Visca

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About Visca

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  • Birthday 07/31/1989

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  1. Where it had once been dawn, the sun was now far removed from the sky. Just as was the visage of the Grand Magistrix that had been there to greet them mere moments previous. But that didn’t make any sense. The Sin’dorei in disguise blinked as his gloved finger came to rest on his forehead, his mind struggling through a strange haze like that of waking from a dream-- or sobering from some apex of intoxication. And the murmur of various Elven dialects surrounding him was enough to confirm he was not alone. His mind drifted back to his previous conversation. Kal’une, with his inexplicable sixth sense, had mentioned a trap… that of some sort of powerful sorcery... The confused murmurings increased, making it hard for Draco to concentrate. To piece together what had happened, to explain the dramatic shift in time… Time! Could it really be? Could the Grand Magistrix really be wielding such power? The murmurings grew louder with each passing minute, teetering from confusion to the verge of panic before such a climax was mercifully averted by a much-welcomed voice. “It worked! I mean-- of course, it did. Your soldiers are safe, Generals.” “Blood Knights, get into formation!” “Elune be praised that all is not lost. Come, we have a war to finish.” The women left the Archmage’s flank, ignoring the dark-clad figure who kept his head down as they passed. They had troops to attend and command, and Visca was thankful for this as much as he was for the cloth that censored his features from view. A dramatic reveal of a dead champion of the Elven peoples of Azeroth was not something any of them needed before the battle truly came underway. His fingers twisted at the ring under his gloves, ensuring the illusion remained in effect before approaching the grey-haired man that overlooked the Concourse of Destiny before the gates of the Nighthold itself. Behind him was a contingent from the Kirin Tor. An unwelcome sight in usual company, but welcome enough to be ignored for now given current circumstances. “It pleases me to see the three of you got out in time.” “My apologies for being unable to remove you from the enchantment, it was risky enough to get them out. If I had pushed our luck any further… the flow of time itself was in jeopardy.” “Then you made the wisest decision. How long were we stranded here?” “A few weeks. Maybe a month or two? We’ve been laying the groundwork to ensure such a trap won’t be sprung on us once more. We already have a strike team within the fortress itself, we will be joining them once everyone is back in order.” “Already inside? I’m glad to see our position was not put to waste.” “You… sound quite familiar, have we met?” “Only in passing.” The response was quick, followed by a slight pause. “...War brings out all kinds, and this city is not as large as we like to pretend it is. I am certain our knives in the dark were brought to your attention at some point.” That contingent was becoming a lot harder to overlook. “I see. Y--” The Archmage seemed unconvinced. Of course he would be. They had brushed shoulders enough back in Shattrath. But he was mercifully cut off, forced to put aside his interrogation from their new visitors. “THE WRETCHES ESCAPED THEIR PRISON, HAVE THEY?” A demonic voice rang over the entirety of the Concourse before erupting into brutal laughter. “NO MATTER, YOUR SOULS ARE FORFEIT-- THEY’LL MAKE NICE FUEL FOR OUR ENGINES.” This had certainly caught Visca’s attention, a merciful diversion from the questions of his identity. Reinforcements of Demon and Nightborne alike had made their way beside savage Doomlord master, the warlocks of their number opening their portals to summon more demonic forces to swarm the armies trapped between them and the magically sealed gates into the Nighthold. “Work on getting the gates open, we shall cover for you!” Visca shouted over his shoulder, refusing to take the time to stop and address the Archmage appropriately. For what was once the front lines had now become the rear, and the former Lord-General would not stand back as his people risked their lives. He drew his twin Ebonfeather Longblades as he waded his way through the tight formations Lady Liadrin had drilled into her men. Visca would have been impressed, had it not been for his sheer frustration as he tried to join the fray. Any moment those portals would fully form and be allowed to pour further demonic reinforces. Before they were given the chance-- the unthinkable happened. From behind enemy lines, a grave treason was committed as select members of the Duskwatch sunk their spellblades deep into the backs of those vile summoners. And with the spell left incomplete those tears in the fabric of reality were slammed shut once more. The effect was as sudden as it was devastating, the illusions peeling away to reveal the true visages that of the Illidari that was only further confirmed from their warcries. This was a merciful stroke of fate for those Elven armies that were cornered between the Legion-aligned forces and the fortress that stood still defiant to the Archmage’s attempts to pry through its steadfast defenses. Both sides moved to gain ground in the clashes, the ensuing chaos of Illiadri harassment granted the united elven armies the advantage they needed to push forward to head off their attackers. But such a move was not without risk, and several paid the price at the business end of a Felguard’s axe. Visca was almost among their number. His reflexes were just quick enough to head off the attack. Not where the axe would land, but into the wrists of the creature. He was uncertain how well the thin metal would handle the direct force of something so massive. He felt the burning blood of the demon seep into his dark brigandine, a flick of his own writs severed that of the Felguard opponent. The axe hit the ground, an Illidari decapitated the creature from behind. A wordless nod was shared between the two before the Illidari rushed back into the fray. Visca moved to join them, his foot stumbling upon the corpse of one of his own-- a Sin’dorei Blood Knight under the command of Lady Liadrin. The Knight looked young, from what Visca could tell through what little was visible from beyond the visor. This loss allowed sorrow to swell within the tall man, a sorrow short-lived as it burned into rage as imps assaulted him, the first backhanded so hard its skull splattered one the stone edge beyond the greenery strip that was trampled upon countless times during this military endeavor. Another was dispatched with a quick slice in two, a third managing to leap upon Draco’s back. With searing flames, it ruined the leather to expose one of the strips of metal armor beneath. The vile creature stabbed its nails between the strips, forcing blood to pool to the surface of the Elven man’s skin, which rapidly formed a spike to eliminate the creature. But the fury at the loss of a Sin’dorei life had not subsided, it likely never would. It would remain a stain upon the Shattered Son’s soul as every loss he witnessed did. The fury fueled his voice as he shouted over the battlefield back toward the Kirin Tor at work at the gates that barred their way. “How much longer do you and your wizards need to break that seal?” “We’re working on it! The Grand Magistrix is a master of her craft!” “Work on it faster! People are dying!” The exasperation evident in his voice as Visca passed over the corpses of his people to delve back into the fray of the warzone that was taking place. With each slice, another of the demonic scum fell victim to the enhanced strength of the Shattered Son. Each swing of the blade maneuvered him closer and closer to his newest goal: finding the Illidari from before. Their meeting was more of a clash of their forms. “You! This battle is taking far too long, if we keep this up we will lose too many to provide proper support to those within. What do you say we finish this off by removing the head of the beast?” “I like the way you think.” The Illidari nodded with a grin, a motion gathered more of their number. “We’ll go high, striking fast. You go low and hammer it home.” With their makeshift tactic decided, the two parties sprung into action. From on high came the winged fury of the Illidari, their quick strikes with glaives in hand harassed the Doomlord where he stood. His blade menaced them in the sky, though found no purchase, for they were too quick for the likes of such a hulking brute. “STAY STILL, COWARDS!” Visca charged from below, dodging those of his army that attempted to stop him. To reach their target he had to keep his momentum. Hellfire rained from the sky, it claimed two of the unfortunate to be caught unaware. The others continued their aerial dance with a grace and speed to keep them unsinged from the flames the monster summoned. Almost there. “Now!!!” The five Illidari that remained within the sky struck in unison at the Doomlord’s face. The Demon moved his hand to cover form a physical barrier for his face, one was blocked and crushed within the creature’s foul grip. The other four slipped through his grasp. One had overcorrected, the aim of the glaive tinked harmlessly upon the massive hunk of armor protecting the monster. Flames erupted from his mouth, igniting the third Illidari who fell lifelessly at the demon’s foot and was trampled under a hoof in spite. The second struck true, blinding the demon in his left eye. And the final grabbed the demon by his horn and guided his glaive into the back of the neck of the creature. “YOU WILL PA---AGH!!!” From below, Visca struck as the hoof pressed the corpse of the fallen Illidari further into the stone. His razor-edged Longblades sunk into the flesh at the knee, craving the kneecap free from its socket of muscle and cartilage. The empty socket collapsed as gravity gnashed the two bones together, only for the force of the eye wound to further destroy the Doomlord’s balance. Down tumbled the giant. But Visca wasn’t done. He couldn’t afford the creature to remain alive after this, the infernal fury of such a monster would only further the deaths of his people. Instead, Visca watched his new target rapidly approach as two Illidari now mounted the back of his neck as they stabbed mercilessly. When it was time, the Shattered Son dodged the majority of the mass that crumbled underneath its own weight-- his Longblade remaining in the perfect spot of the underside of the Demon’s neck to finish the job. Thoroughly severed, the head rolled into the Legion forces from behind. Those who withstood the rolling head of their commander soon found themselves coated in a flood the vile burning neon fluids that ruptured as his dam of demonic flesh burst. The conflict was over, it gave those who assassinated the Doomlord a chance to catch their breath. “...You must be this ‘Shattered Son’ the Slayer sent us to aid. The Shal’dorei that is not.” “...Perhaps. Who is this ‘Slayer’ you speak of?” Once again they had sown chaos in the ranks in the forces that threatened them. It felt better on this side of subterfuge. “The Slayer that has worked with this so-called ‘Shattered Son’ to bring revolution to the streets of Suramar, that has hindered Legion occupation here with the group known as ‘The Ebonfeathers’. Colorful names.” “Ah. So you’re friends with Kal’une.” Visca spoke as he worked to shove the corpse into the water below. “‘Kal’une’. Yes.” “...Where is he?” Visca asked, his body tensing from the sound of a series of explosions in the distance. “We could use him today.” “Didn’t you hear?” Smirked one of the Demon Hunters. “He’s working on a feint to buy us time to do this right.” “A feint but not quite.” Another one responded with a smirk. “The gates are breached! Sorry we couldn’t join you sooner, but we had a bit of a mess to clean up out front.” Archmage Khadgar called, announcing the outer reinforcements’ presence to those inside and the strike team accompanying them. It ended the conversation at hand, allowing Visca to slip back on the illusion that had gotten him this far as the Elven armies regrouped and began their march behind the accompanying Kirin Tor forces at Khadgar’s flanks. “I’ll see to fortifying our position here. Thalyssra, your guidance has been invaluable to our champions so far. They’ll rely upon your wisdom in the battles ahead.” “The people of Suramar owe these heroes a debt we can never fully repay. I will stand with them until the end.” Thalyssra departed with the strike team to delve further into the Nighthold, to end this tyranny of the Grand Magistrix once and for all. “I’ll keep an eye on your progress. Good luck!” Smiled as he pulled out a scrying orb. The Kirin Tor with him worked to draw from the energies of the fortress itself to reform a defensive barrier should further reinforcements attempt another flanking maneuver. The armies within moved with haste to secure the courtyard, each not wanting their fallen brothers in the battle to be in vain. The Shattered Son felt this emotion tenfold, it only tempered by the nearing closure of another successful insurgency of his career.
  2. It seemed impossible to determine how long the remaining of the trio stood there in shock after watching their assumed victory snuffed out with a single gesture. Three armies, of separate proud nations of Elven people, gone-- nothing more that statues lost to time. Even worse for Isabaele, was the loss of the man who offered her salvation from her former life, her dear commander was now stolen from her. “We’ve done all we can here.” The flat tone spoke behind her, his hand coming to her shoulder. “We’ll live to fight another day.” “No!” A look of harsh indignation filled her features as she whirled to look back at the man, “How dare you? We’re not leaving him behind! There has to be something we can do!” “And what would you suggest? Wading into a destabilized temporal zone that the enemy controls?” Kal’une shook his head. “No. We have a war to win.” And with that, her objections were dismissed. The disguised Illidari pulled out a small sliver of a gem, “M, pull us out. The day is lost.” Isabaele fell to her knees, defeated but still trying to come up with a counter argument. She had none. She cursed herself for her stupidity as tears ran down her face, the moisture caught the glinting light of the portal that formed behind the final half of the brothers Danteur. It was in this moment she finally found her voice again. “Wait… what about the other rebels, we’re not leaving them too are we?” “They belong to Thalyssra, not us.” The voice of Kal’une was flat and to the point as usual, his back turned from the girl kneeling upon the Concourse as he began his journey towards the portal. He stopped three steps from its maw when he heard the lack of footfall behind him. His blind gaze returned to the girl. “You have two options: Stay here and wallow until the Duskwatch finds you; or prove that Sin’soiel was right about you. We lost this battle, but tomorrow is another day. The war continues. Decide if you desire to be a waste of our time, but know I will no longer tolerate such distractions. If you decide to remain with us I will require your full dedication. And be quick about your resolve, the Legion will not wait for us.” And with that final sentence, Lord Kal’une Danteur vanished-- potentially forever. Isabaele looked back towards where the man she so admired stood in stasis and took a deep breath. She stood back upon her feet. “I will be back for you, I promise.”
  3. At sunrise, the day of Elisande’s retribution was at last at hand. Over the passing weeks the forces of the Three Elven armies, the Kirin Tor and the Nightborne Rebels had amassed at their gates; now they began their march into the city. Thanks to groundwork laid by Dusk Lily and Ebonfeather alike, the first conflict of the day proved readily decisive in favor of the Elven Armies, allowing them to advance into the city proper towards the central Nighthold of Suramar; the rebels were left to cover their rear. It was here where the Brothers Danteur, leaders of the Ebonfeather cell of the rebellion could at last let loose their nightmarish power. Kal’une, the more visible of the brothers in the day to day of their operations leapt forth into the crowd, his shape given way for the horrible demons that plagued their city. His claws were like blades, severing whatever appendages they managed to grab hold to. His strength, matched by his brutality and lust for violence, proved overwhelming for those unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of his wrath. The more elusive brother, the man known as Sin’soiel, was more subdued in his fighting style. At first he fought with classical purpose, illustrating would thousands of years of training could do to a swordsman. In the morning sun, the black razor-like daggers-turned-longswords cut through the air and loyalist alike. A swish in the air, a parry to help demoralize the foe, though it did not matter. They were far more outmatched than the loyalists knew. For it only took a single strike to make contact for his style to prove as terrifying as his brother’s. The man seemed indestructible from their eyes, spells cast didn’t take hold, those who got lucky hits in seemed to do nothing more than seal their doom. When the blood mixed between the Danteur and his foes, it sprung to live under his control. Now longer did they simply have to deal with the superb swordsman and his dual blades, but bladed tendrils of blood as well. Dozens fell before the Danteur Brothers, and so still did dozens more. In the passing hours, scores of loyalist bodies, whole and severed, laid strewn across the elegant stone of the promenade where the siege had began, the blue pavement painted red from the blood and gore shed. The numbers of those defending the pathway dwindled and when they reached a point where victory had been assured the newest member of the Ebonfeathers proper, Isabaele, approached. “My lords, we have secured this location. M has assured me he has it handled from here.” “Did you hear that, Kal?” Sin’soiel sheathed his blade, his body drank in the remnants of the blood to repair his form from the conflict. “Kadgar will be pleased with the news of our success.” “Very well.” Growled the elf-turned-demon, he dropped the fel-charred upper half of his latest victim from his taloned fingers without ceremony where it could join the others. As he took steps towards the duo, the demon within was once again shackled. Allowing the brother to once again return to his natural state. The trio coalesced into formation, Sin’soiel was flanked by his brother upon the left, his newest and most promising protégée at his right as they began their victorious march down the Concourse of Destiny. Each step of the march towards the finale of this conflict filled the central man with pride in what the combined might of the Elven peoples were able to accomplish. When they tore down this tyrant, a third for the man behind the illusion, they could then turn their sights to ending this war with minimal casualties. Here in this moment, it felt nothing was impossible for their forces. “Archmage...” Except Archmage Khadgar was paying them no mind. Something of greater importance was unraveling before them. Their armies had stopped, greeted by the vision of the very tyrant they were marching to dispose. Grand Magistrix Elisande’s vision stared down at them with a sneer. “Behold this motley throng in which the rebels put their faith.” “Sin,” the disguised Illidari leaned to whisper in his brother’s ear, “this doesn’t bode well. We should retreat and regroup.” Sin’soiel held his hand out to stay his brother’s concerns, their victory was so close. Just behind that gate. “Kaldorei?” The visage of Elisande continued her mockery. “You disgrace a glorious past, hiding in trees and cloaking yourselves in false piety. You have grown as savage as the trolls that skulk about your forests.” “Powerful magics are at play.” Kal’une hissed more urgently in the ear of his brother. “It’s a trap. We need to turn around. Now.” “Quel’dorei?” The Projection’s eyes glanced at the next gathering of elves, that lead by the last living known Windrunner herself. “You are peasants playing at nobility, all too willing to mingle with lesser races that dilute your bloodline. You are unworthy of the high elves.” Sin knew better than question his brother’s senses, the man seemed to have a sixth sense that replaced whatever he lost with his eyes. “Very well, pull back. I shall warn the others.” He began his march forward, summoning his own mana in preparation to block whatever his brother had seen. “What? No!” “Sin’dorei?” The image addressed the final of the elven forces before her. “Of all the elves, I thought you might understand the choice I made to save my people. Instead, you ally with misfits and monsters.” “You forget, I am trained for this.” Sin’soiel tried to reassure his comrades as he rushed forward. Whatever it was Elisande had planned, she would release it soon. If he was going to save his people, all of his people, the time was now! “Each of you has debased your proud lineage. Each of you has forgotten the ancient power that is our birthright.” Sin’soiel broke into a full sprint towards the armies in front of him, not allowing the combination of leather and metal he wore to hinder him. He had to save them! “Let this failed rebellion be a lesson to any that would stand against the Shal’dorei!” The Grand Magistrix let loose the power she had been building for a spell unlike anything they could have imagined from one of the mortal races. It mattered not that the back of the forces had tried to make their escape now. It was too late, far too late. Sin’soiel was forced to watch as the wave of magic consumed the forms in the front, the very leaders of this military operation. He had opened his mouth to shout his warning, but as he was forced to watch in horror, it instead became a simple scream of a single elongated syllable of a word. The wave of magic continued its onslaught, devouring forms and freezing them in time-- eventually washing over Sin himself. He tried with all his might to use his training to fight it, but it was in vain. For all he did was buy himself a few seconds to scream in futility. And when his own voice was silenced, the last thing he heard was his Protégée’s voice echoing his own….
  4. It seemed impossible, how the nights had rapidly filled void of time between the rebel cell of the Ebonfeathers and the tragedy of the Massacre at the Waning Crescent. The blow to morale had been significant, between the deaths of civilians and the murder of one of their own. And yet, it seemed, it had proven a dark boon for the Insurrection as it gained an undeniable amount of traction within the passing week. Word had spread of this, among other atrocities, across the city and beyond. And with that, deserters from Elisande’s loyalists began swelling within the amount of recruits the Dusklilly rebellion pulled from. But this was not all, for outside the city of Suramar the allied forces of the three Elven Armies and the Kirin Tor pooled as they planned their invasion of the Nighthold. These factors had proven enough, at the behest of the Former Arcanist herself, for the Danteurs and the Ebonfeathers at their command to step out of the shadows and take upon a mantle of military authority. After they had introduced themselves to the familiar face of Kadgar, the cell-turned-military settled their own place within the camp. Manuelle opened a portal to allow more recruits passage, Maurice ran drills for their archers. Isabaele was sent on a scouting mission, leaving the Danteur brothers to organize the rest of their resources and personnel-- including the Withered that had been sent as infantrymen. A task that would quickly be left to Kal’une, as his brother found himself entertaining a guest upon their grounds. As they set up camp, Sin’soiel found himself hailed by one of the great Generals of this upcoming joint-military invasion. That of the Silvermoon Military specifically, “Lady Laidrin, you honor us as you grace us with your presence.” “I’m curious to see what Thalyssra has managed, I meant every word of concern I expressed at our meeting.” The Blood Knight spoke as they began their traverse of the Ebonfeather camp. “Your concern is both noted and heeded, My Lady.” Sin’soiel reassured her. “I heartens me to see all of our Bloodlines working for a common cause, could you imagine what we would be capable if this alliance of yours were to remain solidified after this conflict?” “If only the Light were so merciful.” Laidrin spoke, her voice cool. “Your isolation has left you unaware of the events for millennia, I don’t think a single joint military operation would be enough to undo the transgressions of each represented here. Nor do they seek out an understanding, Vereesa being the worst offender.” “A shame then, that we could not prove the catalyst for such an understanding then.” Sin’s blue face scrunched into a frown before shaking his head, presenting the first of their forces. “Many of our latest recruits are deserters after all the sins Elisande has committed against her own, the gentleman leading them is Maurice. A sharpshooter whom has been under our employ when we were performing much more covert operations. Not only is his aim impeccable, his knowledge of the ins and outs of this city should provide us quite the boon if things go awry.” “What your Grand Magistrix has done is horrible, we are no strangers to the pain of such betrayal from one’s leader.” “Is that so?” The white brow raised as he gave a nod to Maurice, whom called for the attention of the archers for a demonstration. With a quiver of ten arrows, he started at one end of the training field, and began his shooting each target one after another. When the one before him was finished, he would sidestep to the next. Not taking a break for careful aim. “Our own Prince sought to sell out the world to the Legion for some unknown purpose… likely Madness. It is our duty to help your people through this, there is no reason to make you suffer alone in your struggles against tyranny and the Burning Legion.” They watched as Maurice shot bullseye after bullseye. “He is quite talented.” “We are quite proud of him.” Sin’soiel smiled before ushering her to the next place of note when the demonstration was over. The archers behind them seemed just as impressed. “This is our Telemancy Specialist, while he has a lot to learn before he can rival the Chief Telemancer, he has shown a great deal of promise-- allowing our strike team to transport, hit our target, and get out before we are even noticed. With the influx of recruits, the deserters I had mentioned previously, our personnel have been swelling in regular intervals. It is thanks to ‘M’ here, that we are able to prepare for the assault in such a rapid fashion.” Manuelle was too busy with his task at hand, he did not spare the moments required for formalities for the Blood Knight Matriarch. “...He seems too busy in his duties to entertain us, however, shall we continue?” At the Blood Knight’s bid, as per marked by her nod, they continued towards where their Withered troops were stationed. She blinked, her attention remaining upon them. “...How did you manage to enlist their aide?” “The First Arcanist is a clever woman.” Sin’soiel seemed to comment little on as to the process. “She assures us that they are ready for our oncoming battle, though when I was running strategic strikes on key targets, we did so with more mindful personnel.” “The Ebonfeather Assassinations? Where you would stick a blade in your intended targets… I believe the last one was a Lord Belarneau?” The Paladin looked up at the man with a raised brow, before smirking. “Oh come, Lord Danteur… did you not think we had our own scouts within the city? We were never planning on charging in blind. Though, your tactics remind me of someone I once knew…” “Truely? Was this person successful in their pursuits?” It took a measure of control to not show his unease at the potential discovery. “For a time. He warned us about our Prince Sunstrider’s betrayal, we did not believe him until we saw it with our own eyes…” She frowned as she looked back at the Withered. “He too would have liked to have seen this alliance form, before his passing.” With his arms behind his back, Sin’soiel Danteur crossed his fingers for his brother to see. She was getting too close for his comfort on this subject matter. “Perhaps this man saw things we cannot. Or perhaps he was a fool, a shame that this man you speak of is not with us on this occasion then.” “At times, you even sound like him.” She commented, the Nightborne continued to try to keep his cool. “Be careful not to lose sight of your vision for your people, Lord Danteur.” She spoke before marching off back to her own camp, leaving the disguised Shattered Son to guess how much she truly knew from their conversation. It left him far too uncomfortable to have an unknown variable such as this within the camp, but he would have to endure and tread carefully in the passing days.
  5. As the last vestiges of Lord Gladius Visca faded, the familiar face of the Illidari he knew as Kal’une took his place. The emerald fires that burned within his eyeless sockets gave no indication of where his attention was focused as his hands worked a cloth over a bloodied blade. It was not until Draco made his first motions of stirring within whatever strange bed he lay within that the Illidari finally addressed him in his all too usual dry tone. “You prove as indestructible as ever, I see.” The Shattered Son groaned as he tried to gain his bearings, his weight shifted as he forced himself to sit up. His eyes scanned his surroundings, they were certainly not within their usual hideout. The room was far too elegant, though the furnishings hinted that they were indeed still in Suramar. Suramar! The last thing he remembered was escorting his comrades from the Waning Crescent during the massacre spearheaded by demon and loyalist alike. But they were nowhere to be seen, “...What happened?” “You’ll have to be more specific,” The Illidari continued to clean the ebon blade, the crimson staining the cloth. “A lot has happened today.” Draco narrowed his eyes at the Illidari, whom either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Without his eyes it made him difficult to read. Rather than drive a further wedge between the two of them, Draco took a breath before recounting what he could. “Our mission had proved a success, we had a disagreement on our new recruit… we received a distress call from Manuelle, and we were able to locate them… And then…?” “You absorbed Demon Blood and went berserk. I had to intervene.” The Illidari moved as if to inspect the weapon in his hands. “...You tried to assassinate me.” Draco’s flat tone rivaled that of his comrade. “Admittedly it was a gamble on my part. While I have observed you, I couldn’t be entirely sure that your resilience would prove to be as absolute as I hoped.” Kal’une sheathed the dagger at his side, “I slipped the blade between your vertebrae when you threatened to jeopardize our team, and thereby the mission. We have always agreed the mission came first. I expect you to have done the same to me if the Demons within had taken full control.” The Sin’dorei remained sitting on the bed, his eyes staring into the burning sockets of his comrade-- the man who could have killed him, who showed no remorse over this prospect. His gaze was harsh, but the Illidari seemed unaware and unphased by such. Moments passed, and Draco realized the Kaldorei had a point. But something nagged at him. “...Demons?” “Doesn’t matter.” “Very well.” The Shattered Son loathed the notion of valuable intel was being kept from him, but he knew pushing it would get him nowhere. Kal’une spoke little of his personal life, of his history. Draco was lucky to know of his hated child and dead wife. “Where are we?”” “You don’t recognize it? We are located in the guest chambers of the Lunastre Estate, our honored host has been suspiciously silent since our mission and our beacon ran out of mana to allow us a way back to our Headquarters. It felt prudent to go where we were needed-- and the Elven armies are amassing right outside her property.” “And the team?” “Ollarin is dead, you wounded Maurice in your frenzy. While he is shaken, I believe we may be able to retain him for the cause… which leaves Manuelle, in good health, and your new recruit-- someone I assume we have little choice in training now.” The Illidari paused as he mused over this before continuing. “If she is strong enough to endure such, our regimen is designed to weed out the weak. Only the strongest survive, to be prepared for the war to come.” “I have seen the determination in her eyes, she will make it. You are not preparing to make her… one of Yours, are you?” Kal’une laughed, a strange sound from such a harsh and grim man. Even as bitter and wicked as it was. “Elune, no. We haven’t the time even if I was interested in such. But if she is to learn how to fight, how to kill without hesitation, we will need to break her. We will need to ensure that she will be an asset in the conflicts to come, not a liability. She will learn as I have. As you have.” When he was done speaking, the Night Elf began to walk towards the door. Draco was more relieved at the denial than he had expected, but he spoke nothing of it. Instead his brow quirked at the sudden movement of departure from his comrade. “I am sure that the Danteurs will prove invaluable for the invading forces, but where exactly are you going?” “Dalaran. If the girl is to join us, she needs to be properly equipped to carry out her duties. Our Shal’dorei comrades were unable to complete their acquisition of supplies given the events that unfolded-- which leaves it to me, the only one with access to the city of the magi. Figure out our next plan of action, get in contact with the forces amassing outside the city and find out what we can do to end this as quick and cleanly as possible. I will not be long.”
  6. Captain Draco Visca of the Silvermoon Guard stood at attention while his trusted friend, Voren’thal served as his second for the upcoming duel against Adonis Suncrest. A sizable crowd had come to witness the results of the inevitable escalation between two long time rivals here at the Stillwhisper Pond. He could not remember what had started this millennia long feud, not that it particularly mattered anymore. As his dear friend marched back over he gave a sigh and shake of his head. “He refuses to apologize, or retract his comments. Draco… are you certain you want to do this? Adonis is an ass, there is no shadow of doubt of that, but what do you think your father would say to this? For the heir to the Visca family to be fighting like a schoolboy over petty words?” “What my father thinks is his own business. Suncrest thinks himself immune, I plan on changing that. You heard what he said about my wife.” “And what will she think if Adonis does have some trick up his sleeve and wins?” The pale brow raised as the two men stared at each other for a moment as the words laid within the air. “...He will not.” Draco shook his head before reaching his hand out, “My blade.” Voren’thal sighed as he relented as the voice of reason, handing the single bladed sword to his dear friend. “Sunwell guide your strikes. Try not to kill him if you don’t have to?” The Captain made no indication he heard, much less acknowledged, the request as he marched forward to greet his opponent. The rising son glimmered upon the drawn blades, red as the blood that was soon to flow from the clash of two men that had hated each other longer than either could remember. Draco stretched his blade, “it did not need to come to this, Suncrest.” “Didn’t it?” Adonis smirked as his blade touched his rivals. “I look forward to making you bleed.” They alternated descending numbers, the challenger starting at ten; When Adonis spoke the final number the duel proper began. In terms of strength and size, Draco clearly had the advantage. He pressed his weight into the clashing of blades, forcing Adonis into immediate defense as he struggled to keep the giant of a man at bay. When he could no longer withstand the test of strength, he slid his blade away in a hasty retreat. With every two steps Adonis took backwards, Draco took one to match him and struck. Unable to match his foe’s strength, Adonis was forced to parry it and continue his retreat. Step, strike, parry, step, strike, parry. The pattern went on in five times of succession before Draco finally spoke up. “Come now, Suncrest… are we fighting or running? Stand, fight me like the man you claim to be; not the mere boy as the crowd sees you.” Flustered by the stir of chuckles from the crowd, Adonis hastily made his next move in retort. He came from the right, where he knew his rival usually had his shield-- only to be parried and then struck with the pommel. The force of the unexpected blow made him fall to the ground. “You will have to do better than that to best a Visca, Suncrest.” The tone of the larger elf was that of a knight to his squire on the training fields, further enraging the man on his knees. With blade pointed down at his opponent still, flush and crimson in the rising sun, he offered a chance of surrender. “Yield, apologize for your words to Lady Visca and let us put this past us.” Adonis, it seemed, had other ideas. With a quick enraged strike, he knocked the larger man’s blade away from it’s target before leaping in for the kill. At the last moment, Draco dodged the blow before checking the man in the cheek with his elbow. Suncrest recoiled, giving Draco another opening to knee the man in the chest-- sending the Magister upon his back with the tip of a blade once more in his face. “You have lost, Suncrest. Submit. Let us end this charade.” “Hardly.” Magister Suncrest smirked, igniting the air between the two men. As the fire expanded at an alarming rate, Adonis pushed it beyond his reach to consume his foe. As the area surrounding him erupted he started to chuckle, thinking he at last beat his lifelong opponent. The laugh grew into a full on cackle. The laughter would be short lived, however. For before even so much as a minute had passed-- the oversized boot of Captain Visca shot from the flames, shattering the nose of the Magister that still laid upon the ground. As the man fell back upon the floor, the imposing figure of Draco stepped out of the flames; furious. “I granted you multiple chances to end this with your life in tact.” Began the Spellbreaker as he grabbed the Magister by the collar of his dueling clothes, cloth just as was his rival’s. “I challenged you to honorable combat, man to man, a single sword each. No armor, no magic. And when you lose, what do you do?” The other hand of Visca still gripped his blade, pointing it at the man. “You cheat, like the coward you are. That you always have been. I should have known, I couldn’t hold you to your word. But I can promise you this: I will never make the same mistake again.” “Plea-sh! No!” Shouted the Magister in fear for his life, recoiling in his grip for the blade that would never come. As Draco positioned the blade to run through his rival, to end it once and for all, he would find an overwhelming amount of resistance. When he looked back to see why, a furious face of his father Lord Gladius Visca glared at him with his one remaining eye. “I leave you to your devices and you decide to go about murdering your fellow Quel’dorei? I thought you better than this. She thought you better than this.” Next to his father stood his wife, seven months pregnant with their first child. Before Draco could say anything in his defense, the world around him darkened-- only the face of his disapproving father seemed immune to the fading of the world into oblivion, but even it seemed to morph...
  7. The closest beacon to the Waning Crescent was the Lunastre Estate, where they had come to accept the mission earlier that day. From here they had a vantage point of the carnage that ran through the city. Loyalist and Demons alike marched upon what was both home to the common folk and the market district, indiscriminately slaughtering anyone who put up a fight. Next to them the orb began to relay the message again. “...H-hello? This is Manuelle broadcasting on all Telemancy networks. Something horrible has happened…” “Kill the signal.” The grim voice of Sin’soiel ordered to his brother. “They will only give us away.” “...Please! Help us, you are--” The voice was cut off as the orb was consumed, the mana absorbed within Kal’une’s fist. For a moment the brothers Danteur were silent, the screams of bloodshed meeting them all the way up here, so above the city. “...We need a way down there, quick but discreet. I could plummet, but we would lose precious time before I came to once more.” He thought a moment longer, “Are your wings strong enough to carry us?” “So you choose two large men flying above the city?” Though under illusion , Sin’soiel could imagine the Illidari’s razored smirk. “I doubt the illusion could counter such a ludacris sight. But in terms of practicality… not enough to search the city, but perhaps land us on one of the buildings unharmed.” “That will have to do. It may not be preferable, but the alternative is no better.” Sin’soiel raised his arms, bracing for whatever the other man had planned in terms of grappling him well enough to send them several feet above the ground in search of an optimal landing location. The trip down to the city below was much less of a ‘Flight’ than a ‘Glide’, the weight of both men proving far too much for any meaningful airborne antics. Short lived as it was, they were able to land upon a building overlooking the damaged teleporter, corpses laid strewn across the courtyard, indicating an attempt at escape. Sin, rolled upon the cloth outstretched from the roof to help catch his fall as his brother was forced to toss him to brace himself for the landing. “Do you see them?” Kal’une’s illusion struggled to compensate his altering of form, he composed himself before walking to the edge for a peer onto the streets below. “No, all I see are demons and lackies of the Legion.” “...I feared as much. They must be deeper within the Crescent. You keep to the roofs, I will look for them on ground level.” Before hearing the Illidari’s rebuttal, the man leapt from the banners above, landing upon the ground below. One of the Legion’s guards spotted the strange elf, the illusion had broken momentarily. With swift movement, Draco moved to counter the blow of the large blade before using the force against him to lift and toss the Wrathguard on his back. Alarmed from the motion, the demon loosened his grip momentarily on his weapon. This was the only advantage the elf needed to wrest the weapon away from his foe, impaling him with his own weapon. After the target was neutralized, he reactivated his illusionary ring and continued his search. “Show off.” Murmured the Illidari above, he kept watch over the Sin’dorei as he sprinted across the courtyard to behind an abandoned carriage. After leaping to the next building he kept watch over his comrade, who knocked out one of the Loyalists before scanning his physiology to take form of. Sin’soiel, now a female guard began her ‘patrol’ down the street. There was a pattern to the strikes, Kal’une noticed as he leapt from building to building, watching his comrade at work. As Sin’soiel moved through the ranks, he would see out an isolated individual, strike, take their form and dispose of their body. Deeper and deeper did the man on the ground delve into enemy territory until he hit the Evermoon Terrace. It was here that the devastation had halted, where both loyalist and demon alike had come to have spent their rage and aggression. The Shal’dorei here had wisely packed themselves away, along with any neighbors whom had the misfortune of being away from their homes. The rest of the Ebonfeathers had to be here, Draco knew it. He kept his ears open for the slightest hint of his comrades. With each methodical step he looked about the empty market, his eyes drawing upward towards his friend above the city. It felt like hours until Kal’une had finally spotted them, motioning towards an empty shop. Draco knocked on the door. Nothing. With a sigh, he set his leg to assault the door, it folding against the strength of a man. That was when he found them, huddled in a corner. Manuelle, Isabaele, and Maurice. They hovered over a limp body, most likely dead, but he could not get a good visual who it was. He was slow to approach. “Stay back!” It was Maurice who dared stand against this unknown intruder. He took no time, in spite of the tears that welled within his eyes at the loss of a friend of his, his bow drawn at the guard who stepped in the light of this abandoned home. “I am not your enemy,” the guard spoke before breaking the illusion, revealing their commanding officer, “Though I admire your courage. We need to get out of here.” “Sin!” Their newest recruit came rushing to embrace the Sin’dorei. “They came out of nowhere! They attacked us, they killed Ollarin! They called him a traitor!” Both Manuelle and Maurice would not look their commanding officer in the eye, the latter finally lowering his weapon. “Ollarin knew what he signed himself up for, he knew what sacrifice he may need to make in order to save his people. And yet he stared death in the face without hesitation. He was a hero, he was one of the best of us-- we will not let his sacrifice be in vain.” “But… how, Sin? We are surrounded by all sides.” Manuelle finally broke his silence. “It’s only a matter of time before they find us as you have. How many more got our message? How long until this entire area is purged? We lost…” “Do you truly think I came alone?” The pale brow raised as he spoke. “On the rooftops stands Kal’une, he will lead you to safety as I provide cover. The Dusk Lillies will learn of what happened here, we will tell Ollarin’s story. We will save this city from damnation.” The three Shal’dorei talked this over with themselves, the mood within the room shifted from utter despair to cautious optimism. They were in danger and their commanding officers had come to save them, this was not but their only hope, it was their best hope. “We won’t allow Ollarin’s sacrifce to be in vain. Lead the way, Lord Sin’soiel Danteur.”
  8. The mission had proven a success: Lord Cilarare Belarneau and his forces had been eliminated, a major blow of Elisandre. This allowed the Ebonfeathers to enact the second objective of the mission, the acquisition of both valuable intel and more importantly, the contents of his cellar of Arcwine. Of the six casks, five were sent to donation for the people via Vanthir. The sixth was used to maintain their operations: each of the Nightborne were allowed a cup to drink, another round used in terms of payment, a bottle for payment for their new recruit’s armor and two more for supplies. When rations were passed around, and the Nightborne of the Ebonfeathers were satisfied, they were dismissed. Leaving the Danteurs to have a much needed private conversation. “Care to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Kal’une finally spoke, his illusion had dissipated this far from the city proper. Even without eyes his expression was obvious, if the tone had not given it away. He was pissed. “You will have to be more specific.” Draco responded as he pulled out a chair, helping himself to a seat before offering the other to his ‘brother’. “You know exactly what I speak of: The girl.” He refused. “She’s far too young, has no combat experience, far too trusting of outsiders, we have to supply her equipment… need I go on?” “She was able to lead us to the intel Belarneau had hidden away, and they would have killed her if they found where we left her, had we not taken her instead.” The Sin’dorei took one of the emptied glasses upon the table. “It is true that we will have to train her, mold her into what we need. Consider her an investment.” “Investment?” The Illidari echoed, his white brow raised. “We don’t have much to invest, Sin-- especially when the end goal is at our doorstep as it is.” “You think far too short term then, Kal.” He smirked at his darker comrade before stretching to begin to fill the glass. “What do you think happens after we Liberate them? Or better yet, after the Legion is out of the picture?” “Doesn’t matter.” The Illidari shook his head. “You think too small.” “Pardon?” “Ultimately, none of us matter in the grand scale of things. We are talking about a cosmic war, one that has been waging before we could even count our ancestors. A person is nothing greater than a speck of dust in the grand sea of the cosmos. A city but a grain of sand, a nation little more than that. We are nothing but what we contribute to this war effort. If we win, then those who survive get the privilege of deciding the fate of the world-- just one of many stones that float endlessly in the great dark. If we lose, it doesn’t matter if you saved one girl from death today, she won’t see tomorrow.” “That is one way of looking at it…” Draco commented as he filled his glass with arcwine. “My problem with your logic is, why bother fighting at all? If we are so minute of concern in the greater scheme of it all, why stand up for us? What is worth the sacrifices an Illidari makes?” “You wouldn’t understand.” Kal huffed his feet felt the need to move, he began to pace like a caged predator. “Try me.” Draco took a sip of the wine, allowing the mana to flow through him once again. The sensation tingled down his throat, before spreading across his form. “It was my mate’s dying wish. To see a world Elune could be proud of, secured for people like our wretched little child. Lord Illidan is our best shot in leading us to victory, if Gul’dan is here in Suramar then we have a lead as to where Lord Illidan is. I care not for this city, it matters little in the grand scheme of the universe.” For a moment Draco was silent, trying to decide as to where to tackle what fallacies he saw in the man’s arguments. He took another sip of the arcwine, allowing its magical properties to flood his senses. “You seem uncertain of our cause, I do understand the hesitation. From my understanding, the Burning Legion has conquered world after world, and yet we have defied them time and time again. Each time we have run this gambit, we have somehow found a path towards victory. Due to this, I must assume the question of… what if we do survive this one as well? What does that mean for my people, those still teetering the edge of extinction? By saving these Shal’dorei, those who face the same trials and tribulations that we, the Sin’dorei, had suffered through-- I have the chance of gaining my people a valuable ally. In order to capitalize on this opportunity, we will need the right people to guide them upon the right path when this war is over. What better chance do we have than one we can devote, we can twist her world view into perfection? We can end the misunderstandings of the Elven peoples, we simply need the right pieces in their proper order to do so.” The Illidari, in spite of himself, could not help but find an odd solace in these words. A promise of a better tomorrow that would likely never come, and yet… was this not what his dear Vaelana would have wanted. Begrudgingly he grunted in acknowledgment of the sentiment, “...We shall see.” “That we will.” The war hardened face of the Shattered Son split into a smile, he raised he glass in a mock toast to the Illidari. “For all our Children, weather it be of the Stars, Night, of Blood or on High!” The Illidari grasped an empty glass, raising his glass to the toast. But before he could speak, a panicked voice of Manuelle echoed through the hideout. “...H-hello? This is Manuelle broadcasting on all Telemancy networks. Something horrible has happened upon the Waning Crescent. They… they launched a full scale attack on us. Please! Help us, you are our only hope.” The two men looked at eachother for a mere moment before activating their illusions, taking their personal beacon to as close as possible to the Waning Crescent. They had to see the horror for themselves, they had to help any way they could.
  9. Wordlessly Draco picked up the lifeless, blood drained husk of Lord Cilgrare Belarneau from the desk and set him within his chair. The emerald eyes of the Shattered Son scanned the desk for any valuable intel before planting the corpse’s face on it and sinking the blade in between the shoulders. They would find him, eventually, here in his ruined house with the namesake of their cell like a dread raven perched upon its prey-- this deep within the housing of the noble families, it would send a message. It would cause them fear, fear for the Dusk Lily rebellion to exploit. With the target eliminated, and the sounds of his comrade’s rampage dying down, it was now when he finally heard it. A soft whimper of terror. The ears of the Shattered Son perked at this, his eyes scanning for its source… he found no one, instead he located a couple of places one could hide. His footfall was soft, the leather deafening the weight of his large form as he approached the couch within this study. It was not until his shadow loomed did he finally speak, “Come out.” “Please don’t hurt me, sir.” Blue elongated ears popped out from behind the opposing arm of the couch as a frightened meek voice begged for her life. “...I did no wrong.” “You were not the target, nor did you get in my way.” The harshness began to fade from his voice, “I see no reason to harm you. Come on out.” “He ain’t been kind to us sir…” The confirmation was enough for the woman’s blue hands to grasp at the arm of the couch. Her nails were uneven, unpolished. It was clear she was a laborer, not anyone related to the dead man at the desk. Like the moon over the horizon, her snow white hair raised above the armrest of the couch. Her movements were slow, as to show no hint of malice. When her eyes finally went to observe the man, she finally spoke again to plead her case. “I owe him no loyalty, I swear it by the Nightwell.” “I see that…” His eyes looked over the rest of the room, the arcane instruments on the cart and the depowered single person containment unit that the Grand Magistrix’s forces used to imprison and humiliate the citizenry that were perceived to be out of line caught his eye. His attention once more was directed at the cowering woman behind the couch. “He cannot harm you any longer. Please, come out of hiding.” After a moment of consideration, the Nightborne woman complied. Leaving the sanctity of her hiding place, she exposed herself in more ways than one. She was shorter than him, but not particularly by much. Her figure was slight in terms of curves, her muscular definition almost non-existent… and yet he could not stop himself from taking in the view. After being stunned by this realization for a moment or two his brows knitted. “...Where are your clothes?” She pointed towards the cart. How had he not seen it earlier? Still she said nothing, simply watching his reactions. “Go get them. Lord Belarneau may be dead, but there will be plenty of trials still.” The Sin’dorei turned away looking at the door frame. He hadn’t heard from his eye in the sky, Manuelle, since the conflict started-- but he still knew the clock was ticking. He began his march, “Seek out the Dusk Lily. They will set you upon the righ--” He was stopped in his tracks, the woman grabbing his wrist. “You leave me behind, and I die. They’ll think I had something to do with this. I’m coming with you.” “You do not want to walk this path, of Monsters bourne of men. Find the Dusk lilies, they will point you in the right direction.” “No.” She was firm in her denial. “They didn’t save me from Him. You did. If you think me unready, then make me so. Too many vanished from this place under his rule, I owe you my life.” Moments passed with no response from the pale behemoth of death. At last he turned back towards the woman, it was only then did she let go of him. “...Understand if you join us, there will be no turning back. We walk a dark path that we cannot return from. Are you prepared to do this, miss…?” “Isabaele. Just Isabaele, and yes.” She looked over the damage caused by the struggle before looking back at her savior. “I have nothing here, let me serve you. Whatever path you take me will be better than dying at the hands of the Duskwatch after tasting my first chance at freedom.” “So be it.” The Shattered Son spoke. “Our comrade is to meet back up with us in the foyer. Keep up.”
  10. “Absolutely not.” The stern fury of Gladius Visca echoed. The door had proven no match for the Shattered Son’s strength, but as it crashed upon the floor-- he found himself seeing the day he asked for his father’s blessing for his betrothed. His father in his regal fury sat at his desk, an estimated forty years younger Draco and his beloved Kardis sat next to him as he gripped her hand. “I sent you to court one of the Ranger-General’s daughters, a boon for us in the coming war, and you come back with a servant from the Ball? No. I forbid it.” “I thought you would be happy for me, Father.” The younger lord’s voice was tense as he tried to hold back his own anger, he had seen the look on his beloved’s face. “I am your son first, a soldier second, am I not?” “You have a duty, as heir to House Visca, to--” “--to the people of Quel’thalas. With all due respect, my lord,” she had finally spoken up. She grew up as a commoner, but she was never afraid to speak her mind, even to those who were of higher social standing. Draco loved her for that. “Draco has said this before, we have discussed it. What good is defending the nation from Humanity, should they decide to attack us, if we aren’t willing to take care of them in the first place? This war is meaningless if we let the poor starve themselves to death.” “You speak as if you understand what you speak of, you do not understand what this family has given for the defense of Quel’thalas you insolent little--” “I advise you to change your tone with my wife, father.” “What? When--” “Last week. I feared you would make this sort of scene if I told you previous, I am disappointed to find that my suspicions were correct…” The younger Draco frowned as he raised from his seat before helping Kardis out of her own. “Where do you think you’re going? Where are you going to live?” “We shall figure something out. I am sure the Silvermoon Guard would love to have a Visca on duty.” The couple moved towards the door where the older version of himself stood, blade drawn as he stood there, dazed and drinking in the images of family that he would never get to see again. His heart pained at this, all before the vision was interrupted. Back in reality, a bolt of fire struck him, forcing him to stagger. The leather, while flame retardant, burned away where it was focused primarily upon his face. His pale face was left exposed to his foe, his target, Lord Cilgrare Belarneau. “Resilient for Outlander Scum.” Lord Belarneau sneered. Whatever he was working on before the pale man in black intruded was dropped, the arcane instrument left on the table as the Nightborne charged up another spell. “Your kind have been infesting our streets like the virmine you are. I’ll have to exterminate you myself, then!” Draco smirked at the challenge, for in spite of the increased intensity of the flames that formulated a ball thrice as large in his foe’s hand, this time he was ready. With the release of the projectile, the Shattered Son sprinted towards his target as he willed his mana to formulate the classic Spellbreaker’s immunity before taking the hit directly. Much to the horror of the caster, it did nothing to deter him-- and the lord found himself pressed against one of his many bookshelves within his office, forcing all its contents to be expelled from the force of the two men. “Lord Cilgrare Belarneau, first in your name, you are accused of Treason, Conspiracy with the Burning Legion, Embezzlement and Domestic Abuse of your servants. How do you plead?” “W-what?” Cilgrare managed to cough out a single word, the assassin held the man in place via a forearm to his throat. His eyes however, remained focused on the black blade that was held within the other hand. Then it clicked who this man was: An ‘Ebonfeather’. He began to panic, trying to pry the arm away so he could make his escape. The pale man did not like this, and responded the non-answer with more violence. This time Belarneau was briefly relinquished from his pinned position, only to have his face forced into the desk of solid wood. His nose was shattered from the blow. “I will ask again,” growled the Sin’dorei. “How do you plead?” The lord was flipped to face his judge, jury and executioner. From his mouth and nose, the blood began to flow. “Confess and Repent, and I will grant you a swift death.” “F-f… fuck you.” “Wrong answer.” The Ebonfeather blade, that emblem of some dark bird came back into view. From down stairs, deeper in his elegant manor, he heard the booming and roaring of some unholy creature. Cilgrare held his arms out, trying to keep the blade at bay as it came in for the kill. It was futile. The pale Ebonfeather was far too strong, he could hear his bones cracking from the force behind the overwhelming strength the man had-- all he could do was scream. Both in agony and terror. But it would only get worse, for once the blade nicked him, all his blood began to betray him. It ripped itself from the Lord’s face, flowing in an unnatural way towards his attacker’s burns from the first strike. An attacker that grinned at his misery, and that would be the last thing the man ever saw.
  11. “The Sun rises once more over Suramar.” Sin’soiel Danteur murmured this coded phrase as he and his brother neared their target’s location. They had traversed along the canals, away from the majority of the city’s traffic, using long yet casual strides as to not draw attention to themselves from those whom may have a similar idea. “The chosen eagerly await the new dawn.” The voice of their arcanist, Manuelle, traveled through their warped chanel within Oculeth’s network. “Do we have an ETA?” “Once we scale this wall, we’ll be within your line of sight.” Kal’une drew the miniaturized grappling gun from his belt that had been obscured by the regal clothing of the illusions. He took aim at the wall next to them and fired. “Be ready.” When the hook took hold upon one of the ledges above, Kal’une tested the line before handing it off to his brother. “After you.” “My thanks.” Sin’soiel smirked, his hands grabbed the rope and he began his climb to the top of the wall while Kal’une kept a lookout down below. When he reached the top, he scanned the area from above as he kept a low profile. He spotted two of his comrades perched in an opportune position that gave them access to the front doors to the Belarneau Manor. If there was any question in their target, the gaudy baroque sensibilities of the manor put such to rest. He was certainly a loyalist, living a life of decadence while the people of the waning crescent were on the verge of withering from their lack of precious arcwine. The Danteur on the roof fished out his miniature mirror and flashed light in the direction of the men overlooking the area. Kal’une joined his brother upon the wall in time to see the arrows fly from the vantage point, instantly killing the two guards stationed on the outside of the primary entrance to the manor. Following the kills Manuelle confirmed the kills. “The hostiles residing outside the target have been neutralized, ready to cover our tracks as soon as you acquire their key.” “Good man.” Sin’soiel commented before turning his eyes to look back at his brother. “Any surprises awaiting us inside we should know about?” “Six inside the antechamber.” Kal’une retrieved the grappling hook, they could stick the landing given their talents. “A few patrols, nothing we can’t handle.” “We have our intercept in place, we shouldn’t have any unexpected visitors. I’ll inform you should that change.” “Excellent.” Sin’soiel jumped from the wall, bracing himself for impact with the ground. A grunt escaped his lips regardless before he strolled up to the limp corpses of the guards, each with a single arrow stuck through them. Maurice had been working on his aim, that much was certain. He retrieved the key, showing it to his brother that appeared behind him. Both took opposite sides of the door, looking at each other. “Ready?” When a confirmation nod was given, Sin’soiel unlocked the door. He pried it open just enough to allow them in while censoring the bodies outside before they seemingly vanished into the pavement where the two guards should have been keeping watch. Only for all six of the guards within the antechamber to point their weapons at them. “Who are you? State your business!” “We are Lords Sin and Kal Danteur. We have important business with your master, Lord Belarneau.” The obvious leader of the guards scoffed at this notion. “I have never heard of any House Danteur, and I know for a fact that Lord Belarneau explicitly ordered not to be bothered today. Kill them.” “We tried.” The guards began their advance, Sin’soiel slunk from his proper posture onto the back of his brother. “Indeed. Plan B?” Kal’une shrugged as he remained upright. “May as well rob Elisande of a handful of soldiers while we are at it.” He tapped his foot upon his brother’s heel, who slunk low to the ground of anticipation of what was next, going as far as to kneel. In the next moment, the illusions covering the ‘brothers’ would break to reveal a Kaldorei and a Sin’dorei as the Illidari’s wings formed and released a torrent of wind as he accelerated upward. While the men were staggered from the unexpected assault of wind, Draco tackled the middle of the three guards facing him. As the guard fell to the ground, the Blood Elf would strike him in the head with a series of blows until the man let go of his glaive. He removed the weapon from the bloodied mess of a man under him, only to find the weapon’s magic faded, rendering the blades useless. He cursed at this as the other men pierced him with their own blades, threatening to skewer the outlander. If he was a normal elf, he would be a dead man. The other set of three were recovering, just in time for the follow up of the Illidari’s attack. For as soon as he propelled into the air towards the high rising ceilings, he too would come back down-- changed. No longer among them was the form of a Kaldorei, but a demonic terror twice that size in terms of height. Even more so in sheer mass. The unlucky victim under foot went limp almost immediately, another impaled by the spikes upon his forearms with a simple backhand motion. The third, seeing what happened to his comrades, tried to flee. Only to have the demon reach his hand around his head, pulling to remove both head and a partial spine. The blood would soon follow, as would more guards to investigate the noise within the antechamber. Unfortunately, for those who dutifully stabbed the intruder, Draco was far from any ordinary Sin’dorei. He grasped his ebon daggers, and struck at the legs of his attackers. One had his ligament severed, the other had the dagger sink into the fleshy underside; this left both crippled as he rapidly found the blades a new home in their throats. He turned to see more of Belarneau’s men coming to greet them. “Incoming.” “I see them.” Growled the demon before leaping upon the second level of the mansion, his claws sinking into another victim. A brave soul tried to take advantage of the intruder’s distraction with his comrade and struck at the horrific monster in front of him. He was rewarded with a pair of severed arms in a counter attack. “Go. Belarneau is the primary target. I have this.” “Are you certain?” Draco took his own grappling hook, shooting it at one of the guards on the second floor, and dragging the man down. As the guard hit the ground, Draco could hear crunching of his neck breaking from how he landed. “We also have their Arcwine reserves.” “GO!” Roared the Demon as he leapt from one side of the antechamber to the other, crushing the two remaining guards right before more poured in to stop their assault on the manor. “Fourth Floor. Far back.” “...Very well.” The Sin’dorei used his ring to scan the guardian’s clothing before reapplying the illusion with the new attire. He sprinted towards the direction given to him by his oddly omniscient seeming blind ally. He would run into patrols on the way, each time conveying that they were under attack by some sort of demon and that he was to inform the Lord of this intrusion on the way. He would not stop until he found the office of which had to be the location of their target, the opulence teetering upon absurdity in terms of design choices for a mere door. He took a moment before catching his breath, he could hear the booming and screams all the way from here. That would keep their attention. He tried the door, it was locked. He drew his Ebonfeather blades and kicked the door down.
  12. “You have to relax, Draco.” Magister Voren’thal set his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, gifting the fretting Spellbreaker a small reassuring smile before he continued speaking. “This is a celebration of our armed forces, not some raid against the Amani. There is nothing to worry over.” “If only it were so.” The heir of the Visca family half-murmured as he adjusted his ceremonial garb for the fifth time in front of the mirror of the bathroom. “It is not your father whom is asking the impossible task of trying to woo one of the Windrunner sisters! You know how he is when he sets his sights on something.” “Indeed. I don’t envy you on that regard.” The Magister withdrew his hand with a grimace. He was stopped before he could retreat from the conversation. “I hear it in your tone. You do not believe him, do you?” “It’s been almost three millennia since the war ended, humans only tend to live a hundred. That is over twenty eight thousand life spans, and nothing has happened yet. I respect your father, we all do, but if such a treason were to occur-- especially from such an impulsive race, don’t you think it would have happened by now? How long are you going to allow him to run your life in the shadow of a war that may never happen?” The Spellbreaker let go of his friend’s arm, silent as he considered these words. His eyes cast down, the silence between the two of them allowed the band’s song from outside this restroom to noticeably change tunes. “Draco, look--” The Spellbreaker put his hand up. “It is fine. We have a Ball to attend, we may as well get to it.” Much to the Magister’s relief, it seemed his friend didn’t seem to be taking the conversation personally. Instead they would leave the public restroom to rejoin the military ball proper. This was not the Spellbreaker’s scene. The Heir Apparent of House Visca found himself more at ease when it came to practical matters of blade or book. His life had been planned for him by his father, he was groomed for when war would make itself evident-- not for soirees or events such as these. He took a drink from a tray of one of the many servants as his eyes scanned for the targets of his mission of the evening. “Tell me if you see them.” He spoke before taking a sizable drink of the contents in his glass. “Relax.” The Magister reminded him, as they wandered the venue. His eyes fixated upon the upper level where he suspected the sisters to reside as he absent mindedly removed a second glass from the servant’s tray. “We’ll find them. They’re the Windrunners, they should be impossible to miss.” “You say that… but this is quite the crowd.” “Found them. At the top of the stairs, they don’t seem very amused by these proceedings however. Are you sure you want to do this?” Voren’thal looked back at his friend. “Not too late to back out.” “You should know me by now, Voren.” The Spellbreaker finished his drink before flashing a grin. “I simply cannot surrender, consider a fault of mine. Wish me luck?” The Magister raised the crystal glass in a toast, “Good Luck.” He smiled as his lips met the glass, savoring the taste of its contents. It was not until midway through his drink did he become aware of the scene that was unfolding before him. Adonis Suncrest had been watching them, and at the opportune moment he had made his move. With a graceful glide of his foot against the floor he had forced one of the servants of this ball to trip, the contents of her tray spilling outward-- all over the heir apparent Visca’s ceremonial attire before crashing onto the ground, causing enough of a ruckas to turn everyone’s attention to the scene of the accident. Much to the embarrassment of the poor woman, the Spellbreaker sprung into action to catch her with his arms. He was soaked in mana infused wine, and yet rather than worry about the scene made-- he seemed more worried about her. “Are you okay, Miss…?” “Y-yes Lord, Visca, sir… I’m fine. I just slipped.” The young woman struggled to get upon her feet. Her eyes scanning the crowd, seeing how all eyes were on them, her face flustered even further. She tried to get on her knees to quickly clean up the mess made by what she perceived as her clumsiness, only to be stopped as the lord offered his hand down to her. “I still have yet to get your name.” His attention had yet to leave her. She was gorgeous. “Kardis, Sir.” She looked up to him, not taking his hand. And yet he lingered. Perhaps he was looking for a last name? “Just Kardis.” “Lord Visca…” His friend set down his drink before briskly coming to counsel his friend, “All eyes are upon you, including the Windrunners’. It would be wise to let the young lady continue on with her job.” Draco raised a brow at his friend for a moment before returning his attention to the woman on the floor. “It would seem we have the dance floor to ourselves then, Miss Kardis. Would you honor me with a dance?” Here laid this commoner woman, before an entire court of nobility, with a lord of a powerful militant house offering her a dance. She looked between the Spellbreaker and Magister as she considered her answer, fearful that this may be some sort of cruel joke. She could hear the murmurings of the crowd, and yet the lord ignored all of them, his hand still offered. She closed her eyes, allowing this fantasy to take her. “If that truly is what my lord wishes…” The lord pulled her up to her feet, before guiding her a couple strides away from the mess. His arms set her into the proper form. “Do you know the steps to this song?” It was an ancient tune, one carried over from their exile and the founding of their nation. She nodded, still unable to speak. They began the steps on this fateful night. Lord Visca would never reach the Windrunner sisters, instead his eyes would remain fixated on the woman before him. It started with a choice, then a dance. They would continue this courtship beyond this particular evening. She would show him the truth of the relations of the classes, he would learn their hardship. And within the year a commoner would be come to known as Lady Kardis Visca.
  13. Here within the upper reaches of Suramar City, overlooking the civil unrest that brewed within the Waning Crescent lay the prestigious Lunastre Estate, home of one of the most powerful and influential members of the Nightfallen rebellion: Lady Ly’leth Lunastre, the newest advisor of the tyrannical Grand Magistrix. It was here within her extravagant home, where there seemed to be an everlasting party for the elite, where she hid her operations and dealings in plain sight. Dealings like that with the Danteur brothers, leaders of the insurgent cell that the public had come to naming the Ebonfeathers, whom apperated within the confines of her gardens. The brothers broke their formation as they awaited the inevitable attendant to see to them and facilitate the meeting. Kal’une stepped forward, taking a deep breath of fresh air as he stretched. It would not take him long before he began his pacing, tracing the line where the vegetation met the stonework. The other brother, Sin’soiel, lingered where he was for a moment as he took in all the sensations of the city before finding himself wandering to the balcony. They would not wait long. One of the masked attendants was quick to reach this part in his patrol, reclaiming the abandoned glasses onto the empty tray. The servant paused in their tracks at the appearance of the two men, “My apologies gentlemen, I was unaware we had guests remaining within the gardens. Shall I fetch you something to drink?” “That won’t be necessary.” Kal’une shook his head. “The Matron of this house should be expecting us, the Danteur brothers. We are ready to conduct business once more.” “Very well.” The attendant said after an uncomfortable amount of silence. “We were instructed to bring you to her as soon as the sun once again shone over Suramar. We are eager to get started.” “Excellent.” Kal’une grinned, pleased at the expediency of the events. For far too long had he been forced to wait. As his brother tried to follow he shot up at chest level, forcing the man to pause. “Allow me, Sin. We have much to do, and we need you at peak performance if we are to bring a swift end to this conflict. Try to ride out the side effects while I prepare?” So he knew. It was true, there was a significant side effect to overloading his system with mana. He simply had hoped a Kaldorei would be unaware of the extreme high such an intake would incur. The world around him was sharper in contrast, the vivid colors of the city threatened to overwhelm him as the wind ever so gently passed over now that the barrier had fallen. Sin’soiel grunted a begrudged, response. “Perhaps that is for the best.” “I’ll try to keep it short.” It was hard to read the man, between the illusion and his nature as an Illidari. Before his brother had a chance to respond, Kal’une had made it a point to be too far out of reach for any subtlety in terms of getting a message across. He knew his comrade was too bound to the cause to risk giving them away and he had taken advantage of it. This left the man the city knew as Sin’soiel Danteur alone with his inebriated thoughts. The architecture, the people, the mana within the very air, it reminded him of home. A home he knew he could never return to, not without unravelling over a decade’s worth of work and sacrifice for his people. It was but one of the many prices he had to pay for the mistake that lead to his death and resurrection. His eyes closed as he leaned his forehead against the stone balcony. And then he heard it, a beautiful and yet haunting tune of which the band played. Struggle as he may against the heartache and sorrow, the strings were like a siren’s call. As the tempo continued, his mind was taken back to almost four decades ago….
  14. From the overgrowth above plummeted a figure large enough to fill the chamber of the labyrinthine sunken ruins of Falanaar with a resounding crash into the pooling reservoir that formed over the recent years. This wasn’t a rare occurrence, it simply meant food for the monstrous Fal’dorei that claimed these ancient tunnels as their home.One such of these spider-elf hybrids peered over the edge of the dry stone as it sought what it thought was another poor withered soul to fall to what would be its final moments-- only for something else to burst from the water. It was a giant of a pale elf, bare in the flesh and armed with nothing but a stone he likely found at the bottom of the body of water. He moved at alarming speeds, his strength even more terrifying than the speed, as he obliterated one of the multi-legged knees of the monster. It screeched in pain and surprise, but the elven man wasn’t done. The platinum haired elf continued his assault. He shifted the momentum of his swing into an upward motion, scoring a devastating blow upon the arachnoid head, forcing the creature to crumble at the feet of the man. His cruel sapphire eyes looked down upon his prey as he gripped it, forcing the life fluids of the creature to snake through to his own injuries, revitalizing him. “...Better.” He spoke to no one but himself. The fresh blood had granted him respite from the hunger, dehydration and exhaustion of running for the greater part of twenty-four hours since his escape. It did not, however, replenish the mana spent nor soothe the mental strain of using his old Spellbreaker techniques to fend off the constant scrying attempts used to locate him. He kneeled by the waterside for a moment, trying to use the water for a quick rinse of the silt and sweat built up during the journey before the magics boring upon the back of his mind pressed him forward. He was close to his usual solution for this problem, it just lay deeper within these tunnels. With each passing moment, the scrying spells granted more data… even if obfuscated, he didn’t want to give them any chances as to finding a pattern of which to detect him from., and thus his strides became longer and more rapid as he continued deeper within this veritable lost city. Luckily, it seemed that the First Arcanist’s withered army was growing given the reduced number of disturbances that he discovered as he continued his purposeful path through the twists and turns of this labyrinth until he at long last found a specific nondescript door. He pressed his shoulder into the heavy wood, prying just enough room for the giant of a man to slide his form through before shutting the door once more. To anyone who stumbled through these ruins, it would look like a dead end. To the former Lord-General, however, this was simply the secondary gateway into his most recent of many scattered safe-houses throughout the world should the unthinkable happen that forced him into hiding. His paranoia in life had its uses. As did his newfound supernatural strength that his return from death had granted him. Knowing that there was something beyond this rubble would do one no good even if they got this far unless they could act upon such. Draco squatted to find the ideal place to grip the remnant of a pillar that served as the major obstacle and slowly lifted it with strained breaths to get it leaning tall enough to grant him passage. “You’re late.” A snarl of annoyance greeted the Sin’dorei as he entered, before the Illidari sunk his razored teeth into a raw leg of spider. The juices of the creature spilled from the dark lips of the man, the emerald fires from his eye sockets providing light within this darkened room, highlighting his same snow white hair. “Months late.” “Imprisonment will do that.” The Shattered Son released the large piece of stone rubble, gravity setting it back in place with a small boom that echoed through the room before striding across the room to one of the salvaged shelves that helped furnish this spartan chamber. “I was unaware that Scryer imprisonment included the confiscation of clothing, “ the Illidari sneered. “Even the Wardens allowed us some common decency before forcing us into stasis.” “Are you sure you’re blind?” The pale elf grabbed what looked to be a jeweler's box, removing a blue crystal from it and setting it into a mortar and began to grind it into a fine dust. “You can blame the experimentations for the lack of modesty, I had not the time to cover myself in my escape.” “In a sense.” He abstained from any further explanations. “Are we expecting company? I somehow doubt your captors will surrender their quarry so readily.” “They are welcome to try.” The former lord poured the dust into a drinking glass before procuring a bottle that looked far too regal for their surroundings. From the bottle came a fine vintage of Arcwine to mix with the crystal’s powder before the Sin’dorei downed the contents in a single swig. He let go of the glass in anticipation of what was next, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to brace himself. Within a moment of imbibing the mana, the brilliant torrent off energy overtook his bare form. He stumbled backwards, his vision blurring as vivid colors struck him from every angle. The circuit-like lines that ran all across him began to visibly glow before burning as hot as they were bright in the attempts to contain the excess mana. It felt as if he was being branded from head to toe, forcing him to keel over as his heart pumped violently to spread the energies in hopes of diluting it enough as to not to kill the man. He grunted as he awaited the inevitable. Finally the magic proved far too much for the enhancements that the Scryers put in him, forcing them to overload and crash. “You do realize if you keep doing this to yourself, you’re going to turn into one of these Withered just like the rest of the Shal’dorei?” The Illidari stood over the man who lay crumpled on the ground. The aftermath left him charred where the arcane circuits once were, and as his comrade looked back at him-- his eyes had changed back to the stained green from when he took the fel in life. “It is… the only way I have found to cut my tethers…” Draco panted as he stumbled back to his feet, relieved that the worst of it had finally passed. “It may only be temporary, but as long as I do not let it repair itself fully… it should be manageable.” “Scryers.” Scoffed the Illidari. “Your kind always was keen on trying to harness things beyond your grasp, all without understanding the intricacies.” “I thought an Illidari such as yourself would respect such a quality, Kal.” The Sin’dorei remarked as he went to the salvaged wardrobe, opening it and began to change into the leather armor that lay within. “What do we have on our agenda?” “Never said I didn’t.” Grunted ‘Kal’. “The Arcan’dor has been stabilized within your absence, but it provides limited quantities of fruit. Lunastre wishes to speak to us about providing another solution to this and the loyalist problem as per usual. With you back we can gather the rest of the Ebonfeathers, as the locals have come to call us, after our meeting and get straight to work. Remember, this is but a single battle against the Legion, and an indirect one at that. The sooner we can get them fighting for themselves, the sooner we can move on to more substantial victories.” “Ebonfeathers…” He mused as he sheathed the what he could only guess were the namesake weapons into the various places within the armor, black blades with a hilt of a streamlined bird that made a shape of a V. “...I think I like the sound of that. Activate the portal beacon when you are ready.” “About time.” The Illidari took another shard from the jeweler’s box and inserted it into the beacon before them. With a couple button presses, the beacon connected with the Dusk Lily’s portal network, granting them a way directly to the Lunastre Estate. The two elves looked at each other with a nod before pulling up their face masks and setting on their illusion rings, taking the forms of Nightborne before stepping into the portal.
  15. Val’sharah, 0400: In the soft glow of moonlight, a brilliant flash broke the serenity to reveal the two naked forms of the knights in their successful breakout. The taller man collapsed to his knee in exhaustion, his bloodied and likely broken hand gripped at his right shoulder’s scorch mark from a grazing hit from one of the Assault Golems grazing mana-bolt fire from the chaos of their last little stint at the teleporter. His eyes went down to the disturbed waters from their sudden arrival. Beside him, the much smaller female's bare feet splashed against the stream they landed in. She looked around frantically, black pigtails bobbing as she looked for something familiar. "W-where are we?" She asked quietly, clutching a runeblade axe protectively to her chest. It glowed faintly in the darkness, a bright blue color not unlike her own bright blue eyes. She turned her gaze to the large elf, suddenly hyper aware if his injuries. "Oh geez… you need help!" The Male removed his hand from the blackened flesh, pursing his chapped lips to speak—his throat proved horribly dry, only allowing him the ability to grunt at the moment. Dehydration was kicking in from the blood manipulation. He took his broken and mangled hands to form a makeshift cup, taking a moment to drink in the water before speaking. “Val’sharah.” Kneeling down beside him, the female put her axe head into the ground and leaned on the handle. She watched as he attempted to drink from the stream and winced at the sight of his broken and mangled limbs. "Stop that," she fussed, allowing the axe to fall so that she could use her own hands to give him water. They were small, but they were steady and uninjured. "Here." As he drank from his beaten hands, the muscles within the mangled hand started to slither, re-threading themselves to the bone. He slightly grimaced at the agony from his form using its own fleshcrafting abilities to regenerate from the wound. As such he let his hands drop as he lost most of the water from the warped configurations and the body forcibly moving as needed. He looked as if to protest. Instead came a “…Thank you.” "It's fine," she said reassuringly, allowing him to drink from her hands before speaking again. She seemed less embarrassed than before, the gravity of their situation seemingly weighing down on her as they knelt in the dark. When he drank enough, she grabbed for her axe again and clutched it to her chest. "My name is Cat," she said cautiously. "I don't know if they told you anything about me. They definitely didn't tell me anything about you." “That would be because officially,” his words spoke of a well educated man that commanded respect in spite of this compromising situation. He was clearly a man of the military. “I do not exist. Not anymore.” Cat blinked and cocked her head, attempting to read the older elf through the dim light their eyes provided. "Uh... okay... so... did you die, then? Like me?" She looked him over, as if searching for something. "I guess you can't be a death knight without a runeblade...” “I did die. But I am not quite like you—you are becoming something more like me, it seems.” The death knight's eyes lowered, as if caught in a lie. "Um... sort of. I guess that was the plan all along. I didn't know though," she said quickly, looking up again. "I didn't know they were gonna hurt someone. I was told that maybe if I helped them, they could bring me back to life. Sort of... I guess they did. In a way." “We hurt people for the greater good, Cat. We have always been willing to do what needed to be done for the defense and the preservation for our people. Since the day we rebelled against the Prince, this has been our goal.” He turned to scan the area around them before he began to walk down the river. “It seems I was on the receiving end this time. I understand the logic, but I am no mere foot soldier.” Cat followed close behind, holding her axe in front of her as they walked. She was careful to look down, but the darkness made it difficult to see where she was going. She stumbled more than a few times, cursing under her breath as she regained her footing. "Who are you, then? A-and where are we going?" “We are headed south. And my project codename was The Shattered Son.” The answer was short as she had likely come to expect from him as he continued his march down the river. His eyes scanned the hills above before he began to muse. “…I do not know who chose that designation. They likely assumed they were being clever, given my military record. For all my millennia of service, it seems I will be known for the Civil War, and more specifically—the costly but ultimately successful command I was given in Quel’Danas.” "Uh... oh." Cat bit her lip as she listened to the story, waiting until he reached the end before asking. "...I uh... I was actually not trained until the Scourge came back. During the Northrend campaign. I was only old enough to start my knight training by then, and I died, so... sorry if I don't know you or what you did, but... what's your name?" “I am the former Lord-General Draco Gladius Visca.” "Oh...” She paused, walking, her eyes widening suddenly. "..Oh. OH! Oh you were that guy on the posters! I remember, now! I remember seeing you on the posters when I enlisted!" “That would be me.” A thin lipped expression marred his face. There had to be a road somewhere. “And have no concern; in the later years… what I have done was purposely hidden.” "Uh... oh. Okay...” Cat attempted to follow close enough that her eyes would be on the enormous elf's back. She fought hard to keep them up, but found them drifting south every so often despite her best efforts. "I uh... I'm not sure what it means now, that I have your blood in me. I kept dying after a day or so, the last time. I'm not sure if it'll last longer now, since they used my axe on you. I'm sorry about that, again, I didn't know they were gonna hurt someone... but... if I'm this way permanently, I don't know what it makes me." “The next step in the program. And you need not apologize, I am far more durable than that—and it allowed us a chance at freedom. When we reach the safe house, we will plan our next move.” "What about the Scryers?" She seemed very concerned, now. "I... I mean they did this to me so they could use me as an experiment, and now we've escaped.. Are they gonna come after us? After me? What happens if I wind up having kids, someday?" “They shall come after me, yes. That is a given.” He turns to look at the obviously youthful woman behind him. He eyed her for a moment before continuing. “They will likely desire you as well. Though you are less of a security threat. Follow my command, and when I get my way—that will be a non-issue.”Top of Form Cat blinked with surprise. "Uh... g-get your way? What is your way? What does that mean?" “As I have said, I am a waste as a mere foot soldier. We will not defeat the Legion if we do not utilize our assets to their full advantage.” He heard the sound of galloping and grinned as he squatted for a rock in the riverbed. Cat crouched down quickly, hiding behind Draco's massive build at the sound of the approaching hooves. "Oh shit oh shit oh shit...” She whispered, clutching her axe. The galloping came faster and louder as they hid, Draco’s eyes moved as if to track a calculated trajectory of where the rider was most likely to appear. His broken knuckles cracked and popped back into place as he grasped for the rock. His voice was quiet, “He should be appearing over that hill on the trail within a moment.” His hand toyed with the rock to accentuate his point. “Do you wish to do the honors, or shall I?” Cat held up her axe. "If I do it, I'll kill him," she whispered. "Seems kinda mean... can't we just... ask for help? Maybe he'll be a nice knight..." it was awkward getting close enough to whisper without touching him, so Cat covered near Draco's ear, balanced on her toes. Her breath was warm, but strangely enough for the death knight, so was she. He could feel the warmth of the young woman behind him, a soft allure to a previous life. Something to exploit. They had but one shot before the element of surprise was ruined, then there would be far too much commotion to allow them to remain in the cover of darkness. His eyes left the estimated point of arrival, “Perhaps… Go, get his attention. I will cover you.” Cat blinked, confused. Get his attention? Oh. "Uh... o-okay." Carefully, the death knight moved away from Draco and crept through the brush toward the end of what appeared to be a path. She took a deep calming breath, steadying her nerves before stepping out into the clearing. In the moonlight, her body appeared pale, nearly as blue as her glowing eyes. Completely nude, she held her axe behind her so as not to frighten the rider as much as simply distract him. "..Uh... yoo hoo?" She called out, attempting to appear alluring as she leaned against a tree. The rider was a young man, likely an adventurer running some sort of time sensitive errand for the druids given his equipment and demeanor. He quickly jerked upon the reigns of his steed, forcing the animal come to a full stop. “Woah! Easy there girl, easy!” Cat cleared her throat and remained hidden in shadow. Though her skin was fresh, it retained its dark hue. Maybe he'd think she was a tiny night elf? "Uhhh heeey there... uh... big guy...” she said in her best Common.”Wanna... uh... hug a tree...?" “Well, well…. Seems my luck is changing!” The leather clad adventurer grinned as he dismounted from his steed, of which neighed in protest of this obviously suspicious distraction from their task at hand. “An Elven lass, in the nude, all to myself… truly a land of wonders!” "Heh... Yeah! Exactly!" She said with a somewhat panicked voice, her eyes darting behind the horse in search of her temporary companion. "Just uh... come over here, and we'll uh... hug... The trees..?" “I think we can ‘hug’ more than trees, ba—” The adventurer’s horse let loose brays of panic as it, too, saw the imposing figure of her companion stepping out of the bushes. “—What the fuck?!” "Oh thank gods," Cat said under her breath, grabbing the human's sleeve to pull him in and striking him in the face causing him to crumple upon the ground. He likely never even saw it coming. Her ally had presumably followed suit, the cries of the steed had halted and its form lay on the empty road with its master. “Take what you need from him; we still have a long road ahead of us…” Draco was coated in a fresh spray of blood as he approached the fallen human, his foot pressed upon the back of the rogue’s head as he sneered down at him. “This arrogant little distraction is costing us valuable time; I am unsure how much of a lead we have on our pursuers.” "We'll have more of a lead with his horse, and I don't know about you but I'm not a big fan of riding without pants," Cat grumbled, peeling off the human's clothes. She couldn't help but blush as she pulled off his shirt. "Geez...” She murmured, throwing his shirt over her small frame. It was long enough to be a short dress. "..humans are hairy, aren't they?" “The horse is worth little more than fuel at current.” His wrathful eyes did not leave the human under that lay beneath his bare heel; the weight of such a man was likely enough to be cruel enough. The additional force beginning to be applied would be far worse. “If the man has any coin, take it—he will no longer be in need of possessions.” "Uh... oh...” Cat mumbled, digging for the human's coin purse. She found it attached to his belt, which she also stole. "You're not gonna kill the guy, are you?" “This Human sought to breed with one of our kind, a near-extinct species, and thereby has proven a threat to the continuation of our people. A grave sin and a crime deserving of capital punishment.” With every sentence spoken, the pressure placed upon the back of the human’s skull would increase dramatically as it began to dip into his now-supernatural physical capabilities. “Furthermore, he is a witness to our arrival and thereby a loose end that threatens our mission. We fail our mission, we jeopardize our entire campaign. If we lose the campaign, our world perishes before the Legion. If our world suffers, where do you think our people are left?” As if to accentuate his point, the force applied proved far too much for the mortal man’s skull to handle; with a sickening pop, its contents spilled in a violent fashion upon the road and his once trusty steed. Brain matter, blood and bone all. "Geez!!" Cat winced, jumping back from the gore before it splashed on her. "Are you nuts?? I splayed myself out like a piece of candy, of course he tried to... what did you call it? 'Breed with me’? That's freaking psycho, guy." she added sadly, avoiding looking at the corpse again. "One human isn't gonna lose our campaign… and this isn't how I like to do things." “It is not the Human we had to worry about.” The naked elf squatted over the gore ridden body, his fingers shifted through the mess. “It is the information he would grant my former comrades that would cause complications. Complications cause delays in the campaign, a campaign against the biggest threat this world has even known. We cannot afford either, they cost our people the precious few lives we have left.” As he lectured the young woman his hands scored a shard of the victim’s skull, which was promptly used to slice open his hand. His blood flowed into that spilled, mixing enough to grant him influence over the mess. It began to snake over his fingers and up his arm. “I understand that this may be considered heartless by you and those uninitiated with such trying choices. I pray that you, like my Brother, never have to come to terms with the methods I have had to employ over the years. But everything I have ever done, was for our people. Men like me are why we have yet to become extinct, in spite of the crises and genocides his people have consistently inflicted upon our own. But I will not ask you to trouble your conscious with such, no… perhaps this is where our ways part. At least for now.” "Uh... yeah, okay," Cat said with a hint of sadness in her voice. She seemed unaccustomed to the naked man's sense of cruelty, but not to his sense of duty. "I have a home to get back to… someone who loves me, and friends. Do You? Do you have somewhere to go?" “Not anymore.” The former Lord-General of the Order of Eversong rose to his feet. His eyes scanned the southern horizon. “I died in the service of our people during the Siege of Orgrimmar. It needs to stay that way. Now that I am freed, I can focus on the mission at hand.” His sapphire eyes looked back to the young woman. “Head north, you will find a flight point use the money to get home. And if you find a Magister Frostwhisper, tell him ‘The Son Rises Over Suramar.’ He will figure it out.” "You mean Vathelan?" She asked curiously, eyeing the taller elf curiously. "I'll tell him, but... are you sure you're just going to stay hidden? I mean, with what you... with what we can do, we could help a lot of people, couldn't we? You could come with me, if you wanted to. You don't need to go off on your own." “I am not abandoning the war effort. Far from it.” He spoke over his shoulder as he began his march towards the south, each step spoke of a man on a mission. The blood crawling upon him formed a sizable blade upon his wrist. He was at long last unshackled; the secret weapon the Scryers had been let loose upon the world.