Get the Desktop App for Battle.net Now
- All your games in 1 place
- Log in once
- Automatic game updates
*Drimu's post as he is unable to get onto the forums right now.*
You should have acted, they’re already here! You were told of their return. Their defeat, was merely delay. For the time after the orcs came. When the sons of Lordaeron would spill their own blood…
But no one wanted to believe…
Believe they would act so quickly.
And when the truth finally dawns, my son.
It will dawn in fire…
What was that?
Yes, no, maybe?
That would make sense.
It would, wouldn’t it?
Memories. They store data. Like your brain does. That’s funny. So that’s normal. Funny is normal, isn’t it?
Where am I? It’s black everywhere. How did I get here? Where did I go from to get here?
Falling. Falling hurts. Falling hurts a lot. Falling causes pain. Falling and wet. Falling from the ocean.
Falling from the ocean and pain. With pain. Pain against a hard surface. Falling from ocean with pain from a hard surface.
Falling on a rock. Rocks from a cavern. Falling from the ocean, to a cavern.
Whirlpools. Whirlpools in the ocean.
Whirlpools in the ocean, falling on a rock in a cavern, pain, blackness.
The Death Knight’s functioning eye shot open. Immediately Alistair’s vision focused in. The roof of… whatever cave he had landed in was apparent. The next thing was voices. Tapping against the stone. People were moving around constantly, or creatures were coming to devour him whole. Both very possible. Both very dangerous in their own rights.
Wherever he was, it looked much different then naga infested waters. But the question of where was exactly what was perplexing. Which also led to the question of who was around him.
These questions had to wait however. For now at least.
The excruciating pain he was feeling all over as well as the light headedness made it blatantly obvious he was in no shape for combat. Blood loss was the immediate problem. Blood could be regained.
There were quite a few pops and cracks as he rolled onto his front. Bones shattered, broken, splintered, probably quite a few of those things. His vision almost faded away again just from straining his body more then it already was. His eye searched around now that it could. Surprisingly, all it managed to find were other members of the patrol.
Couldn’t shake them no matter how hard the world tried it would seem.
Unimportant right now. To the task at hand.
Edited by Waraila on 12/28/2011 7:49 PM PST
Ah, yes, there it was. A trail of blood leading back to the place where he fell. This was perfect. It wouldn’t heal him completely, but he would be in standing condition at least.
Slowly, his hand reached forward. He pressed his palm into the red pool. The liquid began to seethe up his arm in several trails. Wrapping around and dripping into his wounds. In turn, closing them up at the same time. Whatever it could that is.
Before long the blood was slithering across the ground from the Alistair shaped indent where it originated from. A healthy flow seething into him at a constant rate. With each passing minute he was metaphorically clawing himself to his feet, inch by literally bloody inch. It would take some time more, but it would work. It was the only thing that would work.
In a sudden flash of blinding light, the rune blade wrapped in bandages burst into green flame. It seared straight through the cloth of the bandages, pure white smoke puffing up.
In the middle of it all stood a finely clothed man, complete with top hat and cane. In the palm of his hand he held a purely white stone with blue etchings that moved in a swirl. Twas Jaggo nonetheless, not looking the least bit damp nor ruffled at all. Nobody had actually seen him after the ship was attacked, though his attire left many questions.
The two of them, Alistair and Jaggo, the strangest of siblings, spared each other but one moment of eye contact. And that was it. No more needed to be done. They were both fine, or going to be fine. They could catch up when they had a respite. For now it was professionalism… (Pssshhahahaa)
And so the mage known as Jaggo took his time to walk casually away from his bleeding brother. Well, bleeding… in? Bleeding in brother.
Alistair in the mean time was… well, bleeding in. There wasn’t much else to say.
In a few agonizingly slow minutes, the Death Knight would be up and ready. Jaggo had no reason to speak with anyone of the patrol. Especially not the new faces. Just their speech was giving him the heeby jeeby chills.
Edited by Waraila on 12/28/2011 7:49 PM PST
Grish sighed, looking over the members of the patrol, both living and dead. He frowned, thinking.
‘So many gone.’ He thought. ‘They deserved more.’ He turned his head sharply as something exploded, blinking as he saw white smoke rising from green flames.
‘What is-’ He wondered, before shaking his head. ‘No, it’s not important.’ He thought to himself.
So, you planning something? Vi asked. Rowenoak blinked and turned his head slowly, observing what was going on around them. However, Grish knew he was paying attention as well.
‘I’m making a memorial. They should have that much, at least.’ Grish replied.
A memorial? Made of what? Vi asked.
‘Ironwood, of course.’ Grish replied.
What do you mean? How could you- Vi asked, silenced as the druid took out a single tiny grey seed, indistinguishable from a rock except for the soft green-grey aura around it.
Is that-what I think it is? Vi asked, sounding almost apprehensive.
‘Indeed. The only one that dropped from the tree.’ Grish replied, studying the seed.
And the others?
‘Dormant. It might take a decade before the next one is ready, maybe more.’
How fast will it grow?
‘Can’t say. This place is perfect for it, though. Plenty of rock to absorb.’
Wait, what? What do you mean? Vi asked, confused.
Grish smiled slightly. ‘Ironwood trees grow very slowly, usually on the sides of mountains, in places with a lot of rock. They break down rock and use it for food, unlike other plants. Here, with so much rock and crystal and the like, it should be very well-fed.’
Impressive, that. Though, the tree isn’t the only thing you have planned, is it? Vi remarked
‘Nope.’ Grish replied.
Finding a good spot, Grish set the seed on the ground, and began to channel power into it, accelerating its growth immensely. Roots burst from the seed, spreading over the ground, as a trunk began to sprout, branches spreading above it in record time. The rock under it crumbled and was taken in, feeding the immense demands of the tree. After several minutes, Grish stopped feeding the tree, both his and Rowenoak’s reservoirs of power drained. Taking a moment, the druid looked over the tree, smiling slightly at what he saw. The tree had grown a great deal, large enough that it would take three of him to reach around the trunk.
Taking a breath, Grish walked over to the trunk, taking out a knife.
Are you going to carve something? Into a tree with bark at least as hard as iron? Vi asked, incredulous.
‘It’s a part of the growth-magic. All it takes is one rune on the knife.’ With that, Grish traced a small rune near the base of the knife. The rune read Memory.
Looking once more at the trunk, it was revealed that there were three words already inscribed.
Soldiers, Leaders, and Factions. Each had a patch of unusually smooth bark under it, as thought awaiting something.
Grish walked up to the first list, and began to carve names into it.
These were the first two that came to mind. Grish added them, and then put down all those he could remember. Members of the patrol, druids, friends, any and all he could think of who had died in this or other wars.
He stepped back, observing the list. It was short, and he had not dared to touch the other two sections. That was not for him to do.
Above, most of the leaves on the tree were a bright silver. However, a few had changed, replaced with the glint of gold.
So, what’s the story? What all did you do? Vi asked.
‘I just helped with shaping and powering the spell. Rowenoak came up with the ideas for what it should do.’ Grish replied, looking over to the tiny creature.
Rowenoak stared at the tree a moment longer, before saying “The leaves will change as more names are added. Silver for those who died in the war, and are yet unnamed. Gold for those named on the list. Leaders will have a Mithril leaf. And finally, any factions who fall will be remembered by a branch of pure obsidium.”
Grish turned from the tree, walking over to Vimmi.
“Commander.” He began softly. “It’s your turn to add to the list.”
The druid smiled slightly, handing her the dagger and motioning to the tree.
“I didn’t know the original patrol. I can’t write the names. You can.” He sighed. “When you’re finished, or, if you don't want to put anything down, just stab the dagger into the bottom of the list. Leave it for others to write names with.”
Grish walked away from Vimmi to the small camp.
How will you keep others from defacing the tree? Or writing on the other lists? Vi asked.
‘I won’t. Rowenoak will.’ Grish replied. The tiny ancient seemed to smile.
“Goodbye, Hollowtree. Maybe I will see you again sometime.” Rowenoak said, before he simply-disappeared. Nothing remained but a faint green glow, which also faded after a moment.
What?! What was that?! Vi asked, distressed.
‘Rowenoak poured himself entirely into the tree. He put enough of himself into it that he simply became the tree.’ Grish replied tiredly. ‘He’ll be taking care of it.’
He sighed and looked over at the tree once more.
‘He’ll allow the right people to add to the other two lists. He’ll take care of the memorial. I know he will.’
Vi was, for the first time, lost for words. The spirit remained silent, leaving Grish to think.
Edited by Grishmak on 12/29/2011 7:32 PM PST
Fenris ignored the druid’s words and stared at the Death Knight, while the Death Knight stood maybe a head taller than him Fenris also knew that if he were in Worgen form they would be the same height. The red-tinged aura of frost that clung to the Death Knight, naming himself Ein, only amused Fenris. He had seen far worse and far scarier enemies in his past; he had witnessed far more cruel things than this Death Knight could probably muster. Fenris tilted his head slightly as if trying to think about what Ein had said, “Hmmm, well you can call me Fenris and honestly gyreworms are simple beasts unrefined methods work far better than any fancy footwork you could come up with.” Fenris grinned, allowing his sharpened teeth to show, doing exactly the same thing the Death Knight had done. Intimidation and fear only worked on those who had not seen death at their door and walk away from them.
Fenris then turned away from the Death Knight sure that if Ein had something more to say to him he would, but for now there were wounded to tend to. Fenris sighed as he realized that the wounded were either busying themselves with work or were too injured to say they needed medical attention. Fenris raised a brow as he watched the other druid work on a tree that looked to be made of stone and say something to the Commander. Malak Corrigan had seen many things but a tree of stone just sent tingles up his spine, shaking his head the worgen warrior got back on task and raised his voice, “Any who need some quick first-aid say so now for I won’t be offering again for a while!” His voice carried over the area and would be heard by all in the area. He was sure that those with thick skulls would turn down his offer. ‘Let them, all it does is weaken them and show they are not strong enough to continue.’ Malak scoffed mentally, sure that there would be some who weren’t as thick-skulled as that to turn down some quick surgery that could get them into fighting shape again.
Fenris kept his head up as he gazed at the Patrol; they were a hardy lot, strong-willed and battle-scarred. It showed in their faces and in the demeanor that the loss of life was hard on them. Fenris had learned long ago that in war those you cared the most about tended to end up dead. He walked to the tree that the druid had made and heard the last tid-bits of conversation. He nodded as he stood in the back; this was a fitting way to remember any warrior. “Soldiers live and wonder why.” He said just loud enough for people to hear, the old adage of the Black Company that had helped carry him through the death of his brethren. Now even the Company was dead, long buried on the plains of the Barrens along with the many they slew. Yes, this was a fitting tribute to those that had died in war and all those who would continue to die in war.
He remembered a phrase someone in the Company used to say when they discussed war, “War won’t end till the gods kill all us mortals, or we kill ourselves.” Fenris chuckled quietly as he thought about that remembering the smart-@ss response most of them gave to that line, “Well then I guess we have a steady job.” Fenris pulled his helm off his head and tied it to his belt, standing at attention and raising a fist to his chest. The old salute of the Company, a sign of both respect and tribute to those that had died. He stood there in that position for a few minutes, remembering his own brethren and the battles they had won together. He then relaxed his position and stepped back, sure that someone would need medical treatment. He scanned those in the immediate area for injuries, sniffing the air occasionally to see if he could smell blood.
(( Ehhhhh. ))
Commander Vimmi “Meep” Spannershield would have accepted the heavy weight of her armour, the burden of the thick metal protection. She would have accepted sharp rocks below to walk across, she would have accepted a rock giant to have to smash through. She would have accepted challenge, obstacle and boundary, accepted enemy, whether swarm or singular. She would have accepted any physical battle that she could tend to with her hands, her flesh.
Vimmi would have taken it all if only the emotional weight was lifted. The Gnome walked with her head slightly down, dipped with the exhaustion from the last day… few days… week. It seemed no matter how hard they tried they were going nowhere. Ever since the Barrens they were recovering, attempting to get back on their feet, and they were constantly knocked back down to the ground. Thick, undeserving souls weighed down upon her, heavier than the bulkiest of armour.
“Tozzle, Taveera,” she had whispered only an hour earlier, as she scratched names into the tree that Grishmak had birthed. They were burned into her memory now, more losses due to her failure. If she had lead better, fought better, then they wouldn’t be carrying stretchers of their dead through the elemental plane. If she had tried harder, she wouldn’t be bleeding, limping wounded.
“Meep,” she whispered, for that was her callsign from when she was younger. Diving headfirst into a gyreworm was foolish, reckless, and heroic, it was something she shouldn’t have done and would have fought better if she didn’t do. She scowled inwardly at herself, her pain was punishment for her foolishness. The Gnome made sure to steer as clear of Waraila as she could as she walked.
Throughout the trek she had been approached by others. Varonus had arrived inquiring as to his mount and whether or not he should leave with it. “To be honest,” Vimmi had spoken bluntly, “I would rather your skills stay with me and this patrol, just in case another enemy worms its way out of the ground at us. If you trust your companion to make it to the temple alone, send it with the wounded.”
Two others she wished to talk to arrived, Sylvanora travelled with them… and Turle. Vimmi almost shivered at the fact of losing Turle, he very well could have been one of the dead. “No…” she whispered, placing her mechanical arm up and rubbing her head. Turle was not dead because he was Turle, he didn’t die. Soldiers didn’t die through chance, they died through failure, and the failure of allies. Vimmi had failed Faythalla, and Clicker, and Minxy, but she hadn’t failed Turle yet.
She placed her good arm on his shoulder and gave him the briefest squeeze, but couldn’t find words so stayed silent. The large bulk of wounded patrol members was relatively silent, either in contemplation of the dead or just concentration on their own wounds. The events of the previous days likely weighed heavily on most of their minds. Stash had loaded himself onto one of the mounts taking the wounded, likely exaggerating his own injuries. Verra stuck near Waraila, not expecting more healing but willing to help and enjoying her company.
Virella was one of the most secluded, withdrawn into her hood and following silently behind the main bulk. They walked down rocky paths and obscure terrain that seemed so different to anything in Azeroth. Crystals adorned the occasional cliff face and interesting creatures scuttled around, but Virella didn’t seem to care. Most likely didn’t, most only looked to the great shining pillar in front of them, and trudged ever so closer and closer.
It took several hours, but eventually they arrived. The great gem of the Temple of the Earth stretched upwards and greeted them. Vimmi was too tired to take precautions, too tired to deal with pleasantries. The Skyguard among them had connections if they needed them, and she was sure the Earthen Ring would understand.
Vimmi walked through the front archway, snapping a hurried instruction at the first shaman to great her.
The wounded would be lead to healers, the hungry and thirsty would be provided with food, the tired given beds. Vimmi herself just asked to see the person of the highest authority, and sought to inquire of current events and brief herself on everything that was needed to know. She knew she needed to sleep, almost immediately, but there wasn’t time for that… not yet at least.
Lowmaine wasn't the type for sentimentality; she'd killed her own lover, her own parents and killed many others, as well as pushed away pretty much everyone she had known after awhile due to the abrasiveness of her personality. Seeing and overhearing the druid Grish's plan and idea for a sort of "monument" almost had her chuckling in humor at the complete idiocy of it all, as well as the futility of it all, but she checked herself before she did or said anything out of line.
However, seeing the tree grow, seeing him etch names into the stone surface of it brought back a whole slew of emotions she figured she was better off not feeling after dealing with facing her own "death" at the hands of the Maelstrom, and she started remembering names and faces, as well as voices and laughs and tears. Leonardo's face came out at her and finally she couldn't take it anymore. She reached down into her cotton shirt and retrieved her necklace: a set of two pair of dogtags, each featuring a lion's head symbolizing the Alliance and the other with a set of nearly indeciperable information due to how worn they were. One said "Sergeant Lowmaine McCormack, Stormwind Rangers, Second Platoon." like it should have...and the other "Lieutenant Leonardo Belmont, Stormwind Rangers, Second Platoon."
She takes Leo's dogtags in her palm and curls her fist around them gently. Never did give you a proper funeral...or burial, I guess. She slowly walks by the ironwood tree, making no eye contact with it, merely taking a dagger out of a sheath near her chest, tying the dogtag tightly around the hilt and stabbing the dagger into the surface of the tree; not nearly as deeply as she'd hope but deep enough to stay in. The dogtags swing with the motion and clink against each other nosily, making her memories lapse back farther into the past until she sets her jaw grimly and focuses on making it one foot at a time to their destination.
Soon she's lost in thought remembering old faces and names, that is, until she spots a glint out of the corner of her eye. Something...could it be? She squints and focuses more on it and suddenly her grin grows. Elementium! I haven't been so glad to see some of that stuff in forever! She looks around briefly, noticing nobody seems to see it and quickly jogs out of formation towards the glint, which is just a few yards away. In the blink of an eye she's got her Gnomish Swiss Army Knife out and has its pick attachment out and she's pounding away at the formation of rock, chuckling madly in delight with each sound and chunk of rock that's ejected her grin grows. Elementium ore meant that she could make metal...metal meant she could make bars. Bars meant she could make new armor...and new armor meant...!
Her shoulders were burning, specifically her shield arm's; while she had taken a healing injector earlier; it had merely sown up some of the internal damage that had been done, and now the bones in her shoulder, while not broken or sprained, definitely were sore as hell. Not to mention, every errant breeze that went by reminded her of her combat effectiveness, or rather, perceived lack of it. In truth, she was amazed that she had survived this long without a full suit of plate with her...she supposed that Fate just didn't want her dying quite just yet.
Shes' then briefly reminded of the Forsaken and her magic, and her guts tighten reflexively as she's reminded of the pain it caused her. Her nausea's returned as well...hopefully a shaman could tell her what the problem was.
She hammers her pick into the earth one last time and begins picking up all the ore she can carry, sighing as she remembers her old rucksack, still at the bottom of the ocean. Even still, she's reminded of something else because of her train of thought. Shaman. Shaman...Orc Shaman. What happened to Kreska? Shame...I kinda liked that greenskin. She soon resigns herself to her fate; if she wanted to keep this ore, she was going to have to carry it to their destination...
After a few hours and burning arms later, she arrives at the temple a little later than the rest of the Patrol. She soon motions towards the Commander somehow under the positively astounding pile of ore in her arms, indicating her ties with the Patrol and asks the nearest shaman she can find "Y'know where I can find a forge around here?"
As the worgen walked away, Ein brought his palm up to his face, shaking his head. Why is it that every time I try to compliment someone, they take it as an insult? Ein jogged up to the warrior, shaking his head slightly. “You misunderstand me. When I said that your display was just a bit unrefined, I meant that in a positive manner.” The next statement was chanted in a singsong voice horrifically twisted beyond recognition by the undead's voice. “Never use subtlety when brute force will suffice.” Ein switched back to his normal (but still unsettling) voice. “I'm going to see what I can do for the commander.” Without another word, the Death Knight turned and walked over to the tree.
Before Ein could talk to the commander, he was seized by a sudden impulse that he couldn't explain. He waited until the commander was done with the knife, then pulled the knife out of the trunk. Without a word, without even really knowing what he was doing, he knelt at the base of the tree and carved three names into the stone: Johanssen, Ferus, and Smith. The knife slipped from slack, nerveless fingers, and Ein looked at his hand with something akin to horror. Generally, his flashbacks took him completely out of reality, but this time, they had... overlapped. As though he was repeating an action he had done before. With a feeling a bit like sadness, Ein looked at the three names he had carved into the tree.
So that's what happened to them. he thought. He honestly couldn't say how he felt about them. The sporadic flashbacks to his previous life had given him something of a knowledge of that man's friends and comrades, yet it had never revealed their fates. So what am I meant to feel about this? Sadness? Anger? How am I supposed to react to the deaths of people who I don't know, and never knew, yet apparently did know once? Ein flinched away from those thoughts; he had never been much for self-analysis, and tried to avoid questions of morality as though they were a plague. Questions of philosophy and morality would invariably lead to an examination of himself and what he had done, both as a servant of the Lich King and as a Knight of the Ebon Blade, and looking too closely at that would lead to madness. I am who I am. he thought. I make no apologies, no excuses. Ein realized, with a twinge of fear, that he had never thought that in his entire existence. That was the echo of who he had been. I need to get out of here.
The Einherjar rose from the hateful memorial tree, turned, and walked away without a backward glance. With every step he took, he could feel himself returning. I am the Einherjar, the undying, the lone ravager, the army of one. The litany was a familiar and comforting thought. He just needed a good fight to clear the past from his mind. Thinking over it for a moment, the Einherjar resolved to get the commander to help him out. He walked up to the gnome, mulling over the best way to phrase his request. Appeal to her tactical sense, perhaps? That seemed the best way to do it. Of course, that would have to wait until they were at the Temple. Which meant a journey of several hours. Wonderful.
Ein approached the commander, opening with a polite nod. “Good day, commander. I was thinking over our current position. We have no real idea of where we are and little knowledge of the denizens of this place. With your permission, I would like to gather a member of the Patrol or two -those with aerial mounts- and scout out the immediate area around the Earth Temple. For all we know, those gyreworms were part of a larger nest nearby, and they may return. For that matter, there could be any number of unpleasant surprises around here, and the more we know about our situation, the better we can formulate a plan of action.” Ein took a deep breath, less to breathe than to steady himself. If the commander refused, it meant the prospect of a long, uneventful wait at the temple, with nothing to do but think. And that would inevitably lead to contemplation of his past life, especially with that latest brush so recent.
Ithalin was, as usual, displeased. He did not agree with the commander's plan to simply have the dead buried, burned, or turned into some sort of steak. No, these were some of the finest, warriors (Or thieves) Azeroth had to offer. He would have gladly raised the Nerubian, for they were damned to undeath. The goblin, he guessed, wouldn't care if there was money involved. And the elf....she could burn wherever she wanted. He had enough of those blasted tree-hugging, moon-worshiping purple-skins in the North. Let the moon sort her people out.
Adding to his displeasure were the two new warriors. He did not like the way they spoke and acted, nor did he like the reactions the patrol was giving them. They will clash with us eventually......I fear for the living in the Patrol.
They should be able to handle themselves.
Balastraz, did I ASK you?
Then go do something constructive, like hunt orcs or any survivors of the crash. With Balastraz dismissed far enough away that the mental link broke, Ithalin returned to studying the group. He was not any more happy when the Death Knight identified himself as one of the Ebon Blade. Though Ithalin still owed alliegance to the Highlord, he often did not visit Archerus. He felt like the Ebon Blade allying itself was a betrayal, since Orcs and Humans had both driven him to becoming......to becoming the monster he is today.
He saw the ironwood tree grow, and was about to carve something in himself when he decided against it. Cora....Arnold......Mary...... Names that meant something, once. Before Lordaeron. Before Archerus. Names that did not need to be known. Not to those who did not know. Did not see.......
Balastraz had returned by the time the order to move was issued, his maw red with blood. There was good hunting, then?
The best. Most of them had stopped struggling against deathe long ago. Ithalin simply nodded and climbed into the saddle. He and Balastraz watched the patrol move from the air, searching for threats. None approached and they entered the temple safely. Ithalin decided to camp upon and upper ledge, so he could watch the entrance. About 30 minutes after he was done, he saw an orc walk out from the temple and start striding towards the crash. Ithalin smiled. There will be blood tonight.
Kethrilk wasn’t exactly the sort of person who liked to get vague answers when he asked something, but he was at least smart enough to acknowledge the fact that Waraila was exhausted beyond her wits when she replied to his offer. As such, the only indication that he may have been irritated was a slight twitch of the one out-of-place feather that often hung forward above his brow. In all honesty, he was too confused trying to figure out what train of thought the druid must have followed in order to reach the insane conclusion that he had been learning shamanism to even realise that he was irritated in the first place.
This showed a lot more.
“Arhhk… No… Life energy is life energy,” the skin and feathers around his eyes contorted and twisted as he spoke with exaggerated emphasis, an action which finished with him shrugging and a chorus of chittering coming from the bag - the shale spiders within protesting against being thrown about as he shrugged, “Leave that elemental spirit-y stuff to Barzulo and his friends.”
He let Waraila finish explaining that while they had quite a few injured, there was no way of telling if those standing up had actually been patched up completely or not, and seemed to consider her words for a few moments before nodding. He was no trained healer: being unable to use his magic to analyse for internal injuries, he usually just killed some random nearby critter to funnel its energy into someone when he saw that they were bleeding, allowing for the body’s natural processes to speed up dramatically. But healing blind was probably better than not healing at all, especially when precious gemstones and metal was factored in.
“I’ll just feed some energy into those who look like they’re struggling then..?” he narrowed one eye and considered Waraila for another moment as he said this, trailing off as she spoke of her own tiredness, then continued, “Speaking of which, then:”
He placed one hand on the rucksack, muttered a series of the croaking and clicking sounds of Ravenspeech, and then made a motion with that hand toward Waraila as if he were trying to sweep aside of a pile of sand or dirt on the ground. It was a small amount of energy, about three spiders worth, but it should have been enough to relieve some of the weariness.
As soon as he finished channeling, any trace of the kind action was gone from the birdman’s demeanour and he was back to his cocky old self.
“Now to tend to the other eggs!” his crest puffed up and he spun on his heel, chanting in an almost singsong voice as he marched through the ranks of the patrol, repeating the same actions and channeling energy to anyone who looked like they were limping, bending over or otherwise unwell. Verra and Turle in particular got a larger than average dose, even though the arakkoa didn’t seem to scrutinise them any more than anyone else.
As he strutted past Sylvanora and Barthius – and as they noticed, completely ignored them in the priority of who got his ‘medical attention’ before the shale spiders ran out – the high elf rolled his eyes and laughed.
“He really makes a show of it, doesn’t he?” next to him, Sylvanora chuckled and Avielian bobbed her beak up and down, screeching. Barthius was also able to feel Talenaare vibrating through his saddle, the bright blue dragonhawk humming in agreement.
“You would think that we’d grow bored of it after four years, but now it’s almost turned into a competition to see who can guess what he’ll do ne…” Sylvanora was right, he thought, and he closed his eyes and nodded, still grinning. He had needed that, a ‘pick-me-up’ after all the bloodshed he had seen and all the astonishment he had felt today, but he also couldn’t help but notice that the night elf had trailed off.
He frowned, all manner of terrible scenarios playing through his mind as he slowly and reluctantly opened his eyes again, dreading what he might see as he followed Sylvanora’s gaze…
Almost immediately the feeling of sickness subsided, and Barthius felt his jaw drop open as one of the largest and most amazing trees he had ever seen literally reached up out of the ground before his very eyes: and mind you, this was coming from someone who had lived in Quel’thalas prior to the Second War, and as such had seen their fair share of beautiful trees. The usually unyielding stone beneath their feet crumpled before the might of its roots, the trunk swayed and twisted as it slowed and solidified into its final shape and a canopy of gold and silver extended above them, reaching for the sky like the floating stone formations he had gotten used to.
And somehow, it looked as if it belonged here just as much as any rock he had seen so far.
“Well, I don’t think I will be questioning the druidic capabilities of the worgen anymore, at least,” he was broken out of his reverie by Sylvanora’s voice, turning to her in confusion. The Wing Commander didn’t even look at him, instead merely pointing at the base of the tree where Grishmak was, holding up the knife he had produced and proclaiming the purpose of the tree.
As the druid spoke, Barthius felt a strange sense of warmth and purpose spread through him, and his determination to bring an end to the Twilight’s Hammer solidified even more. Too many lives had been lost in Northrend, in Outland, and the wars before… In fact, he found himself once again swearing that he wasn’t about to let some magma-spitting dragon and its fanatical followers cause even more.
“It is a great gesture he has performed here today, isn’t it?”
Strangely, Sylvanora didn’t reply.
“Sylv?” when he turned his head to where she and Avielian had been sat, he found empty space. The elf frowned, muttering in confusion as he glanced around searchingly. He eventually found that the kaldorei and her gryphon where circling above, and rather half-heartedly at that.
He took a deep breath to yell at her, but then the air caught in his thought as he thought better of it.
Kethrilk had also seen the tree being erected – although, how anyone could miss it is quite difficult to comprehend indeed – and he been completely gobsmacked.
No one had told him that druids could do that!
He was stood near where one of the roots had bored into the ground, and had been quite surprised when the stone was forced upwards a good three feet beneath him. Thankfully he hadn’t lost his footing, and one of the first thoughts he had managed to piece together was how embarrassing it would have been to fall over in front of the Patrol.
The next thought was along the lines of “Hnuh? Why is my foot stinging?”.
The birdman looked down and immediately screeched in annoyance, lifting a leg and shacking off the shale spider that was biting his middle left toe. The critter squeaked rapidly as it was sent flying and then rolling across the floor where it impacted, scrambling onto its four legs in a fear-fuelled frenzy. It managed to run three steps before a shadowbolt shaped like a ball of feathers killed it instantly.
“That’ll teach you, rawk…” he stomped over and picked up the collection of elementium shards that was its corpse and threw them into the now motionless rucksack. The brave, or more likely, stupid, little bugger must have been trying to get back at him for catching its kin. Pah.
He now found himself about three metres from Lowmaine as she he drove her dagger into the bark of the tree, and took it upon himself to inspect it closer.
“So, this is to be a memorial, then..?” he tapped his beak in contemplation as he skimmed over the words.
Soldiers Leaders Factions
Various names had already been added, but only two had much meaning to him – Tozzle and Taveera, who had been in the original Patrol in Northrend. He felt his feathers twitch and flatten as he stared at the words for a moment, then averted his gaze.
Somehow, he felt that something was missing here.
He couldn’t for the life of him figure it out, but he knew that if he didn’t find and fix it he would be mulling over this for quite some time. So he let his gaze wander in order to concentrate, looking over each person gathered as they went about their business getting ready to move out.
It hit him when he saw Barthius, who was in turn staring up at where Sylvanora and Avielian were slowly circling with a somewhat forlorn quality to them.
“If she finds out she’ll try and kill me for this.”
“...Emphasis on the ‘try’ part” he added mentally as he turned and grabbed the knife out of its place in the tree’s trunk. The birdman moved around to the right so that his addition was about forty-five degrees away from the main inscription and the names below, and began haphazardly scratching away in his poor Common handwriting.
After a few minutes Sekheim had joined him and was staring over his shoulder as he finished. The Talonpriest stepped back to examine his handiwork for a moment, then nodded and returned the knife to its former place. He walked back to the group eventually stopped next to where Barthius was hovering, giving the birdman a suspicious look.
“I’m not sure I want to ask, but what did you just do?”
“I drew a picture of a terocone, to symbolise those who fell in the fight against Skettis.”
Barthius stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. “That’s… Surprisingly deep for you.”
“I know, kre-he-he!”
However, back at the ironwood tree, on the side of the tree’s trunk there wasn’t any crude carving of a crystalline pinecone. Rather, another list had been added.
The list continued on with a number of names, many misspelled like those above or missing surnames that Kethrilk had been unable to remember, all from what Sylvanora had told him about those she had grown up with in Auberdine. But one name was undeniably correct.
When the Temple of Earth came into view, the members of the Patrol would have been able to notice that Sylvanora and Avielian sped up and started flying ahead toward the Temple. She had eventually gone against asking Spannershield for permission: seeing Grishmak guide the growth of that tree and explain that it was to be a memorial had reminded Sylvanora that some things were more important than insubordination.
And seriously, it wasn’t really insubordination if you weren’t that person’s subordinate in the first place.
“Let’s go!” Avielian screeched and Sylvanora felt the flood of joy through the gryphon’s mind as she started flapping her wings faster, coming up to full speed in a matter of seconds and ploughing ahead. They were able to travel the distance between the Patrol and the temple in five minutes – something which would have taken half an hour on foot – and darted around the side of the crystalline structure and straight inside the large archway that was its entrance.
Avielian alighted on the one broken pillar near the entrance, then jumped down to the ground as Gretta and her wyvern came running toward them.
“Commander, there you are! What took you so long, you were supposed to be back three hours ago! What happened?! Where are Barthius and Kethrilk!?”
The orc continued to blather on for what felt like five minutes, and despite that fact that she was the one who was technically in charge, Sylvanora allowed herself to be berated until Gretta ran out of steam. There was no use trying to explain everything over the top of her yelling.
“Okay, now that you’ve run yourself hoarse, may I please explain?” despite the weight of her words, Sylvanora found herself trying hard to not to chuckle as the warrior’s expression changed from furious to worried to confused and then finally suspicious.
“Oh, yes. Apologies. Barzulo has been giving me a hard time while you three were out on that mission. I must have let it get to my head,” Gretta stood up stock straight, the brown of her cheeks growing darker and her tusks pressing into her upper lip. Sylvanora could tell that she was scolding herself: unlike most orcs that the elf knew, Gretta preferred to reserve her anger for the battlefield, for it was an asset there and an encumbrance everywhere else. Actually putting that into practice, however, can be difficult for anyone, regardless of race.
“I can’t explain everything just now, but I’ll tell you this: We ran into none other than Spannersheild and a new Borean Patrol! But they’re heavily injured and tired from their entrance into Deepholm,” she paused to let it soak in, because the surprise was visible on Gretta’s face and she didn’t want to overload her with too much information.
“How is that even possible!? Almost no one knows how to get into Deepholm, and I thought the Patrol was disbanded!”
“I have absolutely no idea! What I do know is that they’re about twenty minutes away and will need somewhere to bunk. I’ll go tell the shamans, see if you can gather up Iranda and Vearakus and start setting up more bedrolls!”
Sylvanora dismounted and the four of them split up – Gretta and Avielian running into one of the side chambers of the Temple and Sylvanora looking for Maruut. Brent, the wyvern, instead ran out the front of the Temple and started keeping an eye out for the Patrol. When he spotted them he would fly out to escort them.
By the time the rest of the Patrol arrived at the Temple of Earth, the shamans of the Earthern Ring where at least somewhat ready for them. Sylvanora walked up behind the shaman who came to greet Vimmi. The elf winced at the gnome’s tone of voice as she verbally cut him down before he could even say anything. When he was on his way to follow the Commander’s instructions, Sylvanora coughed.
“That would be Maruut Stonebinder you're looking for, I already warned him that you all would be arriving, buuutt…” she hastily continued on, knowing that giving the gnome even two seconds of space would likely result in her getting the same treatment for flying ahead when she knew that Meep didn’t appreciate people going off on their own. She raised her voice so that everyone could hear, “Anyway, see that alcove to the left there? Go through there and to your right and you’ll find one of the relaxation areas. That’s where we’ve set up enough space to house almost everyone.”
If someone were to head in that direction they would find a large pile of tent components that hadn’t been set up, an unattended spit and unlit fire, enough bedrolls for all but three Patrol members (one of which was already occupied by Barzulo, exhausted to the point where we may as well have been dead to anyone that didn’t know him better), Iranda, Gretta and Vearakus in his goblin form running around trying to find enough space for said bedrolls, and what appeared to be a gigantic net or harness hung on some rocky outcrops in the wall.
Malak Corrigan had been to the Temple of the Earth once before, when he had been sent here this is where he had come into the Realm of the Earth. He sighed as he stood at the giant doorway and gazed out across the stony planes of Deepholm. This was a land that was alien to the warrior, all this rock and crystal was not what he was used to. He was used to grasslands, forests and ruins; battlefields where he would cut swaths through his enemies, with weapons, claws and teeth. He sighed as he turned back towards the inside of the Temple and heard the last of the instructions one of the elves was giving, “Go through there and to your right and you’ll find one of the relaxation areas. That’s where we’ve set up enough space to house almost everyone.” Malak smirked slightly as he went into the alcove area and found all the tents and gear in piles, shaking his head he pulled the tents away from the other gear and started putting them together.
As he worked Malak sung a song that the Company had created during their rest periods, “I’m one with the warrior inside, my dominance can’t be denied. Your entire world will turn into a battlefield tonight, as I look upon you through the warrior’s eyes now. I can see the fear that will ensure my victory this time! You can’t hide now, I am the warrior! So decide now, how they’ll remember you. Do not hide now, act like a warrior! Show your pride now; solidify your place in time!” Malak continued to sing, his rough voice seemed to fit the song perfectly as he sang each verse and the chorus building the tents of the Patrol. After a good fifteen minutes he had ten tents set up and ready to accommodate the injured Patrol members. Malak then went and pulled out his small first-aid table and set up his equipment, prepared to deal with injuries that the tired out healers might not be able to deal with.
As the song finished Malak sat down and turned around, waiting to see who showed up into the alcove first. This group was tired, and almost broken; the edge for them was close and Malak knew that it all rested on their Commander. If she broke the entire group would crumble into chaos, but Malak also could see why it all rested on her and it was both the group’s strength and weakness. She cared deeply for each member of the Patrol and took each loss as a personal failure. It gave her both the true loyalties of those around her and brought her closer to that edge, the edge of madness and despair. Malak closed his eyes as he remembered the old Captain of the Company, the man was a brilliant leader but he did just as Spannershield was. It was that character, that care for his men that had led to his ultimate death and the death of the Company. Thinking about that brought the memories of that battle to Malak’s mind sending him spiraling down into the memory…
Smoke, the booms of explosions and weapons of war; Malak stood on a battlefield with his closest brothers as they took the few minutes of reprieve the enemy gave them to catch their breath. “We ain’t gonna make it outta this one y’all…” Silver said as he reloaded his rifle and Malak let out a coughing laugh as did the others. “Are you afraid of dying Silver?” Malak asked sarcastically, it was an old conversation, but it helped relax them as they faced their doom at the hands of the Kor’kron. “Hell no man! I just wish I could take more of em with me!” Silver said with a grin as he smoked his last cigarette and chuckled. “Oi! We got company you slacked-jawed daffodils!” Orik shouted and then Silver started firing and the battle took off again…
Malak shook away the reverie, unsure as to why he let himself remember those good times. The days he spent with the Company had been some of the best, serving under men like the Captain and serving alongside men like Silver and Orik ahd made up for all the torture and suffering the Gilneans had put him through. Malak did not think of himself as a Gilnean, he thought of himself simple as a worgen; a free man who had chosen to serve no master other than his warrior’s honor and the gold coin. But Malak knew that he still had a conscious, a decrepit one but one nonetheless; how else could he explain why he had chosen to join the Patrol? They gave him the chance to test him yes, to find that one opponent he could fight until the End Times but beyond that they appealed to his honor. They were honorable, true to who they were and they knew what was right and wrong. As much as Malak demised such ideas and spat in the face of those who spouted such idealism, Malak also knew it held a grain of truth.
The darkness overwhelmed much of the world, just like it was obvious that mortals hungered for war and killing. But just as easily it was easy to see how love and the “Light” might conquer over that evil. Malak didn’t spend much time thinking of such things but when he did he was always torn. He followed a code, a guide to life that made him a dangerous foe and a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, but after the displays he had seen from the Patrol, he was unsure as to who he was again. “Yer always havin’ one of em existential crisis ya dumb@ss...” Silver had always said to him, and it was true; Malak truly did not know who he was beyond the warrior he was in battle. It was why he hungered for battle, for death, for bloodshed. It was all he knew.
Lia & Perfection
Lia trodded along the path that lead towards the the Temple of Earth, her eyes wandering on the other members of the Patrol. She had taken good notice of their sadness, well, most of them anyway, and couldn't find the words to try and brighten the mood. When her eyes came to the Commander, she could have sworn she died a bit inside, just looking at the gnome Commander made her know that the one who was most likely hurting the most was her. She wouldn't have been suprised, they had lost a lot of the Patrol member's on their journey; Fayth, Clicker, Minxy, they were just adding to the list, and she was scared that it may grow ever larger.
Even so, she could take heart that there were some new faces in the Patrol, a few that looked like they were good people, and then the others who she thought may have to be watched here and there, especially the worgen warrior, she didn't trust him one bit after seeing how Perfection reacted. She heard a sniffle beside her and she had suddenly realised that the girl was walking along her for a sometime now, mostly in silence. When she turned to face her, she couldn't help but sigh in pitty.
Perfection looked like a mess, there were scratches on her face due to not wearing her metal viser's, her leather's were covered in dust and dried blood, her cheeks were red along with her eyes from what seemed like crying. Lia slowed down so that she can wrap a arm around the girl's shoulder's and murmur "You okay there, Flamclaw?" she asked quietly, hopping the nick name she gave her cheered her up slightly. Perfection just shook her head and wiped both of her eyes with the back of her head "W-we have lost...so many..." she stuttered, trying to hold back tears, but was slightly failing due to the fact that there were some now running down her cheeks.
"The battle scar, Vash, and Deepholm. We lost so many from there and now. Clicker, Fayth, Minxy...who else?" she looked up at the warrioress, Lia just sighed and shook her head before pulling the girl closer into a slight hug "Don't cry, child, there is still hope, as long as you and I live and breath there is nothing to be sad about. In anycase, for those we have lost, we have gained" Lia said in a comforting tone. The Assassin's face hardened "Even the worgen?" she asked. Lia chuckled "Yes, even the worgen.
When they had arrived at the Temple of Earth, Lia and Perfection went up to one of the shaman's and bowed politely. The shaman, who was a female Draenei, inclined her head in response before walking over to the Assassin and Warrioress "Is there something I can help you with?" she asked, eyeing the two with a gentle gaze. Lia nodded and pulled out the ruin that had the stored Elementium with in it "Is their a forge and anvil around here?" she asked curiously, silently hopping that the answer to her question was a yes.
The Draenei smirked and gestured for the two of them to follow her "This way". The two entered a hall way filled with glowing orange crystal. At the end of the hallway there was a large glowing pit of what seemed to be heated stone, some crystal pots to put the molten metal in, which Lia was a bit skeptical about, a anvil, and a large stone table. The Draenei walked in front of the two and and smiled "Would this do?" she asked.
Lia smirked "Yes...this will do.. Perfectly" she said, looking over to Perfection as she said it. Perfection scoffed at the joke and began to walk over to the forge.
Lia had used the rune to put the large block of elementium on the ground near the forge. When she did that she had taken chucks of the metal and stuck them into the crystal pots before using a large pair of metal tongs to put them into the stone furnace. Once she had at least 5 of the 10 crystal pots in, she sealed the furnace with the large metal cover and walked over to Perfection, who was sitting on the stone table.
"Alright, now, I'm going to need your help with something" she said, pulling off her plated gloves and throwing them on the table before she began to take of her plated breast plate. Perfection raised a brow at the Sin'dorei "What do you want me for?" she asked curiously. When Lia had taken off her breast plate, her chain mail and the leather vest. She streched a bit, what she was wearing was a brown leather sleeveless leather vest that reached up to her neck. She picked up her gloves and put them back on before activating the strength ruins and walking over to her bag. She pulled out another carrying rune and tapped it. A large clear crystal appeared and landed on the floor by her feet.
The Sin'dorei picked up the Crystal and walked over to the table and placed it down "Activate your claws" she instructed. Perfection did as she was asked and activated her claws, the shone bright before flashing, the shiny black stone and metal bracers shone in the light of the Crystal. Lia nodded and walked over to get her helm, which she had taken off earlier and brought it over to place it before the girl "Now, you notice how these slots here in the viser go down, right?" she looked over to Perfection, who nodded.
Lia gestured to the Crystal "That crystal is pretty solid. You could be wearing a mask of that and a arrow would bounce off it like a ball with out a scratch. My plan is to make these slots go from side to side, rather than top to bottem" she traced her finger over to the helm to give the girl a better idea of what she was talking about. Perfection looked slightly confused "Wait, who is this armor for?" she asked. Lia grinned and picked up the helm " Commander Vimmi Spannersheild, of course. If there is going to be something that would brighten her mood from all of this, it would be a new set of armor, THAT'S for sure!"
When Lia had placed her helm down, she walked back over and patted the crystal "What -your- going to do is make a thin mask, not to thick, just enough that the Commander can still breath through the helm. The helm is going to have holes for her to breath, small, but plenty of wholes to keep the flow of air regular and that the Commander can still breath during what ever fight comes out way" she rolled the Crystal over "That, and, so that the Commander does not lose a eye if one clever bastard of a Twilight hammer gets a good idea and aim for the slot where she is seeing, get the picture?"
Perfection nodded, understanding what the Sin'dorei was asking of her and hopped down from the stone table "Leave it to me" She said before she used her claws to slowly carve away the crystal, small shards dropping off the table as the claws dug into it with ease. Lia smirked and walked back over to the furnace and opened the cover. Then, using the same tongs, she pulled out the crystal pots, which seemed to have held quite well with the heat, and poured the molten metal into molds. When she had enough bars of elementium, she would begin to create Commander Vimmi's legendary armor. Well, she would think it will be legendary anyway, she was making it.
Edited by Liå on 1/5/2012 7:17 PM PST
Lowmaine grimaces once at the mass of metal bars before her. Great, she'd turned the lumps of ore she'd gotten from the rocky plains of Deepholm into bars...now what was next?
Her experience with the craft of blacksmithing, while she was knowledgeable in her own right, paled in comparison to the literal years of experience she had as an engineer. If anything, she know how to pound metal bars into shapes, but that was about it...building anything like a suit of armor was going to take time. Time she may or may not have. She hefts her hammer (another attachment from her Gnomish Army Knife) and grins at the lumps of metal in front of her. "Well now, let's see how well I retain teachin'."
About an hour later, she had...malformed lumps of elementium. She sighs and throws her hands up in frustration, cursing loudly and angrily taking a cigarette out and lighting it with the forge. Nothing she knew was working! Nothing at all! She took a stroll around the temple for a few moments, gathering her thoughts and attempting to calm down. Along the way, she found a deposit of obsidium ore lying around and decided to put it to use, harvesting as much of it as she could and taking it back to the temple's forge area.
When she returned, she saw Lia and Perfection there, diligently working on...something. Lia particularly looked like she knew what she was doing, and as such Low felt no qualms about asking when she needed help. "Hey, you look like you know how to pound out some metal...think you could help me work on somethin' when you're done..." she looks at the armor behind made and nods. "...Doin' pretty much exactly what I'm attempting to do?"
Nodding to his commander's response, he patted Alvanar's neck softly, "Go on ahead, Al; we'll meet you once we reach the temple." and turned to join the others. Nodding to his elven companion, Alvanar spread his wings and shot off into the distance, carrying several wounded and deceased with him.
Varonus joined the commander as the group went on its way to the temple, staying silent and stoic as always, pulling his hood back over his face. As the others went about their business he kept to his own devices, leaving to wait near the pillar of the temple as the group arrived.
The commander was inquired to the whereabouts of the highest authority, even in her injury and exhaustion she wasn't going to stop doing her job; much to the mage's displeasure. She had just escaped being eaten by a several hundred ton serpent of earth. Even Thrall himself would have to, at the very least, sit down for a while after that. The gnome was pushing herself too hard but the mage was not going to attempt to convince her otherwise.
The sound of heavy paws hitting the floor drew the mage's head up as Alvanar came up to his side, the drake bringing its wings in as he laid down near the elf's side; Varonus's clothed hand patting along the drake's neck.
"What now, Lor'dinan?"
"We wait; the wounded need healing and the dead must be buried. Once everyone is finished preparing we shall see what is needed of us."
Alvanar chuckled in his deep, guttural voice, "Perhaps this is the price one who arrives late all the time must pay."
"Who's to blame for tardiness; the late arrival or the one who brought him?" the elf grinned slightly under his hood, the dragon huffing slightly.
The Gnomish Commander watched the splintered traces of rock floating about the room, sustained and suspended only by the constant efforts of the Earthen Ring shaman. She listened as she had the situation explained to her, from the shattering of the pillar, the critical need for the fragments to be returned, to the Cultist interference and the issues with the earth elementals of Deepholm. It seemed the patrol had fallen right into the exact realm in which they were needed.
Vimmi explained what she knew and others hadn't already told, which wasn't much, before coming to certain agreements over courses of action and lodgings. However while she insisted they be told what needed doing immediately, the shaman themselves seemed to insist she allow her patrol to rest. The others were wounded, the dead needed tending and even her own Gnomish body needed to relax...
"And Cultists also need killing," she spoke, "The world needs saving. This isn't optional, however much you'd like to think so."
"Spannershield," Maruut spoke, literally having to crane his neck to look directly at the Gnome despite standing back. "Your emotions are understandable, yet your passion and zeal must wait for the present. We can maintain the pillar, it would be foolish to throw away more lives recklessly so soon after such tragedy."
"Assign a few of your shaman to heal my soldiers, and direct me to an alchemist," she ordered.
"Spannershield," interrupted another shaman, this one a Draenei. "Artificial or Magical healing cannot do what the healing of rest can do. You need a rest."
"No," Vimmi turned her head, raising her right arm and watching it transform with a horrible metallic screeching, the blade twisted into the mechanism, dull and bent. She motioned to it with her head, "I need a blacksmith," and with that comment she walked directly away from the council of shaman she had been talking to, letting her arm fold back into itself as she wandered into the back area with the rest of the patrol.
The Shaman were right of course, her people needed rest but that didn't mean she had time for rest. There would be time for rest, but it was not now. Vimmi approached wherever most of the patrol members were congregating and asked aloud, "Where is Lowmaine and Lia?" she asked, presuming they were off smithing or something. Coming to this conclusion, immediately after asking she followed with, "Nevermind, get some rest we'll be moving out tomorrow... or... after however long a rest is in this place."
With that Vimmi strode back out into the center of the temple, and instead of going straight for the blacksmith, she began questioning nearby mages upon the fees or needs of teleporting the dead back to Azeroth. If it was not possible, the corpses would have to be buried somewhere, or at least preserved or burnt. These thoughts along with the often easy-to-prattle mages very quickly lead to Vimmi once again having a shouting match with someone who may not have deserved it...
"Specialty order," rasped a voice from over near Lowmaine, Lia and Perfection. The voice belonged to the skeletal figure of Virella, still with her hood drawn. She dumped down a bag of what must have been steel, elementium, whatever ores she could scavenge from around the temple.
"I require a full suit of plate armour, from head to toe including a helmet, I want it padded and I want it swiftly," she spoke, "If you require additional reagents, simply ask and I will attempt to retrieve them for you." Even when she wasn't insulting someone, the displeasure of having to deal with people was evident in her tone. "I would aid you in the endeavor, however I lack physical strength without magic and I do not have ready access to blood at the moment."
With that done, obviously assuming that there would be no qualms at all with her request, Virella strode away and back to the relaxation area. She had no interest in pursuing such menial tasks with the common quality of people. Yes of course they were necessary, but they owed her either way considering -in her eyes- that she just saved the whole patrol from the maw of death.
Virella walked right into the tent area, not even bothering to snap a snide comment at someone or even take notice of Barzulo whom she would have recognized. She found a tent someone else had set up, or a seat somebody else likely wanted, and set herself down flicking through her tome just like any other time.
Threats of violence. We take these seriously and will alert the proper authorities.
Posts containing personal information about other players. This includes physical addresses, e-mail addresses, phone numbers, and inappropriate photos and/or videos.
Harassing or discriminatory language. This will not be tolerated.