The Storm Reborn

[Tarlithion]

The wind howls of his death. The last descendant of Ravencrest slew him, though he too fell to the Stormraven’s axe. I can still hear him calling—not from the Nether, but trapped somewhere between, unable to truly die. Perhaps you can find some way to help him, but such a power is beyond any but the enigmatic Spirit Guides.

… but. There is one man in this world that might know of a way. You will find him in the bastion of Azshara’s deepest secrets: Eldre’thalas.

-----

The two warriors stood on the prow of the Ronae’Zeram as it left Auberdine’s grey, misty shores. On a clear day, the majesty of Teldrassil’s leafy crown could easily be seen, but as the boat turned southwards, all but the edges of her branches was obscured by the fog. The deck of the Destroyer, part of Shandris’ fleet that protected the western coast of Kalimdor, was alive with Kaldorei sailing men. A small company of Sentinels stood watch on deck while the rest lounged below.

Andisiliel Stormraven fidgeted nervously, fingers drumming on the railing overlooking the ocean. She went over the hermit’s words again and again in her head, oblivious to approaching footsteps. “Umbranse is a wise man, Andisiliel,” rumbled a voice behind her, “and we would be equally wise to trust his words.”

The young night elf turned to face her commanding officer, straightening. “Of course, sir,” she said, acquiring a rigid pose, “I was just considering the estimated difficulty at getting that deep into Eldre’thalas. There are only two beings there powerful enough to fit the description.”

“Two?” Alstar Mylithaire chuckled, moving to stand at the rail beside his young Lieutenant. “Only one person could have that kind of power,” the warrior said gravely, “a man I would have hoped never to see again.”

“Who?” Andisiliel asked, her grasp of Kaldorei history rather deficient. A grave looked crossed Alstar’s face; he looked out across the sea, speaking with reverence. “Prince Tortheldrin, ruler of Eldre’thalas.”

“Oh of course! Tortheldrin. Who else could it be?” Andisiliel laughed nervously, ashamed to have been thinking of the vicious Satyr that inhabited the eastern wing of the ancient city, “why, I can’t think of anyone else who might be even close.” Alstar buried his face in his palm, muttering.

-----

The trip between Auberdine and Feathermoon Stronghold was, as always, uneventful. The ship sailed far enough out to avoid any coastal skirmishes, and they rarely passed anything more than a few deep-sea fishing vessels on their path between the Night Elf territories. The warriors soon found themselves in the company of their general, who absorbed Alstar’s report with folded arms and a stony expression.

“So you mean to tell me the Spiritspeaker told you that Tortheldrin may be able to help us revive him?” Shandris asked incredulously. “Honestly. Tortheldrin? I would sooner kiss an Orc than ask that arcane whore for assisatance.” The general of the Kaldorei armies snarled. The prospect of turning to the Shen’dralar for aid clearly infuriated her.

“But we all know how much you cared for Tarlithion, General,” Kylanna Windwhisper, Feathermoon’s famed Alchemist and voice of reason chimed in with a smirk. “I mean, after all, you sent two dozen Sentinels to retrieve him the first time he fled the ranks of the Stormravens. And I know for a fact that you have spent the last three weeks mourning his death, as only a lover would.” Shandris scowled at Kylanna, though she knew the Alchemist was correct.

Nearly giggling at having caught the General off guard, Kylanna continued, “So do not for a moment try to make me believe you would not spare any expense—or weather any indignity—to get your little play-toy back a second time.”

Shandris let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, fine!” she conceded, throwing up her hands, “We will begin plans to enter the Dire Maul and speak with Prince Tortheldrin. In the mean time, you are all dismissed.” With a salute, the two Stormravens turned and marched from the room, leaving Kylanna and Shandris alone together.

The Alchemist approached the general from behind, pressing their bodies together and twirling a lock of the General’s lavender hair around her index finger. “We’ll have him back,” she purred in Shandris’ ear, “You know him. Not even the grave can hold Tarlithion Stormraven.”

[Tarlithion]

(( For some odd reason, I've had a bitch of a time starting this. Then, all of a sudden, Luca Turilli inspires me with something completely unrelated (http://video.google.ca/videoplay?docid=-4151259443146406077&q=luca+turilli). So, thanks to him for that. ))

[Tarlithion]

The black, windswept skies of Ferelas set an eerie tone for the day. Rain hammered the toppled, weathered stones surrounding the outer reaches of the Dire Maul’s main gate. Outside the ancient city, haplessly oblivious Ogres ambled about on their business, clearly unaware of their fate.

The party descended upon them like a whirlwind of unyielding fury. Spears flew; blades lashed; Chakrams twisted through the air, finding their mark in thick, resilient ogre flesh. The eye of the storm passed through the carnage, leaving no sign of her passage, save the ruthless obliteration of her foes.

Passing through the main hall, Shandris and her Sentinels gave no quarter to the lumbering Ogres. With ruthless efficiency, the elite soldiers of Feathermoon ravaged their foes, smearing gore across the sun-bleached hallway. The Dire Maul rang with the slaughter of the Gordok.

Following behind the mindless blitz of the halls, Alstar carefully minded the rear position, while Andisiliel admired the eons-old architecture of the forgotten city. As the elder warrior kept a watchful eye out for Gordok-trained hyenas, the younger warrior mused as to the true age of such a marvelous feat of Elven masonry. “How do you suppose they did that?” Andi asked, pointing to the intricate stonework of an archway as they passed beneath it. Alstar grunted, lowering his sword. “What are you, an Ancient of Bloody Annoying Questions?” he asked, irritated, “just follow the Sentinels and keep your eyes open.”

As they approached the gates into the Ogre-infested northern sector of the city, the two warriors watched Shandris’ elite Sentinels tear back the massive wooden gates. The Kaldorei General and her troops marched through the doorway; very shortly afterward, further sounds of Gordok death echoed through the corridors. The more intelligent of the brutes fled in terror as the raging flurry of blades shredded their number without mercy. The rest fell to the savagery of the Feathermoon Sentinels.

The doors to the city’s great library were tugged open with a creak. Spattered with blood, ankle deep in gore, Shandris and her might stormed the twisting hallway. Terrified, Fengus and the surviving Ogres looked on from the relative safety of the next courtyard. Mail boots clattered along the ancient stone hallway; the final, grand doors opened with a groan that belied their age.

A warm rush of air met the party as the doors swung open. And as they prepared to charge, weapons ready, they were abruptly halted by a willowy figure. Dressed all in green, with wisps of white hair dusting his face, Lorekeeper Lydros bowed deeply to the intruders. “Lady Shandris,” the ancient Shen’dralar Lorekeeper said without rising, “his majesty has been expecting you.”

Shandris stepped forward cautiously. As she did, Lydros rose and turned, motioning for the General to follow. “Wait here,” she said to the Sentinels, and gestured for Alstar and Andisiliel to keep pace with her. They approached a broad, oaken desk, covered messily in papers and books, some earmarked or upside down to mark their place. At the desk sat a nearly Kaldorei figure. His lips mouthed words as he silently poured over several decrepit tomes simultaneously. Shock white hair tumbled about his shoulders and into his eyes. This did not seem to bother him.

“General Shandris Feathermoon, as you predicted, sire,” Lorekeeper Lydros said. Without looking up, Prince Tortheldrin gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and the aged servant bowed, walking back towards the other end of the library. The three stood in awkward silence for what felt like an eternity as the prince continued to read, seeming to ignore his visitors.

Finally, Shandris cleared her throat and stepped forward. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing…” she began. Suddenly, the prince snapped his book shut and raised his head, eyes ablaze with a twisted, green glow. The Storm grows weaker with each passing day, Miss Feathermoon the Prince seemed to howl at them in a hoarse whisper. The longer you do not act, the closer he grows to the Nether.

Shandris stared incredulously at the ancient Shen’dralar. Chuckling, the prince stood up. You assume I did not know you were coming, or why you came? Tortheldrin threw back his head and laughed; a hollow, cavernous sound. “But what am I supposed to do?” Shandris demanded, growling, “How do I bring Tarlithion back?”

The Storm is kept bound to this world by a force greater than we can comprehend. The power of your false Goddess cannot save him. Only sheer Arcane might will bring him back. To do this, you must harvest the arcane power the Naga that infest the ruins of Solarsal on your island.

Shandris stared at the ancient Shen’dralar prince incredulously. Her companions mimicked her with gaping jaws. “We… have to harvest… arcane energy?” The General of the Kaldorei armies folded her arms across her chest, raising an eyebrow. “I think the millennia locked way in this library have driven you mad, Tortheldrin.” The prince busied himself with a box behind a row of books on the shelf as Shandris continued, “And besides. If we must use Arcane energy to bring him back, can we not simply tap this immense battery you are perverting our world with?”

The box half opened, Prince Tortheldrin whirled, his face blazing with fury. You will not lay one stinking finger on my power his meta-voice howled at the three of them. His visage was pure rage; Shandris, normally stony and immovable, shrank away from the raging eyes of the ancient prince.

His fury dissipating, Tortheldrin turned back to the box. Take this necklace he said, passing the gemstone to his nearest, Andisiliel. You will gather the energy within these stones, and then place it on your sacrifice. Lydros will leave the proper ritual with you. Andisiliel gulped. “S-sacrifice?” she said, mousey, “we need a… s-sacrifice?” Tortheldrin laughed at the balking young Night Elf. You think you can simply bring him back freely? he said, chuckling. You need one willing to pay the cost to bind his soul to this world, or he will drift into the Nether and be lost to you for eternity. Until you can return his soul to his body, he will be housed in the host. But he can only inhabit another’s body so long. Wait too long, and the results may be disastrous.

Andisiliel clasped the necklace to her chest, gazing down at it. Tortheldrin, meanwhile, returned to his desk, sitting. Now, if that is everything, please: get out of my library. With that, the Prince of the Shen’dralar returned to his book, opening it to the exact page he left off on and returned to his reading.

Andi, Alstar and Shandris returned to the main doors, where their company of Sentinels waited, tense and prepared for any surprise. As Shandris quietly related her plans to one of her soldiers, Andisiliel Stormraven breathed deep, and spoke. “I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” Alstar asked, eyeing her sideways. Andisiliel opened the clasp, and fastened the jagged crystal ornament around her neck. “I will play host to Tarlithion’s spirit,” she said stalwartly. Hearing this, Shandris turned to face her, clasping the young warrior’s hands in her own. “Then we will soon have him back with us, Andi,” she said with a smile; the battle-hardened general embraced the younger woman firmly.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Isle of Dread was shrouded in darkness. Thick, inky black clouds shrouded the ruins in blackness; periodic lightning illuminated the scene. Kylanna Moonwhisper, Shandris and Alstar stood alongside an aged, rune-carved stone altar. Surrounded by the battered corpses of Naga, Andisiliel Stormraven lay naked on the altar, ignoring the biting wind and searing rain. Kylanna’s normally quiet voice echoed above the thundering gale; her fingers traced patterns in the air, weaving the spell around the prostrate warrior.

Lightning split the sky; a tense energy filled the air around them, and the runes on the altar began to emit a faint blue glow. Kylanna spoke louder and louder; the illuminated runes grew brighter with each uttered word. At last, the colour of the runes burst forth into the sky; lightning tore across the heavens, traveling down the shaft of luminous energy. The rough, jagged light wracked through Andisiliel’s naked form; she convulsed on the altar, straining against her bonds.

Then the light was gone, and all was quiet. The wind still howled, the rain still beat down, but the young warrior did not move. Shandris, Kylanna and Alstar watched in nervous anticipation, awaiting any sign of life. As they grew colder and wetter in the late hours of the pitch black night, it seemed as though the body would never move.

At last, she let out a ragged cough. Gasping for air, the body of Andisiliel strained against her bonds once more, moving to sit up. Desperately thrashing, she threw her head about, howling. “What is this!?” she screamed, eyes still shut tightly. The young Kaldorei fought and fought—Alstar forced her to the altar with heavy palms. Then, softly glowing eyes fluttered open…

“Alstar? W-what… what am I doing… here?” She asked, barely audible. Alstar let her up, loosening the bonds that lashed her to the stone slab. Gripping her head, Andisiliel groaned. “Why… is it raining?” she asked, eyes still squinting against the storm, “and why… am I… naked?” Crying out, Shandris and Kylanna embraced the young woman, stroking her hair. Andi fought back pitifully, muttering protests, until Kylanna pulled away. “Oh, Tarli, is it really you?”

“What? What are you…” at last, it dawned on her. “Kylanna?” she asked, straining against the embrace. “… and… Shandris?” the young woman said nervously. “Then… I’m…” slowly, Andisiliel placed her hands on her stomach, and drew them up her body. As they came to rest on her breasts, the Kaldorei’s eyes widened.

“Son of a bitch.”

At that expression, Shandris laughed with glee. “Tarlithion, my love!” she cried, “you’re with us again!” And she kissed the younger woman desperately.

Straining against an unwanted kiss, Tarlithion’s mind raced.

[Kurohane]

Storm in a Teacup

The thought still sent her snickering. Macho, hyper-sexual, alcoholic Tarlithion...trapped as a woman. It had been a few days since she'd run into him in Ironforge and finally gotten him...no, her to admit why she was acting so oddly. After all, Andisiliel had worn the Swordwaltzers' tabard in it's last days.

Of all places, the warrior had asked her to meet in the middle of the pond in the Forlorn Caverns of Ironforge. For at least half an hour Andisiliel had rambled on, jumping from topic to topic, faster and faster, ranting and raving, sounding nearly mad. Finally, though... finally, Kurohane managed to find the source of the seeming madness.

After all, how confused and upset would someone such as Tarlithion be, trapped in the body of a woman? Especially one as lovely as Andisiliel - which many men had made sure he knew of.

And so it had become almost a hobby, her teasing of him. The ease with which she could send him blush or stammering brought endless amusement - and usually, he only wound up digging himself a deeper hole. It was during one such conversation, by way of thier hearthstones, that the words she had been waiting to hear finally come out - femine voice with Tarlithion's distinct manner of speaking.

"...I guess I could try a dress..."

They met in Dor Shando's operation center not long after that. Kurohane had known JUST the dress to have tailored - it was all the rage in Stormwind - and had it made by one of her guildmates in the time it took Tarlithion to return to the Great City.

"You know," she said nonchalantly as Tarl began unlatching the plate armor off Andisiliel's body. "You might want to move out of line of the doorway..."

As she expected, Tarl's eyes went wide and crimson deep enough to hide the markings on his face took hold of his cheeks. Snickering to herself, she followed him as he dashed around the corner out of sight.

"I never had a problem changing in public before," he grumbled, glaring yet still blushing as he continued to doof his armor.

She shrug slightly, smirking, as she leaned back against the wall. After several more moments of blushing and muttering, Tarlithion the woman stood naked before her, holding the dress up where he could examine it.

"I hadn't taken it off before, you know," he muttered, glancing around the dress at her.

She bit her tounge. What, you haven't bathed? Muttering again, he began to ackwardly work the dress over his head. After a few more moments, this time of uncomfortable shrugging and adjusting, he huffed and looked back up at her with a quizical eye.

She beamed at him in return. "You look lovely, hun."

"'Lovely'?! Phha!" Yet he unconciously adjusted the the skirts.

"Well, you have to admit at least, it must feel better than being in that plate."

He squared his shoulders in a manly fashion that only servered to shove emphisise his womanly curves. "I feel at home in plate - it's all I wore before and during Hyjal."

She smirked again, raising an eyebrow. "You didn't exactly have those curves back then, though. Put your little masculine ego aside for a minute and be honest - your back problems you keep bitching to me about aren't so bad in that dress, now are they."

He hesitated before relucantly nodding. "I guess it does feel a little better..."

"And I'd wager you don't feel nearly so constrained in you more developed areas either."

Again, a hesitation before he sighed. "Yeah..."

"I know how to fix the rest of it," she added, pushing herself off the wall. "Don't get any ideas, though - I'm just popping your back."

He eyed her almost warily as she approached, wrapped her arms around his tiny waist and pressed up until she felt the pops go up his spine. His out cry, though, nearly threw her off balance.

"What?! Did I hurt you?"

"Me? Hurt?! Never!" he snapped, that old ego coming back full force as he twisted from side to side. Finally, he sighed, shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Oh right, sorry," she answered, smirking once more. "Forgot who I was talking to for a moment. But you know, guys can do that far better than I, being taller and all."

He grimaced in return, adjusting the dress over those curvy hips once more. "Not any guys I'd trust like that..."

She shrugged again before a wicked little grin lit her eyes. "So. Care to join me for a drink?" After all, she had to traipse him around in that dress, even if nobody knew the secret but a select few.

Oh yes, she was going to have endless amusement with this...

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v487/KanamoYuriko/TarlDress.jpg

[Noury]

(( If you wish to try out some other pretty fashions, there are several I can make that would be flattering.. :lol: ))