae, etc. Specific aim given as to ‘serve the Alliance wherever needed.’ With such a general aim, base of operations in Theramore seems questionable at best given Forsaken threat to the Northern Eastern Kingdoms, conflict with Horde forces within Ashenvale (thus rendering the formation cut off from other Alliance forces save the Southern Barrens) and Twilight Cult threat in Hyjal.
Strength: Approximately 45 men. Formation would appear to be a general task force, which would necessitate larger numbers than this to be effective. Note that it is also questionable why a ‘field marshal’ is leading a force of 45 men, when officers in such a station generally lead forces numbering into the hundreds. Also note that small formation size means that there is no realistic basis for the formation to break through Horde control of Northern Barrens to assist Alliances forces in Ashenvale.
Capability: questionable. Interview process generic, standard questions with no actual test of military capability or education. Directives after recruitment poor; essentially left standing. Organizational capacity of formation is seemingly insufficient for combat duties, with uniform and communication tools handed out by separate member (Corporal) who happened to have spares. Why a female soldier happened to have a set of male clothing is…queer, to say the least. No quartermaster to speak of.
Individual members seem competent enough. One Corporal Varlun Mulland (who first approached me for recruitment) seemingly ‘arrogant’ in newly-promoted role, though militarily plain. Not respected by other soldiers. Prior mentioned female Corporal indifferent to Mulland; blunt and direct. Few other members visible or available for contact, given that entrance to formation was conducted in late evening. Unknown private handing out pamphlets advertising the medical unit, which is…odd. Given that this is a military formation, one would expect those competent in healing to be ordered into service, not asked in the form of flyers.
Equipment of foot-soldiers seem competent enough for standard duty; plate, mail, blade and shield. Note that this would mean, as battle reports of the Crusade from initial engagements in Hyjal shows, formation is unfit for duty against elite Twilight forces due to lack of prevalence and seeming availability of obsidium armour and/or necessary warding. Widespread use of swords and few other melee arms also open up possibility of one-dimensional combat capacities.
Drill and formation training not yet observed or participated in; further reports on such will be delivered in the coming days regarding such matters. I will note here that events roster and calendar for formation is completely empty, with no timetable.
Threat of formation to the Horde: unknown, leaning to negligible.
Threat of formation to the Twilight’s Hammer: negligible, and therefore:
Viability of co-operation between Argent Crusade and formation: at the moment, not viable. Though I would stress that further observation and participation in the formation is required to get a better sense of competency in conflict resolution. Estimated time for accurate report is currently at two weeks. Note that the Argent Crusade reserves the right to withdraw attaches without prior notification to joined organizations; though I would not recommend such a course of action so soon, the amassing of elite Twilight forces in the Highlands and the gathering Argent and Wildhammer forces there might necessitate a consolidation of Argent personnel in the region to ensure focus upon the true conflict at hand and not petty wars.
Crusader’s note: it is my hope that this formation will turn out to be superior to my initial perceptions. At current standing, this unit will not be ready for the true war when it comes to them.
In the name of the Light,
Crusader Tyrosius Dawngarde, Argent Champion
“Am I…free?”
“Now and ever, brother. You have done well.”
“All this while…I…I…never knew…my ignorance…than-k…thank you…”
“We do the Light’s work, brother. You have saved yourself, and now we give you peace.”
“Will the Light…take me? A-…after the corruption…of my body, mind, soul…”
“The Light embraces all who are willing, brother. You are no exception…now rest. You join the Light today.”
“Thank you…thank you…”
“Come now. Try again.”
“I…I can’t…”
“But you can, Alex. You yet have the strength of a youth in his prime. Now come.”
With a small groan, the smallish youth of fourteen years of age awkwardly reached towards the ground, picking up the practice blade. This one was metal, made to handle and feel just as a real sword did save the lack of a cutting edge; the brown haired boy gazed at the weapon absent-mindedly for a moment, being brought back to his senses with a loud yelp by a rap on his knuckles with a similar practice weapon from the man standing before him.
“Focus, Alex.”
“I…I’m sorry…I just…”
The boy averted his gaze, looking away. The dark brown-haired paladin that stood before him watched passively for a while, before his features softened. Kneeling down in light off-duty armour -a simple silvered chestpiece with the symbol of the Argent Crusade etched upon it and a simple steel hauberk that ended at the elbow and mid-thighs-, the man gently brought a leather-gauntleted fist to the boy’s chin, lifting his face up so that their eyes met.
His face was healed, but in no less horrendous condition. The mark of the Twilight’s Hammer had been branded right into it, the hammerhead of the symbol resting on his brow just above the right eye, the circular design then running jaggedly across the remainder of his face; it was a miracle that he was not blind. The face, which once could have been described as handsome, was now marred for eternity by ugly purplish-red scars that had lasted too long for any medic to heal. Gentle dark-blue eyes latched with the gaze of hazel brown ones that looked close to tears. Who could blame him?
“Listen, Alex. I know how you must feel, how great the urge is to simply hide away from the world and never see light again. You remember what I showed you, yes?”
The boy nodded slowly. When he had first met the paladin, he had been near breaking-down, unable to accept himself, berating himself for his stupidity, wailing his misery at what he had done, right up until, after several hours of fruitless discussion and encouragement, the paladin had torn off his own shirt. The marks that had defaced human skin and flesh had silenced the teenager almost immediately.
“Yes.”
“You know that I have been through this before. The stares, the contempt, the discrimination. And yet…I have largely succeeded, with the aid of so many others, in saving myself.”
“But where are the others for me?”
“Am I not one of ‘the others’, Alex?”
The paladin chuckled, the deep sound oddly musical as the boy attempted to dip his head to hide his embarrassment, only to be kept in check by the hand that yet held his chin up.
“There will be more who will aid you, Alex. You will never be alone…always will there be someone amongst the crowd ready to support you, no matter how unfriendly the crowd might seem.”
The boy named Alex nodded again, or attempted to nod. His eyes flickered down to the practice blade that he yet held; it was of average make, the kind that was mass produced for footmen at the frontlines, the kind that was not designed for ornament or display but for sheer practicality. The handle itself, wound with leathers stained dark by so many sweaty hands, while the unadorned steel-grey hilt and blade were nicked and notched from constant sparring and use. The only genuine design that could be said to have existed on the blade was on the pommel, where the lion of Stormwind had been stamped onto a circular-disk like device, with the blade’s serial number etched at the bottom.
The paladin caught his inspection of the weapon. “Did they ever teach you how to use these?”
“…a bit. Not a lot. I don’t think they wanted us to…to last very long.”
Now it was the paladin’s turn to nod, as he thought back to that ash-choked day. The swarms of misguided men, women, children, streaming forward with no organization, no weaponry, no armour, wearing little more than cloth robes on their chests and pure terror on their faces, both at the sight of the disciplined formations ahead of them and even more so at the fate that would befall them should they turn back and flee. He sighed softly then, understanding all too well how it must have been like.
“Do you know how you can fight back, Alex? How you can win against them?”
The boy stiffened, suddenly feeling an onrush of emotion as he gazed downwards, beyond the sword.
“How? I…I am…cri-”
“Speak not that word, Alex. I have told you.”
The paladin’s voice remained respectful, but harder; a gentleness tempered by definite boundaries that were not to be crossed.
“But…it’s…”
A stifled sob, as both gazed downwards for a few seconds. The boy was seated on a wheelchair, locked into position. Where legs should have been, though, there were only stumps that ended just beyond the knees, covered over by linen pants that hid the blackened flesh that lay beneath. Normally, the wonders of Gnomish engineering should have been able to provide some sort of artificial support; as it was, though, the cursed flames that had literally blown off his legs had rendered the nerves there completely deadened, with no medical procedure able to get the stumps to function again.
“Alex. Look at me.”
The boy obeyed, gazing back at the paladin, a tiny trickle of tears running down his face. Tyrosius lifted the hand away from his chin, brushing away the boy’s misery that ran down his cheek.
“Do you know how you can fight back, Alex? Simple. Last longer than they wanted you to.”
That gave the boy pause, as he looked into the dark blue-green eyes, containing within a gentleness lacked by so many fighting men, a respect lacked by so many in society for what they saw only on the surface, yet also a determined steel that would not allow him to falter.
“Last longer than they want you to. Fight them the way they don’t want you to…live, when they wanted you to die. That is how you can win.”
“But to live…surely, that must mean more than just…sitting around…”
The paladin smiled softly, pleased. “Of course. Why do you think I brought you under my charge, and make you take all these courses?”
“Common, Thalassian, numbers, swordplay, Azerothian history…studies of the Light. Why do you think I make you do all this? So that you can live, Alex, and remain defiant in the face of those who want you gone from this world. In particular, recall the first lesson I ever taught you of the Light, Alex. Speak to me of it, please?”
“The Light does not forsake its followers; only its followers forsake the Light. Yet the Light does not condemn the strayed, and welcomes them back into the fold should their heart be willing; for none are beyond the reach of the Light.”
“Very good. This lesson, in fact, is…quite new. In the harshness of the years following the Third War, there was little room for forgiveness or redemption, for the strayed often meant the Scourge. Yet…the draenei came. You remember the draenei, Alex?”
The boy nodded eagerly. They, unlike so many humans in the city, had been nice to him, been as equally gentle and respectful as the paladin had been. At first the blue skin, glowing eyes and face-tentacles had scared him, but after the being had proved amiable and considerate to his condition the initial wariness wore off easily. When he had commented on the oddity of their blue skin, the giant figure had laughed heartily and, in his thickly-accented Common, told him how mortified his race had been upon seeing the pale skinned things with frighteningly light shades of hair that looked like ghosts but were actually humans. It had made him laugh.
“There is a reason why they have the saying ‘open your heart to the Light’. For we stray often, and we stray greatly…yet should your heart be true and just, should your heart accept the redemption of the Light…you will live, and your enemies will have no power over you.”
Alex remained silent, face now hopeful, the tear-trickles already drying on his face. He tried then to launch some mental force into himself, to wrench his own heart open if need be, just so to accept the Light once again. He must’ve had struggled visibly, for the paladin chuckled again, patting the boy on the shoulder.
“You cannot force it, Alex. It will take time. Yet when it comes…no act those who once controlled you might perpetrate will be able to shake you again.”
“Now,” Tyrosius said with some finality, rising from his kneeling position, mail clinking softly under the noonday sun. It was a pleasant day, even for Stormwind’s standards; clouds were absent from the sky, and the combat practice area was largely deserted, with only a few off-duty Army footmen watching curiously. “At ready, Alex!”
Alex lifted the sword again; it was uncomfortable, doing so in a sitting position, and being forced to angle his body at an awkward position in order for him to assume as proper a stance as he could while confined to a wheelchair. It did not help that he was being made to stab with a slashing weapon, though the paladin had maintained that stabbing with a heavy-bladed weapon would make his training with a lighter fencing blade far more easier and natural.
“Sword up, higher…! Elbow back in, don’t let it stick out from the profile of your body, keep the forearm straight, relax your shoulder, you should only be gripping tight at the hand…lunge! No, you tensed your shoulder there, did you notice? That’s why your aim went wide. Precision, Alex! Control your blade, discipline your body…these skills will aid to sharpen the mind as well. Finesse, elegance, calm. Frustration will only impede your path, not clear a road for you. Now ready yourself again, sword up…elbow in, again, remember that, relax…lunge! Better, much better…you can see how even with a dulled tip it still managed to badly dent that link of chainmail there…a few more tries, Alex, then we break for lunch. Now, sword up…”
Tyrosius sat by the dim candlelight of his own, officer-quarters like apartment, silently reading page after page of the Thalassian poetry. Though he had thought to rest soon, the poetry was in actuality captivating, scrolling lines near mesmerising him as he read and contemplated the words as carefully picked as a summer flower upon a gentle, tranquil day.
But of course, he thought with a sudden smile upon his lips, she would not choose anything lesser.
He had happened across an entire and sizable section dedicated to poetry of love; of ballads, songs, sonnets and the like. Briefly he wondered as to how singing in Thalassian would be like, or of love songs; insofar, Belle’s lessons had trained him more in the basic grasping of the vocal chords, how to produce sounds, to control pitch, to allow volume to rise and lower like the tides of the sea. Truly, it was an art in itself…and Tyrosius learned swiftly, progressing steadily through lessons and practice.
They had touched actual song more rarely than he had originally expected, though he knew full well that if this was how she felt people were trained to sing…he would trust in her judgment. As well, each song had been in Common and seemed more glorious tales of humanity’s past than anything else, save in the form of lyrics and to music. Sighing softly, he dreamily thought of the day that would come…when he would sing for her, for their love. He instinctively felt as though it would please her greatly…and in turn please him to see her happy.
One day. Another gentle sigh; she had already been asleep when he had exited another meeting, and so he had merely returned to his own home. As thoughts wandered, he flipped over to the next page of deceptively simple poetry, elegant Thalassian flowing in graceful lines and curves over the page:
Soft
Soft, to be graced as rain;
Where Light falls, astride
the boughs of beaut,
the brush of naught but a feather.
To whence the caress as a tether,
the melodies of lute,
fingers a lapping tide
as Love a touch, made eternal; soft.
Soft, for dawn to sing hope;
Where visions watch, unturned
from their paths,
set blind, yet an eyelid brought open.
To sight wonder unseen, unbroken,
of wondrous laughs,
yet wonderment unburned
in the grace of Love soft.
Soft, for the blossom to grow;
to endure storm, unblemished
and untainted and unbroken in life,
entwined in hope and joy, united.
Upon Love, no taint e’er blighted,
nor wrought with war nor strife,
nor entered within famished
nor took root in Love; soft.
Soft, for Love to reach splendour,
unmatched o’er the world.
Soft, for time to slow and harbour,
Love enduring forever; soft.
He had pondered deeply all through the poem, reflecting how it all seemed to…fit so well. That Love might have touched from the onset, only for him to be carried on in a path dedicated to redemption by arms. A path straight and narrow, yet eyes opened…to meet hers truly, and to accept. A gentle smile curved his mouth; it was a pretty thought, one he liked greatly.
Thoughts yet wandered now, though, to her…gaze. That long, contemplative look, as though she were considering…something.
The wildest fancies of his mind guessed and grasped, finding some ledge to cling to; marriage? He had not thought overmuch on it; such seemed…distant in itself, not by any definition but simply by feeling. The concept was simply far off, though it nagged occasionally as a whim of fantasy.
Yet…fantasy? Who was to say it would not happen?
Inadvertently, he thought of his parents; what was it they had used to symbolise their marriage, far more than the pendants of the Dawngarde line…the rings. He remembered, as clear as a spring day in Lordaeron, the two bands that his father and mother had worn.
They were simple things; gleaming silver, though possessing an air far more refined and noble than silver if such were possible. It simply…gleamed more, or it could simply be the Light flowing through the rings. Considering that both had been tried and true paladins, such was not out of the boundaries of possibility.
What he remembered most, though, was the poem that had been inscribed upon the rings in minuscule detail; a long, expressive sonnet of love, in Thalassian…one half was etched on his mother’s band, the other hand on his father’s. The poetry of love, the beauty of fourteen lines…it would not be complete without the other half of the ring; a clever idea, and highly symbolic.
Tyrosius shook his head abruptly, clearing the thoughts and closing the tome of poetry, rising from his seat and heading for his prayer mat to meditate and pray before rest. It was a fancy of the mind for now, little more; such would have to wait. At least, so he thought. He had no idea whether it was what Aeliwyn was thinking of anyway, and it would undoubtedly seem rather foolish if she were holding in her mind a separate matter in its entirety. For who knew?
And this is why I suck at time management. In addition to WoW, of course. My lower leg proportion is messed up as is nose length, but still decent.
I don’t know who this is. >.> Just fun, I guess.
They were in dreamy, blissful sleep again, night untouched by blight nor darkness. A flowing aura of calm, settling over the pair who snuggled close, for the bed was a relatively small one; regardless, it was this smallness that made for a tighter squeeze together in gentle, silent rest, of slow, even breaths and warm air around. The blanket which found itself smoothed over them was a formality more than any practical purpose; tonight seemed a fine one, not too hot nor cold, not too dry nor humid. Such was their rest, even the slightest stirrings seemed slow and caring unconsciously, a kiss here, a gentle stroking of the face there, entwined even more despite the seeming impossibility for the two to get any closer than they already were, and yet it happened.
A blissful sleep, of human and near quel’dorei, one shared and warm. Tyrosius dreamed, yet for this night they were happy ones. He was content; such had been the mood of his soul ever since Aeliwyn seemed more…tender. Gentle. Not that she had not been, but simply the subtle changes which made little of it obvious in body save a more intimate of touch, but in the mind and soul, which he had sensed. Though she looked upon him in seemingly deep thought, there was little else to suggest anything was wrong in their shared happiness and joy…
He dreamed of her always, her beautiful, musical laughter which caused his pulse to speed even in rest, her luminous eyes, everything of her that he could have thought beautiful, the aspect of which had first pierced him in their initial meetings. Though he had long attempted to deny it within him, he recognised that her beauty had struck him early on, that it had played a hand in how he treated her, spoke to her, acted around her. It was a subconscious act, and elicited now little more than a soft sigh at himself than any guilt or reservation. He was beyond that stage now, securely.
But above all, he dreamed of an interesting thing. Of the pair of them together in Elwynn, away from duty and care of the outside world for a simple two weeks, to simply camp in the beauty of the natural forest than in the bustle of the city, left to their own devices for every single second they were together, completely isolated from the outside world in their own little paradise…it was a happy dream, and he smiled softly as the imagined scene played out in his mind, the body responding in kind as he leaned forward to brush her mouth softly with his once more…
————————————————————
Far beyond, a former man watched silently at the burning blue flames at his feet, through which he gazed, an unmovable sentry, upon his son and this quel’dorei slept together in bliss again; his face did not move, nor did any other facet of his body.
Though his heart stirred no longer, Athrian’s soul still felt the terrifying mixture of emotions not even he as an unwilling death knight could restrain; the agony of loss, the burden of his failure to be a father now, the pride of watching a grown son, the -worry- of watching a grown son with a woman…and though he loathed to admit it, the bitterness that it had to be him, of all people. That it was his body the agents of the Scourge stumbled across, finding the distinct markings and items of a paladin, that it was he who was chosen to be chained in accursed torment to the world without being able to leave as he so desired.
And as well, a disappointment with himself. He knew himself to be a man of his words, of covenants and unbreakable vows. He had broken his promise to himself once again – that he would never willingly set eyes upon his son, a vow he had made after the first time he had done so years earlier. It was bad enough when Oradris had conjured the unholy portal of sight; yet here he was…creating the sight himself to his son.
It was too powerful a want, an agony, to ignore. Day after day of that slaughter of innocents upon the frozen snow of Icecrown, his thoughts did not wander to those poor souls in his blade; they wandered back to his son, second after second, the wrenching hurt only magnified by the distance he finally realised separated them now in its full extent. He himself did not quite understand the rationale or basis for these portals of sight to begin with; Athrian was no mage, and he simply attributed it to one of the many curious things that death could do. Or undeath, as was his case.
In fact, he had watched for several hours already; when the pair had crept into bed, made love, and fallen asleep in each others arms. Once again – immoral, unjust, ignoble? None of those mattered. Not even a spark of desire coursed his body, never mind that it was his own son he was watching. He could have all the most seductive of women in the world arranged before him for him to pick like berries from bushes, and his body would never respond in kind. He knew, for he had tried – nothing worked. And so he watched, not emotionless, but more with controlled thought.
The same questions continued to burn in his mind as he watched the woman turn slightly into Tyrosius’ gentle grasp, her head pressed against his neck and shoulder now, dark blue-green eyes unblinking. Were they married? Who was this woman to begin with? Certainly not any quel’dorei he had known in Lordaeron. Did he treat her well? No, that was a stupid thought – had he not treated her well, Athrian was fairly certain the lady would not have responded in such intimacy to his touch in sleep. How long had they been together? How old is she? What House did she belong to? Do they have childre – no. Another stupid thought.
His thoughts turned slightly again as he watched, reminded of his own wife. A tear gland in the corner of his left eye twitched – it was the closest his body would come to displaying sorrow.
Were his condition not so…bleak, he might have had happier, fuller thoughts as to his son. He might have been more proud than how he felt now, more confident and calmed that his son had a future. And yet…he sighed softly, the grating harshness of a dried throat crashing through bayonets of frozen air. Pressing his cloak aside with his left hand, the right drew his formerly holy sword from its scabbard, eyes now traveling to the design upon its hilt. Within lay a beautiful diamond, blood-spattered and dirtied, yet its glimmer still shone in the chill of Icecrown. Below the diamond lay a scrolling inscription in Thalassian, an inscription which he could still read.
For the Light, my love; bring justice and freedom from fear to our lands.
The tear gland twitched again, cold orbs staring at the weapon he had desperately attempted to cover up and hide behind a facade of grime and gore, spikes and skulls ornamenting the sword. Yet despite all he did to hide the sad past, his past, he could not bring himself to destroy the sword or abandon it, even if he could do as such with a runeblade anyway; nor could he bring himself to defile that inscription, or even to take a knife to scratch it out. Almost in response to its master’s thoughts, the runeblade almost desperately projected the desire and hunger for bloodlust and souls into its owner, tempting Athrian into using the weapon for its insidious purpose once more.
He cursed softly, sheathing the weapon as eyes flickered back down to the image of the resting couple. His son’s hand now pressed gently against the back of her head, shifting her tighter against his body. Yet it was not the scene which played out which took his thoughts now – it was a new, sudden urge.
He wanted to meet his son.
Athrian nearly screamed there and then in fury, having actively suppressed that desire for years. Yet there it was – it had slipped past his gate once more and into the frozen crypts of his mind. He wanted to see him again, with his own eyes and not through this accursed pool of fire; an impossible notion, an impossible task. Ironically in almost copying Oradris, Athrian vented his rage simply by raising a saronite plated boot over the vision, stamping it out just as he watched the pair about to kiss once more, the fires snuffing out in a ring around his foot before they glimmered and faded away without drama.
He stood there alone once more, facing the burning wall of Corp’rethar, still as a silent statue, black cloak
Rihanah sat at the desk in the rooms she’d paid to use for the purpose of teaching Tyrosius. Ceilings were high and vaunted, the room spacious and airy with clear Quel’dorei design and decor. It had taken quite a lot of maneuvering to convince her Quel’dorei friend, the priest, Master Daelithias Evensong to use his music parlor. The words that she’d intended to pay him for the use — of teaching someone song had swayed him.
She flicked her gaze to the neat, upright piano of Master Evensong’s in front of the bright window. It was time now to send Tyrosius a letter of instructions. Nib-pen touched to the parchment.
Master Dawngarde:
I am imagining you wondered if I still intended to teach you. That is indeed my intent, yet, I require several things of you before I do so. Over the next day or so, I should like it if you worked on the following posture exercises before we meet. A singer needs to have open lungs and diaphragm. Such also means the working of the abdominal muscles in a different fashion than you may be accustomed. I have enclosed a list of things that you cannot eat or drink as well eight to nine hours before you begin lessons.
Avoid anything spicy, or very strong that can irritate the throat. This includes combat and combat training. I cannot have you tired before we begin! Nothing with citrus, and drink plenty of water over the next several days to get used to the amount a singer must drink if you do not already practise such. Remember. The vocal folds are a muscle, and can be strained and injured like anything else. Thus, we treat them kindly, and well. Focus on the breathing exercises in addition to these things. One needs to be able to breathe deeply from the center of the body. Singing through good posture, with control of the diaphragm, and with an open throat–with the velum in the back of the mouth and throat also high and relaxed are key.
Do accustom yourself to such things without song. I shall see you soon. My acquaintance, Master Daelithias Evensong, Quel’dorei priest, has permitted us the use of his music parlor. The address is listed upon the enclosed card that is with your directions.
Meet me three candle-marks after the noon bells.
Your Friend,
Belle
Tyrosius read through the entire letter for what must have been the twentieth time in the several days that had passed since he received it, seated at the spartan furnishings of his basic apartment in the Cathedral District. He was of mind to … improve it, somewhat, though uncertain how or why. As a soldier, he really couldn’t care less how his own living quarters looked so long as it was neat and clean – this certainly fit the bill, looking more like a larger officer’s quarters than a residential unit. Larger, and not that much more ornate than an officer’s private rooms.
Rifling through a previously undiscovered chest that he had found under the bed while cleaning though, he had been disappointed to only see stack after stack of messy letters, presumably of an old tenant. What had caught his attention more, though, was a pretty clock that had rested at the bottom of the chest.
The wood was a rich, deep red hue, and the face of the timepiece seemed flawless save for the general dust of age. Brushing it off and wiping away the stains, though, the entire piece was not a bad item. He had taken it to a random engineer’s workshop in the Dwarven district to get it functioning again, upon which the gnome standing on a stack of crates behind the tall counter squealed in joy at seeing the clock and promptly fell off his impromptu seat.
The paladin shook his head, lithe form relaxed in the simple wooden chair, eyes still on the fine parchment. Gnomes.
Reading the letter, it occurred to him in somewhat undramatic fashion that the instructions were not much different from combat training to begin with. His former diet of bread and water had been based entirely off the need to not have any heavy foods before such practice, drinking water, exercising muscles, taking care of said muscles, breathing and respiratory exercises…that much he knew. It was the latter line of posture, diaphragms and velum and all those shenanigans … he knew what they were, human anatomy having been an integral part of his … shameful training as an interrogator, but how they functioned was as yet still alien to him.
Regardless, he had done as the letter required. And though it pained his heart greatly to do so, for the sake of learning how to sing he had not accompanied or visited Aeliwyn in Tanaris for the past few days, meeting only at night in Stormwind; it did not take a particularly intelligent man to guess that the blazing heat and dry winds of Tanaris were not good for the throat.
Those were brief meetings; she had to rush reports for her superiors, and Tyrosius often now had to report to the Crusade offices regarding diplomatic dealings and relations. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes – not much time at all, barely enough for a conversation and asking well of each other, interspersed with embracing and loving kisses, cherishing every minute they had together. It still brought a blush to his face, even though he had often tried to reason with himself that such would fade over time.
Shaking his head abruptly and refocusing on the letter, he read through the address again and the time of meeting, before looking up at the newly-repaired timepiece. The thing immediately proved its use – it was already half a bell past two o f noon, and he should be on his way. Rising from his seat, dressed in dark navy blue pants and white shirt, he slipped on a pair of black leather shoes, readjusting the leather headband that Balr had gifted him slightly. From the looks of the address, it definitely was no measly place, nor would he imagine Belle to even think upon using a measly place – best to look proper as he always did than showing up like some hooligan on the street.
Taking the letter with him and slinging the sword belt, scabbard and blade over his body, he moved to the door of his apartment intent upon leaving when he paused slightly, eyes narrowed. Returning to the desk, he gently lifted up the fine handkerchief Aeliwyn had crafted, the piece managing to glimmer after so long, their intertwined initials seeming to float and dance upon the cloth. He smiled softly, noticing how the scents she used upon her body still rested on the cloth, never seeming to leave or fade in intensity. Placing the handkerchief carefully in a shirt pocket, he finally made to leave his apartment.
————————————
As it turned out, the address had not taken all that much time to reach, him being ten minutes early. Tyrosius took the time to gather his surroundings – it was in a posh part of the city he had not been in before, where many of the people seemed to be of the aristocratic sorts, or at the very least higher up in the socioeconomic ladder of Stormwind.
Long coats, fine dresses, hats of every imaginable kind and practically screaming of wealth, he felt slightly awkward watching it all. Though he was by no means in ‘casual’ wear, more in the smart category bordering on formal, it still reminded him of the time when he had visited the Palace of Lordaeron as a child. He grinned slightly when it occurred to him that, as a child there, he had managed to spill a glass of Dalaran red onto the pristine white dress of a lady … before the grin faded away slowly as he sighed. Home; it was all so far away.
Nevertheless, by his pocketwatch it was time. Striding up to the elegant, elven designed double doors, he rapped sharply on the wood three times, precisely in time with the tolling of the city bells heralding three bells past noon, awaiting entry.
Within, she heard the sharp rapping upon the door, though it was muted slightly with the thickness of the wood and arcane spells dampening outside sound beyond alarms of emergency. Rising to her feet and smoothing skirts that disguised an ever growing pregnancy, Belle brushed back a tendril of strawberry blonde hair.
She opened the door with a wide, charming smile that seemed to already make her glowing, warm presence further to that end. “Oh! Do come in,” she said, turning to gesture inside of the lovely rooms that the elven had permitted her after closing the door behind Tyrosius, as the paladin dipped his head in greeting. It had been because Master Evensong bragged of the pianoforte in his possession that made the priestess seek out the favor of its use. Her fingers all but tingled to play it. Tyrosius gazed upon the grand instrument in some awe and surprise – the last time he had seen one was before Lordaeron’s fall, when such music played sweetly over much of the city.
Chattering on happily, she settled herself upon the bench and gestured to the keys. “I suspect you’ve not seen one of these in years. They are rather difficult to come by, and I thought to teach you … finding one would be something of a dream!” Her long elegant hands curved loosely from the wrist with lightly curled fingers took to the keys slowly, gliding with care along the ivory finish, and the ebon hue of the accidentals.
Tyrosius merely nodded in appreciation once more, gazing upon the presumably expensive instrument. In fact, it occurred to him that he would never be able to afford this in several lifetimes; such was easily beyond his reach now, and from the income that he garnered from the Crusade … unlikely.
“I do not know how much you know of music, but this is a beginning point.” She studied Tyrosius, and gestured to the room temperature enchanted waters she’d prepared for him that rested in a crystal pitcher with a glass aside. “That is for you to drink, slow sips, mind, to moisten the throat.” Tyrosius appropriately did so, taking a small sip of the perfectly kept water, allowing it to run down his throat as slowly as he could.
Replacing the glass, he wondered as to her earlier, general query; how much did he know of music? Some, he supposed – though music was certainly an integral part of his lessons in Lordaeron, the single instrument he had shown some form of competence in was the flute, with which he had progressed quickly – within a year, he had risen four grades from zero of the possible eight, until…the Scourge ended it all, of course.
He had lost his flute in the desperate flight from the fallen city, as with so many other things. It struck him then, as his eyes glimmered slightly with memory…poetry, writing, music, arts. He had lost much more than previously considered, or thought possible. How different would life be had the Scourge not encroached upon the lands of the north?
Meanwhile, Belle lifted a hand to her neck, sliding fingers along it. “Within is where we produce such beauty, my friend. The muscles elongate and contract for the sound. One must sing with an open throat, and the mouth must be formed of a small circle, like this,” she said, demonstrating by closing her lips to the proper degree.
The brown-haired man, seated next to her and half-consciously aware of the fact that he had to incline his head to look at his friend, followed suit to form a circle with his mouth. “Smaller.” The word of command was followed almost immediately, his mouth closing a tiny bit more as Belle nodded in approval.
“The soft palette must be lifted – that is the roof of your mouth where near to where the tonsils lay. Now perhaps if this is confusing … try sensing with the Light where all of these thing are to do as I’ve said. If executed correctly, you would produce a richness of sound like so … ”
Drawing a breath with posture perfect, the priestess sang a trilling of notes with ease. The sound was warm, not so very high nor low. Her voice was a sweet one, being the unassuming middle that was often overlooked in song, but never done without.
“Now you try after a bit of water?” She played a single note in the lower register three times, and slowly for his ear to become accustomed to the sound. Taking a second sip of the lukewarm liquid, he listened carefully to the note from the piano as he tried to envisage it in his mind, and send some sort of communique to his throat to make that sound.
Taking a breath, he made an attempt to sing the note – it bloomed perfectly for a moment before faltering, as though Tyrosius had surprised himself with the sound of his own voice, blinking. Regardless, he tried once more, this time allowing the note to flow from him once again, this time extending it and allowing it to end in controlled fashion than the abrupt halt earlier.
His voice, by contrast, was far deeper – soft and gentle in tone, far from the grating which he had once imagined would happen if he even tried to sing. Though it was rough, as vocals went, the texture of the note managed to show itself in his voice, creating a deep, soft but rich sound. He wondered if he should be pleased, glancing towards Belle – it was immediately clear he had quite some ways to go, though the basic components of a ‘good’ singing voice were there. All that was needed now, was to place them in proper order and build it up into something far more beautiful than its singular materials.
Rihanah smiled. “Again … we shall follow through with two notes, and add more as we go along, building to a pattern of five repeating notes. This is warming up the voice … “ Suddenly, Belle did not pine for her beloved Ithandur quite so much – with something to do while he worked. A smile turned up her lips as she began to teach Tyrosius such a gentle art.
Seated by the dim candlelight of his home, Tyrosius flipped through another page of the tome of poetry that Aeliwyn had given him, reading quietly. The softest of sighs escaped his mouth – he had much to think of, and not much mental capacity left excluded by thoughts to focus on page after page of scrolling, elegantly written Thalassian.
In truth, he was disquiet and worried. Lith’irias had been troubling her, with constant letters of love even though past events should have made it painfully clear that she held no such emotions in return for him. What did an elf in exile, in Theramore of all places, expect her to do? Suddenly fall in love with that exiled person simply because of some written words, and join the person over the sea?
He shook his head, closing the tome before him altogether as he settled back into the simple but solid wooden chair, thinking.
It had to be resolved, one way or another, as did some many other matters. How, though? The man committed no crime by sending letters, none of which he presumed to be of a threatening nature, and he had meant it when he spoke that he loved her all the more for refusing to be so cruel as to enact measures to prevent his letters from reaching her. It was compassion as the driving force – what use was there in halting the flow of words, when it would regardless be clear that the feelings of that elf would not change?
He loved her – perhaps because of this, there was still a checked, refined anger towards this…cowardly quel’dorei across the sea. Lith’irias knew full well the relationship, the genuine romance, which existed between Aeliwyn and himself. And yet…he dared, as though ignoring his existence altogether, as though continuing his arrogant manner by looking upon humanity as a lower thing, a useless thing, persisting in the same ignorance and shallowness that he thought he had taught him twice against already – once when he very nearly ended up killing him after he had struck his beloved, second when he had defeated him in the duel. Despite all this…it seemed he had not learned. How such a quel’dorei was capable of striking the person of his attention, call her a whore, and still manage to proclaim love…
At that bitter thought, the embers of rage sparked, a small fire threatening to rise – before it was quickly quashed, smothered into the ashes from whence it had come. Yet it still remained, red hot, simply not erupting. Tyrosius knew the reason – Lith’irias was hurting her. That much was clear from her pain from receiving so many letters from him. He had vowed to never allow that, to protect her, and it seemed the most likely path to resolve the matter would be by…
He stiffened abruptly, eyes sharpening as he killed the thought which entered his mind. No; raising blades would solve nothing, nor any action of a threatening manner. Such a path of action he had abandoned, and would not take up so readily again. And once again, it was love and compassion which checked him, prevented him from allowing that dangerous feeling of wanting to end the matter by force from planting itself as a seed in his mind. It would be akin to a betrayal of his love for Aeliwyn were such a course of action to be taken, and prove him no better than the man who had struck his love.
She floated back into his mind, her beautiful, smiling face cooling down the last dying embers of anger as he sighed softly again, this time in the wistful urge to go meet her – except it was the dead of the night, and when he had finally been done with his meeting with the Crusade a bell earlier, it would not have been unwise to assume that she was already asleep, and he was not about to wake her up at such a time just because he wanted to see her. A few more hours, he supposed – little more. He could wait for at least that amount of time.
Still, though, it did not resolve what precisely to do with Lith’irias. The possibility of meeting him face to face floated into his mind, although it almost immediately struck him as queer. What would such a meeting cause, or achieve? Upon further thought, he supposed it might do well to speak to him, affirm beyond question his own relationship with Aeliwyn, and respectfully request for him to cease his letters which were distressing her greatly. Then again, perhaps a letter of his own would do…
But not yet. He was better than that, to move in the shadows like now – this was not something he would do alone, without the consent of his lover. He had requested of her, nearly pleaded of her, to share her pains and sorrows with him, as lovers did so as to endure together, with the support of each other. They would stand together on the issue…and they would resolve it together, not by himself taking a step without her even knowing about it.
A gentle smile curved his mouth as his thoughts wandered back to the afternoon after their discussion. They had…kissed after, her being far more relaxed and yielding than before the discussion which ranged all over her troubles with Lith’irias, her hurts, how she tried to hide them. Admittedly, as their embrace and interlocking had grown deeper and more sensual with her back pressed against a lamp post, they had not counted on the appearance of her fellow students’ from her lecture on the scene. Overwhelmed by passion as they were, neither was silly enough to ignore their presence, which necessitated a relocation to somewhere more private…
He sighed, refocusing. Something had to be done, and he had his own ideas how…but he would share first. He would always share first…for that was what lovers did, did they not?
Broken Dawn 