Post by Xelas Stormfeather on Jun 21, 2007 21:48:12 GMT -5
OOC: this is a work in progress which I intend to add to this thread -- forums.worldofwarcraft.com/thread.html?topicId=108389193&sid=1
As I am seeking feedback specifically from Aelinor (as I have involved that character) before I post it to the main forums, I beg your indulgence for the likelihood of OOC discussions following after this.
Kind regards,
~xXx~
The body of an elf floated just below the surface of a northern canal in Stormwind. To any human passerby, the lean, well-formed man appeared dead; his long, black hair spread out fan-like around him. An elf or similar being gifted with night vision would see the body still showing life, as heat continued to radiate in a soft glow from the man's exposed skin.
Xelas drifted, letting the bouyancy of the water ease the pain in his limbs. He still ached from Proletaire's assaults, even days later. More and more, the loss of Nordrassil marked Xelas with accumulated twinges and stiffness. Wounds were slower to heal. His senses dulled ever so slightly; reactions no longer lightning quick. Sometimes, he missed. In short, he was beginning to grow old. No longer prime. No longer perfect. Oh, to be sure, his decrepitude was probably still decades or even centuries away. But the magic of the Well and the World Tree had already stretched his life far beyond what any mortal body could endure. Now that the magic was gone, all elves who had lived as immortals felt that same, constant decay which the other creatures of Azeroth lived and died with.
It hurt.
Finally, the need for air drove the elf to the surface. A quick gasp, a small kick, and Xelas rolled in the water, where he continued drifting on his back. He gazed up at the stars overhead, listening to the quiet sounds of the city at night. A pair of guards patroled across the bridge nearby. Neither gave him more than a second glance. The guards had become accustomed to his midnight swims near the Cathedral, owning it up to 'some elf thing'. While he knew the practice was considered odd in Stormwind, he suspected very few of his kinsmen in Darnassus were overly inclined to set themselves drifting in chill, dark waters as a nightly ritual, either. He never felt like trying to correct the guards, however. They left the elf to drown whatever secret demons followed him from one battlefield or the next. It was all he asked of them -- no questions. Please don't wonder if all that blood was mine. Did we win? Do we ever? Does anyone? Will I go back out that bloody world tomorrow? Of course. And, Light willing, I will return to wash away my sins then, too.
The aching intensified for a moment. Xelas forced himself to relax again. He heard the bells of the cathedral calling the hour. Sighing, he rolled onto his belly, and began to swim in earnest, gliding through the water, sleek and graceful. He approached the normally deserted dock where he left his belongings while he swam. Tonight it wasn't deserted.
Aelinor sat, dainty hooves dangling in the canal while she waited. She didn't often come to Stormwind, and since confronting Proletaire, Xelas expected her visits would be even more rare. Now, though, he was presented with another quandry. His Sister priestess sat on his favorite torch-lit dock -- a barrier between him and his clothes. He swam to the edge of the light cast by the torches, deliberately splashing a little to get Aelinor's attention without startling her.
"Xelas?" she called, blinded by the torch in between her and the sound.
"Aye," he replied. "This is a pleasant surprise." It was the tiniest of lies, for while he enjoyed Aelinor's wit and company very much, her frank curiosity of all things elven left him feeling gawky. He winced as she stood and cast about for what he was hoping to get to with as little exposure as possible. She knelt and scooped up his shirt and trousers draping them over her arm, clearly intending to hand them to him. Damn. Xelas tread water for a few moments before deciding there was just no help for it. He felt certain that modesty of form was not a significant consideration from Aelinor's perspective. He silently vowed to behave as if nothing were out of the ordinary -- that this was no more uncomfortable for him than if they'd bumped into each other at the bank. He grabbed the edge of the dock and hoisted himself out of the water. Xelas sensed Aelinor's gaze on him immediately. Some of her examination was clinical -- she had served as his healer on many occasions. However, much of it was not. His resolve to to be nonchalant lasted only seconds as Aelinor's frank stare traveled the length of his body. He felt the blush begin at his scalp and blaze its way downward, until he was aflame with embarassment. Xelas struggled to find an angle that somehow reduced the field of view, without appearing as though he wanted nothing more than to scuttle into the nearest crevice and pull it in after him. He failed. Aelinor finally took pity on him and handed him his pants.
"I can't bear to watch you trying to turn yourself inside out any longer," she chuckled. "It's a shame though. I so rarely get the opportunity to indulge my curiosity."
"That's hard to imagine," Xelas cleared his throat nervously. "Haven't you ever mailed a letter?" It was a weak joke, but the best he could muster under the circumstances. He tried to pull on his trousers in two, deft motions. He only managed one leg, before the other one tangled, threatening to spill him back into the canal. Aelinor was quick to the rescue, grabbing Xelas' arm to steady him. Xelas, focused on restoring his modesty, did not notice Aelinor's eyes widen in shock.
"How did this happen?" she demanded, fingers tracing a thick scar that began at his left shoulder and etched across his chest, and ended in a deep, puckered knot just above his hip on the far side. She tugged at Xelas' arm turning him around. She clucked in disapproval, despite expecting to find a twin scar between two of his ribs, marring the smooth skin of his back. The scars were silver with age, but distinct and suggesting enormous luck in anyone living to show them.
Xelas shied from Aelinor's inquisitive touch, as though it burned. "Sorry," he mumbled, "it still pains me sometimes."
At first, Aelinor's expression seemed wounded, then it softend to compassion. "The deep ones are like that." She handed Xelas his shirt, clinical again. "Sword or spear? It was sharp, whatever did it."
Xelas nodded as he pulled the shirt over his head. "A ranseur. If I hadn't moved when I did, I'd have taken the brunt of the thrust to my chest." He took one last glance at his abdomen before tucking the tunic into his trousers. "I was lucky. The fellow really didn't want to kill me."
Aelinor nodded, "Ah. So it was an accident, then?"
Xelas' expression was unreadable. "No," he replied, simply.
Aelinor considered prying, when she noticed Xelas shiver. A chilly breeze stirred across the canal. The warrior-priest tested the air, nostrils flaring to catch a scent of whatever made him uneasy.
"We should move," he stated, flatly. "My habits are well-known to anyone that might pay attention. And Proletaire is still out there, somewhere." He leapt up to the cobbles of the street, then extended a hand to Aelinor to guide her safely off the dock.
"Ah, yes. Proletaire," replied Aelinor. "That's actually why I was coming to talk to you." Xelas began walking toward the Cathedral and she fell into step beside him. She noticed that he was alert, taking opportunities to glance behind them as they rounded corners, ears pricked, ready, but not too tightly strung.
"Really?" he said. Xelas seemed to relax a little as they walked. They passed a few guards along the way, all of whom recognized and hailed the warrior-priest. He was well-known and and highly regarded by the city officials. They turned another corner that lead to the great fountain in front of the Cathedral.
Aelinor glanced up at him, "I think he can be redeemed, Xelas."
Xelas scoffed. "I wholeheartedly agree. A rope can cure a great many personal flaws."
"Xelas!" Aelinor stopped, agast at him. "I hope you are joking, poor as it is."
Xelas flushed with embarassment. "Aye, I am. Mostly," he added. "But you have to admit, hanging has a certain finality as solutions go."
The Draenai priestess continued to glare at him, eyes glowing in the darkness of the courtyard. Xelas sighed, and made a gesture of surrender. "So perhaps he can be redeemed. However, I haven't the first notion how to go bout that." He began moving again toward the Cathedral. "If you have any thoughts in that regard, I'd like to hear them." He nodded to the brightly lit entry to the church. "For now, though, we should check in with the Council to see if they've heard anything further."
Aelinor hesitated a few seconds before joining the dark-haired elf. Together, they made their way up the stairs to the Cathedral.
Behind them, a gust of wind swirled through the courtyard, threatening to gutter the sparse torches lit by the night watch. The shadows rose up, then receded as the flames gained strength again.
All shadows but one, and it smiled.
As I am seeking feedback specifically from Aelinor (as I have involved that character) before I post it to the main forums, I beg your indulgence for the likelihood of OOC discussions following after this.
Kind regards,
~xXx~
The body of an elf floated just below the surface of a northern canal in Stormwind. To any human passerby, the lean, well-formed man appeared dead; his long, black hair spread out fan-like around him. An elf or similar being gifted with night vision would see the body still showing life, as heat continued to radiate in a soft glow from the man's exposed skin.
Xelas drifted, letting the bouyancy of the water ease the pain in his limbs. He still ached from Proletaire's assaults, even days later. More and more, the loss of Nordrassil marked Xelas with accumulated twinges and stiffness. Wounds were slower to heal. His senses dulled ever so slightly; reactions no longer lightning quick. Sometimes, he missed. In short, he was beginning to grow old. No longer prime. No longer perfect. Oh, to be sure, his decrepitude was probably still decades or even centuries away. But the magic of the Well and the World Tree had already stretched his life far beyond what any mortal body could endure. Now that the magic was gone, all elves who had lived as immortals felt that same, constant decay which the other creatures of Azeroth lived and died with.
It hurt.
Finally, the need for air drove the elf to the surface. A quick gasp, a small kick, and Xelas rolled in the water, where he continued drifting on his back. He gazed up at the stars overhead, listening to the quiet sounds of the city at night. A pair of guards patroled across the bridge nearby. Neither gave him more than a second glance. The guards had become accustomed to his midnight swims near the Cathedral, owning it up to 'some elf thing'. While he knew the practice was considered odd in Stormwind, he suspected very few of his kinsmen in Darnassus were overly inclined to set themselves drifting in chill, dark waters as a nightly ritual, either. He never felt like trying to correct the guards, however. They left the elf to drown whatever secret demons followed him from one battlefield or the next. It was all he asked of them -- no questions. Please don't wonder if all that blood was mine. Did we win? Do we ever? Does anyone? Will I go back out that bloody world tomorrow? Of course. And, Light willing, I will return to wash away my sins then, too.
The aching intensified for a moment. Xelas forced himself to relax again. He heard the bells of the cathedral calling the hour. Sighing, he rolled onto his belly, and began to swim in earnest, gliding through the water, sleek and graceful. He approached the normally deserted dock where he left his belongings while he swam. Tonight it wasn't deserted.
Aelinor sat, dainty hooves dangling in the canal while she waited. She didn't often come to Stormwind, and since confronting Proletaire, Xelas expected her visits would be even more rare. Now, though, he was presented with another quandry. His Sister priestess sat on his favorite torch-lit dock -- a barrier between him and his clothes. He swam to the edge of the light cast by the torches, deliberately splashing a little to get Aelinor's attention without startling her.
"Xelas?" she called, blinded by the torch in between her and the sound.
"Aye," he replied. "This is a pleasant surprise." It was the tiniest of lies, for while he enjoyed Aelinor's wit and company very much, her frank curiosity of all things elven left him feeling gawky. He winced as she stood and cast about for what he was hoping to get to with as little exposure as possible. She knelt and scooped up his shirt and trousers draping them over her arm, clearly intending to hand them to him. Damn. Xelas tread water for a few moments before deciding there was just no help for it. He felt certain that modesty of form was not a significant consideration from Aelinor's perspective. He silently vowed to behave as if nothing were out of the ordinary -- that this was no more uncomfortable for him than if they'd bumped into each other at the bank. He grabbed the edge of the dock and hoisted himself out of the water. Xelas sensed Aelinor's gaze on him immediately. Some of her examination was clinical -- she had served as his healer on many occasions. However, much of it was not. His resolve to to be nonchalant lasted only seconds as Aelinor's frank stare traveled the length of his body. He felt the blush begin at his scalp and blaze its way downward, until he was aflame with embarassment. Xelas struggled to find an angle that somehow reduced the field of view, without appearing as though he wanted nothing more than to scuttle into the nearest crevice and pull it in after him. He failed. Aelinor finally took pity on him and handed him his pants.
"I can't bear to watch you trying to turn yourself inside out any longer," she chuckled. "It's a shame though. I so rarely get the opportunity to indulge my curiosity."
"That's hard to imagine," Xelas cleared his throat nervously. "Haven't you ever mailed a letter?" It was a weak joke, but the best he could muster under the circumstances. He tried to pull on his trousers in two, deft motions. He only managed one leg, before the other one tangled, threatening to spill him back into the canal. Aelinor was quick to the rescue, grabbing Xelas' arm to steady him. Xelas, focused on restoring his modesty, did not notice Aelinor's eyes widen in shock.
"How did this happen?" she demanded, fingers tracing a thick scar that began at his left shoulder and etched across his chest, and ended in a deep, puckered knot just above his hip on the far side. She tugged at Xelas' arm turning him around. She clucked in disapproval, despite expecting to find a twin scar between two of his ribs, marring the smooth skin of his back. The scars were silver with age, but distinct and suggesting enormous luck in anyone living to show them.
Xelas shied from Aelinor's inquisitive touch, as though it burned. "Sorry," he mumbled, "it still pains me sometimes."
At first, Aelinor's expression seemed wounded, then it softend to compassion. "The deep ones are like that." She handed Xelas his shirt, clinical again. "Sword or spear? It was sharp, whatever did it."
Xelas nodded as he pulled the shirt over his head. "A ranseur. If I hadn't moved when I did, I'd have taken the brunt of the thrust to my chest." He took one last glance at his abdomen before tucking the tunic into his trousers. "I was lucky. The fellow really didn't want to kill me."
Aelinor nodded, "Ah. So it was an accident, then?"
Xelas' expression was unreadable. "No," he replied, simply.
Aelinor considered prying, when she noticed Xelas shiver. A chilly breeze stirred across the canal. The warrior-priest tested the air, nostrils flaring to catch a scent of whatever made him uneasy.
"We should move," he stated, flatly. "My habits are well-known to anyone that might pay attention. And Proletaire is still out there, somewhere." He leapt up to the cobbles of the street, then extended a hand to Aelinor to guide her safely off the dock.
"Ah, yes. Proletaire," replied Aelinor. "That's actually why I was coming to talk to you." Xelas began walking toward the Cathedral and she fell into step beside him. She noticed that he was alert, taking opportunities to glance behind them as they rounded corners, ears pricked, ready, but not too tightly strung.
"Really?" he said. Xelas seemed to relax a little as they walked. They passed a few guards along the way, all of whom recognized and hailed the warrior-priest. He was well-known and and highly regarded by the city officials. They turned another corner that lead to the great fountain in front of the Cathedral.
Aelinor glanced up at him, "I think he can be redeemed, Xelas."
Xelas scoffed. "I wholeheartedly agree. A rope can cure a great many personal flaws."
"Xelas!" Aelinor stopped, agast at him. "I hope you are joking, poor as it is."
Xelas flushed with embarassment. "Aye, I am. Mostly," he added. "But you have to admit, hanging has a certain finality as solutions go."
The Draenai priestess continued to glare at him, eyes glowing in the darkness of the courtyard. Xelas sighed, and made a gesture of surrender. "So perhaps he can be redeemed. However, I haven't the first notion how to go bout that." He began moving again toward the Cathedral. "If you have any thoughts in that regard, I'd like to hear them." He nodded to the brightly lit entry to the church. "For now, though, we should check in with the Council to see if they've heard anything further."
Aelinor hesitated a few seconds before joining the dark-haired elf. Together, they made their way up the stairs to the Cathedral.
Behind them, a gust of wind swirled through the courtyard, threatening to gutter the sparse torches lit by the night watch. The shadows rose up, then receded as the flames gained strength again.
All shadows but one, and it smiled.
