Fynne
03-26-2008, 03:56 PM
Another gaunt, hollow-eyed elf fell before Henri’s blade. Even in his last precious seconds of life, he grasped a vial of fel blood possessively to his lips; he should have chose a potion instead. Would Fynne have, though? He sighed at the elf, kneeling to examine his foe closer. These weren’t an enemy he fought with hate driving each of his blows. They weren’t betrayers – at least, they hadn’t betrayed him, anyway. Even if they had, could he blame them? What addicts would do, once enthralled by fel magicks, he knew too well.
“I pity them,” he said aloud, standing again.
“I believe you. I understand,” Jilliane answered quietly from behind him. The rest of their party stood quietly, staring. He could hear Sare murmuring something in the back, and the way Drakin’s whiskers twitched as he tried not to smile at whatever comment she’d made reminded him that he was holding them up again.
“No loot on this one,” he stood, coughing conspicuously. They returned to the task at hand.
- - -
Several blood elves later, the five of them stood before the Lord of this madness, Kael’thas, the man who had chained his followers into the thrall of this fel addiction. Fynne knew him – he knew exactly what he would say. How the rogue would caution him against the evils of his ways, how the elf would be too blind, too taken by the dark magic, and how they would come to fight. But before he could begin his side of this well rehearsed exchange, Jilliane stepped forward, banter thick on her tongue.
“Well, well, Kael’thas! Didn’t you learn your lesson in Tempest Keep?” she mocked the power-hungry elf, interrupting his monologue. “You know, last time I took a trophy. But I’m not interested in bringing one of your balls back to A’dal this time,” the paladin lifted her gaze above Kael’thas’ head where his third verdant sphere should have been, “the Shattered Sun wants your head.”
Three violent, exploding, dizzying minutes later, the ornately decorated room was scorched, statues broken and shattered into rubble across the floor with drapes aflame or burnt entirely away along the walls. Unlike Jilliane, Fynne had little desire for trophies from the slain elf. He had bested him before, but this victory now was over a shell of the man they had fought before. He looked like the others: pale, hollow, completely given in to his addiction – what did the elves call them? Wretched. Henri agreed.
He slumped down on the oversized pillowy throne – one of the few things still intact in the room, as the others began to dole out the elf’s treasure. Fynne felt something crack beneath him as he took his seat, and winced with preparation for the whole thing to fall apart around him, but a few seconds later, the throne was still standing.
“Ow! What in the–” Henri stood up suddenly, yelling out in pain. Something had burnt him as he sat.
Drawing his sword, Henri glared back at the throne where bright flames were arcing out from the cracks of a recently broken egg. A tiny bird exploded into light as the egg shattered every which way across the room, and the rogue stared curiously, weapon still before him.
“What’s tha- Oh!! It’s so cute!” Jilliane exclaimed, rushing over to look at the tiny phoenix. It chirped happily up at Henri, tilting its head from side to side.
Fynne sighed, staring at the flaming bird. “Well, someone’ll have to take care of it, now that we…” he trailed off, nodding over his shoulder at the corpse in the middle of the room.
Sare spoke up, slinking in behind the two, “What’ll you name it?” The warlock didn’t seem interested in the bird at all, barely glancing at it before staring at Fynne with her usual possessive gaze.
“Flowerstar, I think,” whispered Henri quietly, “Phoenixes are all about rebirth, aren’t they?”
http://i197.photobucket.com/albums/aa12/FynneJilli7/phoenix.jpg
“I pity them,” he said aloud, standing again.
“I believe you. I understand,” Jilliane answered quietly from behind him. The rest of their party stood quietly, staring. He could hear Sare murmuring something in the back, and the way Drakin’s whiskers twitched as he tried not to smile at whatever comment she’d made reminded him that he was holding them up again.
“No loot on this one,” he stood, coughing conspicuously. They returned to the task at hand.
- - -
Several blood elves later, the five of them stood before the Lord of this madness, Kael’thas, the man who had chained his followers into the thrall of this fel addiction. Fynne knew him – he knew exactly what he would say. How the rogue would caution him against the evils of his ways, how the elf would be too blind, too taken by the dark magic, and how they would come to fight. But before he could begin his side of this well rehearsed exchange, Jilliane stepped forward, banter thick on her tongue.
“Well, well, Kael’thas! Didn’t you learn your lesson in Tempest Keep?” she mocked the power-hungry elf, interrupting his monologue. “You know, last time I took a trophy. But I’m not interested in bringing one of your balls back to A’dal this time,” the paladin lifted her gaze above Kael’thas’ head where his third verdant sphere should have been, “the Shattered Sun wants your head.”
Three violent, exploding, dizzying minutes later, the ornately decorated room was scorched, statues broken and shattered into rubble across the floor with drapes aflame or burnt entirely away along the walls. Unlike Jilliane, Fynne had little desire for trophies from the slain elf. He had bested him before, but this victory now was over a shell of the man they had fought before. He looked like the others: pale, hollow, completely given in to his addiction – what did the elves call them? Wretched. Henri agreed.
He slumped down on the oversized pillowy throne – one of the few things still intact in the room, as the others began to dole out the elf’s treasure. Fynne felt something crack beneath him as he took his seat, and winced with preparation for the whole thing to fall apart around him, but a few seconds later, the throne was still standing.
“Ow! What in the–” Henri stood up suddenly, yelling out in pain. Something had burnt him as he sat.
Drawing his sword, Henri glared back at the throne where bright flames were arcing out from the cracks of a recently broken egg. A tiny bird exploded into light as the egg shattered every which way across the room, and the rogue stared curiously, weapon still before him.
“What’s tha- Oh!! It’s so cute!” Jilliane exclaimed, rushing over to look at the tiny phoenix. It chirped happily up at Henri, tilting its head from side to side.
Fynne sighed, staring at the flaming bird. “Well, someone’ll have to take care of it, now that we…” he trailed off, nodding over his shoulder at the corpse in the middle of the room.
Sare spoke up, slinking in behind the two, “What’ll you name it?” The warlock didn’t seem interested in the bird at all, barely glancing at it before staring at Fynne with her usual possessive gaze.
“Flowerstar, I think,” whispered Henri quietly, “Phoenixes are all about rebirth, aren’t they?”
http://i197.photobucket.com/albums/aa12/FynneJilli7/phoenix.jpg