Imara
10-25-2006, 12:40 PM
(( By Celethorn ))
*** This piece of work is dedicated to a former Blade who no longer wishes to play World of Warcraft. It was my honour to call him companion and friend and can only hope that he knows he is missed. ***
The boot stepped on the broken stones. The wood that once reinforced the building long since burnt, snapping under the weight of the warrior’s shining silver armour. The man, looking no older than his mid-forties knelt before two mounds of blackened soil. The graves were marked by two large broadswords. His hair shimmered with an unnatural glow, his eyes radiating an unnatural blue light. Surrounding him was a broken Guild Hall, now just dirt and rubble. He reached out towards the swords, hesitating and looking at the names. On one, in Thelassian, was the word “ANSEL”, on the other “OPHIELLA”.
“What brings you back here, Grey Hair?”
The Ranger, Celethorn Greyhame smiled despite himself. It had been a long time since he had heard the voice of his old friend Lorandir Lethalion. The Druid had entered the Emerald Dream and Celethorn hadn’t seen or heard from him since that day.
“I find myself drawn back here, Lorandir. I come to visit those I failed and to ask for their forgiveness.”
The Druid sighed, but did not move. If Celethorn were looking, he’d have seen the spirit cross his arms and wrinkle his nose.
“Always thinking you’ve failed. That’s not how I remember it….”
---------
Seven months ago…
“Bar those gates SHUT!”
Celethorn barked orders as Ansel, the druid, and the priest, Feorn, raced to shut the giant wooden doors of the Guild Hall. Garric Stormbringer, Paladin of the Light, stood beside Celethorn, smashing a plated knee into the face of an orc. In a fluid motion, Celethorn turned and punched a figure coming up behind him, following up with a head butt before stabbing the tauren in the chest with his sword.
“You know, Cele, this probably is time to retreat…”
Even panicked, Feorn Starcaller continued to sound calm. As he stood next to his elven comrade, Celethorn wondered how he managed it. Garric snarled at a troll mage, slamming his mace into the troll’s groin, watching it keel over.
“Blink away from that, asshole.”
Celethorn stifled a snicker but didn’t have long to react, as the wall to the right of him blasted open and sent him flying back into his apprentice, Seras De'Alynase. He shook his head, nodding at Seras before leaping at another plate-wearing orc. The fight continued; the Blades defending themselves as they made their way to the secret exits placed around the hall.
Celethorn and his companions made a push to buy more time for the others and were somewhat surprised when they seemed to break the enemy and force a momentary lull. Celethorn looked around at the dead and wounded, taking a deep breath and coughing as the ash from the smouldering wall filled his lungs. Ansel smiled at him as Ophiella Moongale came out of the shadows.
“Cele, it’s time to go.”
“I suppose. Ansel… Do you hear something?”
Celethorn looked up at the ceiling, unprepared for the blast that rocked the foundation and roof of the hall. Stones came crashing down as Celethorn, knowing he didn’t have time to move, prepared to meet his end. He closed his eyes and murmured a few words in Thelassian but instead of a large rock penetrating his skull he felt an enormous force charge into his gut; sending him flying away from the falling debris.
Celethorn held his head for a second, watching flame eat wood as the remnants of the once proud hall burned. It took a moment for the gravity of what had happened to register but then he heard Ophiella sobbing. He walked over to her, holding his stomach and dragging his Quel’Serrar; the sword leaving a deep trail in the ash on the floor. Ansel’s face was contorted in pain, a jagged piece of rock protruding from his chest. He looked up at Celethorn and forced a smile.
“I always said you’d be the end of me, Greyhame.”
Celethorn’s face fell, his jaw clenching with emotion. He knelt down and shook his head.
“You didn’t have to do that for me, you know.”
“I know. I figure I owed you.”
Their conversation was cut short as four large orcs approached the trio, tossing broken beams and fallen stone out of their path. Ophiella looked to Celethorn and saw his face twisting with rage.
“I’ll kill them all!”
The orcs roared at Celethorn, their bloodlust driving them forward as Celethorn readied himself.
“Oh no you don’t, moron, let’s go!”
Atop his frostsabre, Tarlithion Stormreaver shot at the orcs from behind; arrows embedding themselves in their backs, shoulders and legs. He cursed a bad shot gone wide into the smallest orc’s hand.
“We have to go. There’s even more on the way. I don’t know where the hell they’re coming from but they’re coming. Whoever wants us dead, really wants us d—“
Tarlithion looked down to see Ansel’s broken body.
“Shit. Look…. Erm…”
“Go.”
The remaining Blades turned to Ophiella who stood looking forward; her resolve set. She looked at Tarlithion and Celethorn levelly.
“I won’t let Ansel die alone. You need to go. Go be safe.”
“Ophiella… No.”
“Captain, Elune teaches that everything has its time. We shall meet again, this I know. Light be with you, Ranger.”
Tarlithion tugged on Celethorn’s shoulder. Celethorn looked from Ophiella to Ansel, choking back his emotions.
“Thank you. Both of you… For everything.”
Celethorn, Tarlithion and the few other remaining Blades left as quickly as they could, weariness from fighting hindering their progress.
Ophiella kneeled down and took Ansel’s hand in hers. She smiled, not needing words. They sat there in silence until she heard the roars and heavy armoured footsteps of the next wave. She stood and smiled sweetly.
“Let’s misbehave.”
-----------
Celethorn and Tarlithion, late, joined the rest of the recuperating Blades at the Pig and Whistle. Liadain made her way across the tavern to them, handing out drinks and checking bandages along the way. She smiled, but it was obvious she had been crying and Celethorn could only assume that word of Ansel’s death had already reached her. When she reached the pair in the doorway she took Celethorn’s hand without a word and squeezed it tightly.
Riogan, Shayenne, Paula and several of the other Blades that had made it out before the final stand watched the exchange curiously. Riogan took his helm off; his face steely concern.
“Boss… Where’s Ansel?”
Celethorn leaned against the tavern’s railing and ran a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know a good way to say this, so I’ll just say it. Ansel’s dead.”
The silence in the tavern hung heavily.
-------------
Celethorn looked at the two graves before him, his thumb tracing the embroidery on a tabard bearing the old Blades insignia. His head still hung low.
“It sounds to me, old Greyhame, like those two made their choices. And now it seems you’re about to make one as well.”
“I am.”
“The Goddess continues to weep, she watches you and yours.”
“Me and mine… What does that even mean now, Lorandir?”
“It means that this world is yours to do with as you please. The world could always use another hero or thirty. If you want it, reach out and take it. Isn’t that what you’d tell me? Do it.”
Celethorn sighed deeply. He gripped the tabard tightly, trying to mask his pain.
“We’d have nowhere to go. I don’t even know if I have it in me anymore.”
Lorandir smiled.
“Ahhha. See, that is where you are wrong! I can show you a guild hall… New, nice and tucked away. I intended to use it myself but found myself liking the camp we had too much… So go. Go and take it.”
Celethorn shook his head, unable to stop himself smiling.
“I think I have some misbehaving of my own to do.”
Celethorn stood. Holding the tabard in his hands, looking at it. He slipped it over his head, admiring the red and gold design. He turned and faced Lorandir who beamed a warm smile at him. He nodded.
“For Coin and Debauchery!”
*** This piece of work is dedicated to a former Blade who no longer wishes to play World of Warcraft. It was my honour to call him companion and friend and can only hope that he knows he is missed. ***
The boot stepped on the broken stones. The wood that once reinforced the building long since burnt, snapping under the weight of the warrior’s shining silver armour. The man, looking no older than his mid-forties knelt before two mounds of blackened soil. The graves were marked by two large broadswords. His hair shimmered with an unnatural glow, his eyes radiating an unnatural blue light. Surrounding him was a broken Guild Hall, now just dirt and rubble. He reached out towards the swords, hesitating and looking at the names. On one, in Thelassian, was the word “ANSEL”, on the other “OPHIELLA”.
“What brings you back here, Grey Hair?”
The Ranger, Celethorn Greyhame smiled despite himself. It had been a long time since he had heard the voice of his old friend Lorandir Lethalion. The Druid had entered the Emerald Dream and Celethorn hadn’t seen or heard from him since that day.
“I find myself drawn back here, Lorandir. I come to visit those I failed and to ask for their forgiveness.”
The Druid sighed, but did not move. If Celethorn were looking, he’d have seen the spirit cross his arms and wrinkle his nose.
“Always thinking you’ve failed. That’s not how I remember it….”
---------
Seven months ago…
“Bar those gates SHUT!”
Celethorn barked orders as Ansel, the druid, and the priest, Feorn, raced to shut the giant wooden doors of the Guild Hall. Garric Stormbringer, Paladin of the Light, stood beside Celethorn, smashing a plated knee into the face of an orc. In a fluid motion, Celethorn turned and punched a figure coming up behind him, following up with a head butt before stabbing the tauren in the chest with his sword.
“You know, Cele, this probably is time to retreat…”
Even panicked, Feorn Starcaller continued to sound calm. As he stood next to his elven comrade, Celethorn wondered how he managed it. Garric snarled at a troll mage, slamming his mace into the troll’s groin, watching it keel over.
“Blink away from that, asshole.”
Celethorn stifled a snicker but didn’t have long to react, as the wall to the right of him blasted open and sent him flying back into his apprentice, Seras De'Alynase. He shook his head, nodding at Seras before leaping at another plate-wearing orc. The fight continued; the Blades defending themselves as they made their way to the secret exits placed around the hall.
Celethorn and his companions made a push to buy more time for the others and were somewhat surprised when they seemed to break the enemy and force a momentary lull. Celethorn looked around at the dead and wounded, taking a deep breath and coughing as the ash from the smouldering wall filled his lungs. Ansel smiled at him as Ophiella Moongale came out of the shadows.
“Cele, it’s time to go.”
“I suppose. Ansel… Do you hear something?”
Celethorn looked up at the ceiling, unprepared for the blast that rocked the foundation and roof of the hall. Stones came crashing down as Celethorn, knowing he didn’t have time to move, prepared to meet his end. He closed his eyes and murmured a few words in Thelassian but instead of a large rock penetrating his skull he felt an enormous force charge into his gut; sending him flying away from the falling debris.
Celethorn held his head for a second, watching flame eat wood as the remnants of the once proud hall burned. It took a moment for the gravity of what had happened to register but then he heard Ophiella sobbing. He walked over to her, holding his stomach and dragging his Quel’Serrar; the sword leaving a deep trail in the ash on the floor. Ansel’s face was contorted in pain, a jagged piece of rock protruding from his chest. He looked up at Celethorn and forced a smile.
“I always said you’d be the end of me, Greyhame.”
Celethorn’s face fell, his jaw clenching with emotion. He knelt down and shook his head.
“You didn’t have to do that for me, you know.”
“I know. I figure I owed you.”
Their conversation was cut short as four large orcs approached the trio, tossing broken beams and fallen stone out of their path. Ophiella looked to Celethorn and saw his face twisting with rage.
“I’ll kill them all!”
The orcs roared at Celethorn, their bloodlust driving them forward as Celethorn readied himself.
“Oh no you don’t, moron, let’s go!”
Atop his frostsabre, Tarlithion Stormreaver shot at the orcs from behind; arrows embedding themselves in their backs, shoulders and legs. He cursed a bad shot gone wide into the smallest orc’s hand.
“We have to go. There’s even more on the way. I don’t know where the hell they’re coming from but they’re coming. Whoever wants us dead, really wants us d—“
Tarlithion looked down to see Ansel’s broken body.
“Shit. Look…. Erm…”
“Go.”
The remaining Blades turned to Ophiella who stood looking forward; her resolve set. She looked at Tarlithion and Celethorn levelly.
“I won’t let Ansel die alone. You need to go. Go be safe.”
“Ophiella… No.”
“Captain, Elune teaches that everything has its time. We shall meet again, this I know. Light be with you, Ranger.”
Tarlithion tugged on Celethorn’s shoulder. Celethorn looked from Ophiella to Ansel, choking back his emotions.
“Thank you. Both of you… For everything.”
Celethorn, Tarlithion and the few other remaining Blades left as quickly as they could, weariness from fighting hindering their progress.
Ophiella kneeled down and took Ansel’s hand in hers. She smiled, not needing words. They sat there in silence until she heard the roars and heavy armoured footsteps of the next wave. She stood and smiled sweetly.
“Let’s misbehave.”
-----------
Celethorn and Tarlithion, late, joined the rest of the recuperating Blades at the Pig and Whistle. Liadain made her way across the tavern to them, handing out drinks and checking bandages along the way. She smiled, but it was obvious she had been crying and Celethorn could only assume that word of Ansel’s death had already reached her. When she reached the pair in the doorway she took Celethorn’s hand without a word and squeezed it tightly.
Riogan, Shayenne, Paula and several of the other Blades that had made it out before the final stand watched the exchange curiously. Riogan took his helm off; his face steely concern.
“Boss… Where’s Ansel?”
Celethorn leaned against the tavern’s railing and ran a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know a good way to say this, so I’ll just say it. Ansel’s dead.”
The silence in the tavern hung heavily.
-------------
Celethorn looked at the two graves before him, his thumb tracing the embroidery on a tabard bearing the old Blades insignia. His head still hung low.
“It sounds to me, old Greyhame, like those two made their choices. And now it seems you’re about to make one as well.”
“I am.”
“The Goddess continues to weep, she watches you and yours.”
“Me and mine… What does that even mean now, Lorandir?”
“It means that this world is yours to do with as you please. The world could always use another hero or thirty. If you want it, reach out and take it. Isn’t that what you’d tell me? Do it.”
Celethorn sighed deeply. He gripped the tabard tightly, trying to mask his pain.
“We’d have nowhere to go. I don’t even know if I have it in me anymore.”
Lorandir smiled.
“Ahhha. See, that is where you are wrong! I can show you a guild hall… New, nice and tucked away. I intended to use it myself but found myself liking the camp we had too much… So go. Go and take it.”
Celethorn shook his head, unable to stop himself smiling.
“I think I have some misbehaving of my own to do.”
Celethorn stood. Holding the tabard in his hands, looking at it. He slipped it over his head, admiring the red and gold design. He turned and faced Lorandir who beamed a warm smile at him. He nodded.
“For Coin and Debauchery!”