Post by Xelas Stormfeather on Dec 15, 2007 16:07:58 GMT -5
The dark-haired elf reached down and pulled a ring from the finger of the man lying at his feet. The symbol of the Scarlet Crusade was etched deeply into the underside of the red stone. The top was polished to a gleaming, smooth surface, allowing light to ignite the etching underneath, making it seem to dance with a fiery life all its own. He thought about whether he should attempt to bury the dead Friar, and decided against it. He had little interest in touching the charred, barely recognizable remains any more than he'd done to claim his trophy. The possibility of using his magefire to render the corpse into ashes also occurred to Farion, but remembering the wreck the Crusaders had made of his father was enough to make him turn, leaving the corpse to the Scourge or whatever else might find and feed upon it.
Thoughts of his father made Farion feel guilty. He knew his sire would be very upset if he learned what Farion was doing. While his father hated the Scarlet Crusade, he would not want his son to be placing himself in any more danger than he already was. Farion pondered this as he walked over the hills leading back to Brill. Finally, he shrugged. What Father didn't know. . . .
As the whispering edges of the elf-mage's robes brushed the shores of Brightwater Lake, the world took on a dim, pearlescent quality. The ring dropped from Farion's nerveless fingers as the full force of the vision gripped him.
[/ul]
As Farion's sight returned to normal, he found himself standing knee-deep in the lake, trembling. The lightly-built elf slogged back to the shore, scooping up the trophy he'd dropped. He noted that his hands still shook. He balled them into fists several times to get blood back to his icy fingers. Even now, his unease had not abated. Should he warn his primary contact?
"And tell him what?" muttered Farion to himself. He shook his head and continued on his way to Brill.
******
The trees were screaming.
Xelas tried to shove their harsh, keening terror to the edge of his mind. His vision was blurred by unshed tears as he pelted down the wrecked docks of Darkshore. The dead lay scattered on the boards or in the water, whole or in parts. He'd nearly flown a gryphon to death trying to get here as fast as he could. Clearly, he was too late. The terrified and battered survivors told him that the dark raiders had taken one of the boats across the bay toward The Exodar. If he hurried, he still might be able to rally some kind of defense. Darnassus was already in shambles. He hadn't heard if Tyrande lived. Frankly, he didn't care. But his mother still lived there. At least, that is what he hoped. A splintered board in the dock sent him tumbling. He rolled for a few feet and came back up running, his pig Harley clattered in his wake. There was one boat left at the dock. She looked undermanned. The bodies floating in the water nearby suggested why. The crew had fought bravely enough to keep their ship, albeit at a terrible loss. Evidently the raiders had opted for a less tenaciously defended boat to carry them to their next target.
Xelas skidded to a halt before the man who appeared to be in charge. "Are you the captain?"
The silver-haired elf who stood on the deck was steadying himself against the grabrail. He looked around at the remnants of his crew, and then to a particularly messy corpse on the quarterdeck. "I suppose I am, now," he answered, quietly.
"Can she sail? I've got to get to the Draenai city," Xelas's voice was hoarse with desperation. "I don't know if I can stop them, but I may be able to slow them down until other reinforcements arrive."
The captain was beyond incredulity. "Do you have any idea what you're going up against?"
Xelas gave him a grim nod.
Once again, the captain surveyed his crew. "We're not cowards, any of us. But I'll not force any of my people into pursuing those monsters. I'll take volunteers. No shame to them what want to stay behind. Who's in?" All but two of crew elected to take the dangerous journey.
Even wounded and frightened, the crew worked swiftly to launch the ship into the water. The first mate -- now captain -- shepherded his crew with a quiet determination that Xelas found admirable. The initial flurry of activity slowed to a less chaotic pace once they had set sail. The captain took a moment to introduce himself.
"I'm Eonil Darkwater," he said, extending a hand.
"Xelas Stormfeather," replied Xelas accepting the captain's solid grip.
The captain chuckled, "I know. D'you think I'd follow just anybody who wanted me to chase after twenty of the worst nightmares I'd seen in centuries?"
For some reason, the compliment stung. Although Xelas had distanced himself from his kin, in recent years he was answering more calls when the smaller Kalimdor towns called for aid. That he was recognized and regarded well by his kinsmen made his rejection of all things Kal'Dorei seem petty. Unsure of what to say, he nodded to the horizon, where the vessel carrying the raiders was only a small smudge. "Do we have any chance of catching them?"
The captain squinted. "Not much. We'll probably make landfall only a few minutes behind them though. They have a big head start on us. But we're lighter, faster, and have something they don't."
"What's that?" inquired Xelas.
The captain gave him a sly grin as he nodded toward a woman who had climbed up into the rigging of the mizzenmast, "A Talon druid who is specifically attuned to these waters." The druid began a low chant, and suddenly the sails bellied full when the breeze picked-up behind them. Xelas had to make a grab for the railing as the ship surged forward.
True to the captain's estimate, the ship soon anchored just west of the main dock landing at Azuremyst Isle. Even from their distant vantage, they could see the carnage left in the wake of the raiders. Much to the confusion of all aboard, it appeared as though they had set fire to their only means of escape. The ship that had borne the attackers to the docks, was ablaze, fire spreading rapidly over the deck into the sails, and even catching the docks afire.
"Looks like they're digging in," observed Captain Darkwater.
******
Xelas waded in the shallows before stepping cautiously onto the shore. Rather than beach the small rowboat that brought him this close, he insisted that the boatmen remain afloat and head back to the ship. He'd left Captain Darkwater with instructions to return to Teldrassil as fast as possible to get word to the Sentinels there. Though they might be able to muster some reinforcements, Xelas didn't count on much help coming from Darnassus. If the massacre of Darkshore was any indication, they had problems enough of their own.
The small pass-camp that was near the docks was empty. Well. Almost empty. The butchered dead lay in somewhat-recognizable heaps, and all-too fresh. Xelas began running, trying to keep to the trees along the path leading to the Draenai ship. He noted that the tracks of the raiding army diverged and went toward the dockward entrance into the city closest to where the Prophet Velan held audience. Xelas swore softly. There was little chance he could get to the Prophet ahead of them. But he could warn those on the other side of the city. He began running in earnest, his long legs sprinting tirelessly. The guards at the island-side entrance took up arms at his approach, preparing to challenge him.
"No time!" he yelled, breathlessly. "The Prophet Velen is in mortal danger! Sound the alarms now!" The guards only hesitated a few moments before acting. He heard several of them charging behind him as he pelted down the broken walkway. As he'd hoped, the alarm sounded. Xelas wasn't sure if it was due to his warning, or if they thought he intended harm. Either way, they were doing what he wished. His cries continued as he wound his way deeper into the ship.
"The Prophet needs you! The city is under attack!" Finally, as he drew near the Vault of Lights, he could hear the battle underway. The vindicators chasing after him heard it, too, deciding once and for all that Xelas was the messenger he claimed to be.
The stairs leading up to the Vault were mostly clear. Xelas flattened himself against the low wall as he edged around the last stair to see the lay of battle. To his dismay, it was clear many brave Vindicators had already met and perished against the assembled raiders. More were engaging the Xul'un -- The Dead Ones. These were neither Scourge nor Foresaken, but instead a death cult that he would never before have believed possible. They nestled in the bosom of the Horde, a vile worm eating away at the honor and peace that Thrall had struggled to gain. He'd learned some small bit firsthand when he would venture into Silvermoon or Undercity, wrapped in a clever disguise of his son's crafting. More had come from Farion himself. The most horrifying were the encounters such as these, where he faced the Xul'un in all their blood-drenched might. Many of the armors and a few of the faces he'd seen over and over -- so much so that he'd even learned a few of their names: Krellick, once a Sin'Dorei, was fierce, brilliant and cruel. And there was Culebra, calling thunder to strike any who was unlucky enough to confront him. Andruilin, Salina, and Nasiar -- all of them given over entirely to their dark god. And Chroma -- Light help him -- Chroma was there. The undead orc was their leader. He'd never met a warrior so utterly fearless and terrifying. Xelas had crossed blades against him many times, only surviving by the sheerest of luck or simply being left for dead. What was worse, Xelas felt certain that Chroma had come to know him as well, and hated him for meddling in their "harvests" just as he was about to do now.
Gathering his resolve and courage, Xelas stood, readying his bow. The war-arrow he notched was wickedly bladed and barbed. He steadied himself against the wall, taking careful aim at the gap around the shoulder of Chroma's chestpiece. Xelas held his breath as he let the arrow fly. Few things matched the power of a Kal'Dorei bow in the hands of an elf trained in its use. So it was little wonder at the bellow of pain when Xelas's shot found its way home. And yet, a shot that should have punched through armor and flesh merely buried itself an inch or two into the shoulder of the Xul'un leader. The bellow became a roar of rage as Chroma's head snapped toward Xelas, sighting him. The orc closed the distance between them before Xelas could get another shot off.
The full weight of Xul'un warrior slammed into Xelas. The unforgiving surface of the Orc's vambraces sent the Kal'dorei hunter flying across the stairs into the other wall. Xelas was dazed as the wind got knocked out of him. But Chroma was upon him again in an instant. The Orc's wicked sword slashed toward Xelas's head. The elf twisted on the floor, narrowly avoiding decapitation. The sword stuck momentarily in the floor plates, causing Chroma to bellow in frustrated rage. Xelas took that moment to throw his own considerable weight to one side, catching the Orc inside his left ankle. Chroma dropped to one knee on the uneven surface of the stairs, giving the elf a moment to get clear. Vindicators and newly-arrived defenders who'd portaled in from other cities closed on the Orc. Xelas came up again, this time with two arrows readied. He let them fly in blinding succession, igniting magic along each one -- molten fire and inky shadow. They both struck within a second of each other. Chroma's fury only escalated. He swatted the Draenai Vindicators out of the way, almost carelessly, as he hewed a path with single-minded ferocity toward the elf. However, Chroma was accumulating more and more injuries, and however much he ignored them, they began to slow the Orc down. A new voice joined the fracas at the top of the stairs. It was Andrulin, shouting at Chroma, no doubt urging him to rejoin the other raiders. A gesture and a command, and the Orc's wounds magically closed. Once again whole, Chroma charged at Xelas, making a final bid to kill him. An overhead slash, quick and brutal, whistled down, slashing across Xelas's chest. He cried out as he felt the links of his armor split, and the blade bite into the flesh underneath. But the gash was shallow, leaving the elf nimble enough to dodge the upward swipe meant to take his head. Instead, Chroma buried the blade through Xelas's shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Chroma's plated fist swept backhanded and connected with the side of his head. The last thing Xelas saw was Andrulin pointing at him, his voice carrying over the clash of battle.
"We will add your skull to the pile, breather. It was only a matter of time."
******
Hours later found Farion berating himself. How could he have been so stupid? Had he but taken the initiative to relay the warning of his vision, he might not now be huddled in a tent at the Bulwark, a dark bowl filled with water sitting in his lap. He was being asked to find the army he'd seen in his earlier vision. Few knew that the elf was a hydromancer, but those who did, employed his talents often. His sense of dread threatened to overwhelm him. The news had hit him like a physical blow. One after another, Alliance cities were reporting devastating attacks. Had not his primary contact managed to reach him, Farion would be eaten up with worry for family abroad. Still, the reassurance was not very great, and Farion had to struggle to hold still enough not to disrupt the surface of the water. Calm down. Calm down. They need my Vision, he told himself. Slow, deep breaths.
In.
Out.
In. . . .
With a surge of panic, Farion leapt to his feet, recognizing what he was seeing. The vision evaporated as the bowl of water fell to the ground.
"The trams!" he gasped. "Warn Ironforge and Stormwind! They are in the trams!"
Thoughts of his father made Farion feel guilty. He knew his sire would be very upset if he learned what Farion was doing. While his father hated the Scarlet Crusade, he would not want his son to be placing himself in any more danger than he already was. Farion pondered this as he walked over the hills leading back to Brill. Finally, he shrugged. What Father didn't know. . . .
As the whispering edges of the elf-mage's robes brushed the shores of Brightwater Lake, the world took on a dim, pearlescent quality. The ring dropped from Farion's nerveless fingers as the full force of the vision gripped him.
[/ul]
As Farion's sight returned to normal, he found himself standing knee-deep in the lake, trembling. The lightly-built elf slogged back to the shore, scooping up the trophy he'd dropped. He noted that his hands still shook. He balled them into fists several times to get blood back to his icy fingers. Even now, his unease had not abated. Should he warn his primary contact?
"And tell him what?" muttered Farion to himself. He shook his head and continued on his way to Brill.
******
The trees were screaming.
Xelas tried to shove their harsh, keening terror to the edge of his mind. His vision was blurred by unshed tears as he pelted down the wrecked docks of Darkshore. The dead lay scattered on the boards or in the water, whole or in parts. He'd nearly flown a gryphon to death trying to get here as fast as he could. Clearly, he was too late. The terrified and battered survivors told him that the dark raiders had taken one of the boats across the bay toward The Exodar. If he hurried, he still might be able to rally some kind of defense. Darnassus was already in shambles. He hadn't heard if Tyrande lived. Frankly, he didn't care. But his mother still lived there. At least, that is what he hoped. A splintered board in the dock sent him tumbling. He rolled for a few feet and came back up running, his pig Harley clattered in his wake. There was one boat left at the dock. She looked undermanned. The bodies floating in the water nearby suggested why. The crew had fought bravely enough to keep their ship, albeit at a terrible loss. Evidently the raiders had opted for a less tenaciously defended boat to carry them to their next target.
Xelas skidded to a halt before the man who appeared to be in charge. "Are you the captain?"
The silver-haired elf who stood on the deck was steadying himself against the grabrail. He looked around at the remnants of his crew, and then to a particularly messy corpse on the quarterdeck. "I suppose I am, now," he answered, quietly.
"Can she sail? I've got to get to the Draenai city," Xelas's voice was hoarse with desperation. "I don't know if I can stop them, but I may be able to slow them down until other reinforcements arrive."
The captain was beyond incredulity. "Do you have any idea what you're going up against?"
Xelas gave him a grim nod.
Once again, the captain surveyed his crew. "We're not cowards, any of us. But I'll not force any of my people into pursuing those monsters. I'll take volunteers. No shame to them what want to stay behind. Who's in?" All but two of crew elected to take the dangerous journey.
Even wounded and frightened, the crew worked swiftly to launch the ship into the water. The first mate -- now captain -- shepherded his crew with a quiet determination that Xelas found admirable. The initial flurry of activity slowed to a less chaotic pace once they had set sail. The captain took a moment to introduce himself.
"I'm Eonil Darkwater," he said, extending a hand.
"Xelas Stormfeather," replied Xelas accepting the captain's solid grip.
The captain chuckled, "I know. D'you think I'd follow just anybody who wanted me to chase after twenty of the worst nightmares I'd seen in centuries?"
For some reason, the compliment stung. Although Xelas had distanced himself from his kin, in recent years he was answering more calls when the smaller Kalimdor towns called for aid. That he was recognized and regarded well by his kinsmen made his rejection of all things Kal'Dorei seem petty. Unsure of what to say, he nodded to the horizon, where the vessel carrying the raiders was only a small smudge. "Do we have any chance of catching them?"
The captain squinted. "Not much. We'll probably make landfall only a few minutes behind them though. They have a big head start on us. But we're lighter, faster, and have something they don't."
"What's that?" inquired Xelas.
The captain gave him a sly grin as he nodded toward a woman who had climbed up into the rigging of the mizzenmast, "A Talon druid who is specifically attuned to these waters." The druid began a low chant, and suddenly the sails bellied full when the breeze picked-up behind them. Xelas had to make a grab for the railing as the ship surged forward.
True to the captain's estimate, the ship soon anchored just west of the main dock landing at Azuremyst Isle. Even from their distant vantage, they could see the carnage left in the wake of the raiders. Much to the confusion of all aboard, it appeared as though they had set fire to their only means of escape. The ship that had borne the attackers to the docks, was ablaze, fire spreading rapidly over the deck into the sails, and even catching the docks afire.
"Looks like they're digging in," observed Captain Darkwater.
******
Xelas waded in the shallows before stepping cautiously onto the shore. Rather than beach the small rowboat that brought him this close, he insisted that the boatmen remain afloat and head back to the ship. He'd left Captain Darkwater with instructions to return to Teldrassil as fast as possible to get word to the Sentinels there. Though they might be able to muster some reinforcements, Xelas didn't count on much help coming from Darnassus. If the massacre of Darkshore was any indication, they had problems enough of their own.
The small pass-camp that was near the docks was empty. Well. Almost empty. The butchered dead lay in somewhat-recognizable heaps, and all-too fresh. Xelas began running, trying to keep to the trees along the path leading to the Draenai ship. He noted that the tracks of the raiding army diverged and went toward the dockward entrance into the city closest to where the Prophet Velan held audience. Xelas swore softly. There was little chance he could get to the Prophet ahead of them. But he could warn those on the other side of the city. He began running in earnest, his long legs sprinting tirelessly. The guards at the island-side entrance took up arms at his approach, preparing to challenge him.
"No time!" he yelled, breathlessly. "The Prophet Velen is in mortal danger! Sound the alarms now!" The guards only hesitated a few moments before acting. He heard several of them charging behind him as he pelted down the broken walkway. As he'd hoped, the alarm sounded. Xelas wasn't sure if it was due to his warning, or if they thought he intended harm. Either way, they were doing what he wished. His cries continued as he wound his way deeper into the ship.
"The Prophet needs you! The city is under attack!" Finally, as he drew near the Vault of Lights, he could hear the battle underway. The vindicators chasing after him heard it, too, deciding once and for all that Xelas was the messenger he claimed to be.
The stairs leading up to the Vault were mostly clear. Xelas flattened himself against the low wall as he edged around the last stair to see the lay of battle. To his dismay, it was clear many brave Vindicators had already met and perished against the assembled raiders. More were engaging the Xul'un -- The Dead Ones. These were neither Scourge nor Foresaken, but instead a death cult that he would never before have believed possible. They nestled in the bosom of the Horde, a vile worm eating away at the honor and peace that Thrall had struggled to gain. He'd learned some small bit firsthand when he would venture into Silvermoon or Undercity, wrapped in a clever disguise of his son's crafting. More had come from Farion himself. The most horrifying were the encounters such as these, where he faced the Xul'un in all their blood-drenched might. Many of the armors and a few of the faces he'd seen over and over -- so much so that he'd even learned a few of their names: Krellick, once a Sin'Dorei, was fierce, brilliant and cruel. And there was Culebra, calling thunder to strike any who was unlucky enough to confront him. Andruilin, Salina, and Nasiar -- all of them given over entirely to their dark god. And Chroma -- Light help him -- Chroma was there. The undead orc was their leader. He'd never met a warrior so utterly fearless and terrifying. Xelas had crossed blades against him many times, only surviving by the sheerest of luck or simply being left for dead. What was worse, Xelas felt certain that Chroma had come to know him as well, and hated him for meddling in their "harvests" just as he was about to do now.
Gathering his resolve and courage, Xelas stood, readying his bow. The war-arrow he notched was wickedly bladed and barbed. He steadied himself against the wall, taking careful aim at the gap around the shoulder of Chroma's chestpiece. Xelas held his breath as he let the arrow fly. Few things matched the power of a Kal'Dorei bow in the hands of an elf trained in its use. So it was little wonder at the bellow of pain when Xelas's shot found its way home. And yet, a shot that should have punched through armor and flesh merely buried itself an inch or two into the shoulder of the Xul'un leader. The bellow became a roar of rage as Chroma's head snapped toward Xelas, sighting him. The orc closed the distance between them before Xelas could get another shot off.
The full weight of Xul'un warrior slammed into Xelas. The unforgiving surface of the Orc's vambraces sent the Kal'dorei hunter flying across the stairs into the other wall. Xelas was dazed as the wind got knocked out of him. But Chroma was upon him again in an instant. The Orc's wicked sword slashed toward Xelas's head. The elf twisted on the floor, narrowly avoiding decapitation. The sword stuck momentarily in the floor plates, causing Chroma to bellow in frustrated rage. Xelas took that moment to throw his own considerable weight to one side, catching the Orc inside his left ankle. Chroma dropped to one knee on the uneven surface of the stairs, giving the elf a moment to get clear. Vindicators and newly-arrived defenders who'd portaled in from other cities closed on the Orc. Xelas came up again, this time with two arrows readied. He let them fly in blinding succession, igniting magic along each one -- molten fire and inky shadow. They both struck within a second of each other. Chroma's fury only escalated. He swatted the Draenai Vindicators out of the way, almost carelessly, as he hewed a path with single-minded ferocity toward the elf. However, Chroma was accumulating more and more injuries, and however much he ignored them, they began to slow the Orc down. A new voice joined the fracas at the top of the stairs. It was Andrulin, shouting at Chroma, no doubt urging him to rejoin the other raiders. A gesture and a command, and the Orc's wounds magically closed. Once again whole, Chroma charged at Xelas, making a final bid to kill him. An overhead slash, quick and brutal, whistled down, slashing across Xelas's chest. He cried out as he felt the links of his armor split, and the blade bite into the flesh underneath. But the gash was shallow, leaving the elf nimble enough to dodge the upward swipe meant to take his head. Instead, Chroma buried the blade through Xelas's shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Chroma's plated fist swept backhanded and connected with the side of his head. The last thing Xelas saw was Andrulin pointing at him, his voice carrying over the clash of battle.
"We will add your skull to the pile, breather. It was only a matter of time."
******
Hours later found Farion berating himself. How could he have been so stupid? Had he but taken the initiative to relay the warning of his vision, he might not now be huddled in a tent at the Bulwark, a dark bowl filled with water sitting in his lap. He was being asked to find the army he'd seen in his earlier vision. Few knew that the elf was a hydromancer, but those who did, employed his talents often. His sense of dread threatened to overwhelm him. The news had hit him like a physical blow. One after another, Alliance cities were reporting devastating attacks. Had not his primary contact managed to reach him, Farion would be eaten up with worry for family abroad. Still, the reassurance was not very great, and Farion had to struggle to hold still enough not to disrupt the surface of the water. Calm down. Calm down. They need my Vision, he told himself. Slow, deep breaths.
In.
Out.
In. . . .
With a surge of panic, Farion leapt to his feet, recognizing what he was seeing. The vision evaporated as the bowl of water fell to the ground.
"The trams!" he gasped. "Warn Ironforge and Stormwind! They are in the trams!"