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Warrior's Sanctum
#16
Meanwhile in Sholazar...

“Hiyah! Get over here y’lil’ sonnova-!”

Peaceful silence once hung over the great glades of the Sholazar basin, only the slight echo of wildlife to ring across it’s pristine streams. Such would not last, however, as thrashing limbs and vicious snarls tore into one another. On one end of the lake sat one of the basin’s own native species- the dominative crocolisk with it’s sizable mace-like tail and powerful jaw. On the contrary it’s opponent was not one familiar to the land, or most of the northern climates for that matter. From head to toe he was clad in green and gold, his chest bearing the only recognizable symbol: The Anchor of Kul Tiras. For but a few more moments the two slowly circled one another, each eyeing every little subtle twitch and twirl of the others though before long they were once again at each other's throats. Propelled by six petite limbs the crocolisk neared, snapping it’s massive maw at the sailor’s steel boots. Before it could connect, however, the sailor danced out of it’s direction, just barely keeping balance as he trekked up more and more sand. With the serpentine beast still distracted he lunged after, wrapping the both of his muscled arms around it’s neck.

While the two struggled about on the river’s shore the world around them drew to gray. The final rays of the evening sun were swallowed by billowing clouds swept in by the cold seas. Before long the jungle quieted. Chirping birds took to the cover of grandiose trees while the hum and buzz of lively-colored bugs died away when they retreated to their deep-rooted hives. In the end of all things there was nothing left to the jungle other than the sailor and his scaled foe.

Around and around the crocolisk thrashed about the shallow waters, crushing the back-latched sailor beneath it’s sizable weight. Beneath the waves his teeth grit, eyes clamped shut, muscles tightened, conjured every ounce of strength he could in order not to howl in pain. Try as it may, the crocolisk was unable to break his grasp. Along with that the odd position put it at a lack of air, leaving its hide desperately thrashing as the last glimpse of life left its beady eye. By the time the sailor turned up above the waves, victorious as he was, there was only more water to greet him as the skies opened up.

Despite the conquest, a defeated huff of all things escaped the sailor’s gasping lungs. Two hands bound at the wrist with plate reached around, grasping onto the croc’s twitching tail to pull it along to the tree-guarded shore.

“Sons’a bitches are gettin’ heavier by th’ day, I swear. Nearly got me that time but-... naaah. An’t anythin’ that’s takin’ me down. An’t anythin’ now.” Even with the lack of an audience the sailor spoke freely, his gruff words jumbled by years of uncouth service to the seas. “You’re gon’a make a good dinner... Thank’y for that at least, beastie.”

Without an ounce of hesitation he drew his knife, making quick work of the scaled hide and further into the entrails within, soon severing them and setting them aside for the time. “Pro’lly should do somethin’ with this hide... Got it and three more.” He announced out to the rain-soaked world once more. “Could make m’self a nice lil’ hat. Or one’a them whips... Would help me strangle th’ bastards that-...” He pauses for a moment, taking a strong draw of the humid air. “Nah... Wanna do that with m’bare hands. An’t needin’ anythin’ to help me do that.”

In due time the croc was skinned, gutted, and fit above a roasting hearth with the aid of a few carved stakes. Roasting flesh wafted through the air, bringing curious critters to sift through the misty darkness just beyond the flame’s warming reach. Brushing his own worries of the unfamiliar landscape aside the sailor brought his eyes upon the one thing he dared not touch since the beginning of his venture. Daintily draped over the simplistic bag was a dress of white linen, accented by the black sash that settled beneath it’s bust. A hint of temptation, a trickle of contemplation, and moments later he would be wrist-deep into the contents, desperately rifling about.

“Maybe... I mean, maybe I been on th’ wrong path. Maybe it an’t all so bad. Mayb-” The rather desperate rambles of the sailor were quieted as his meaty digits brushed along the leather binding of a dairy, it’s pages crinkled under the unforgiving humidity. In what could almost be desperation he drew the book back and onto his lap, desperately scouring it’s inked pages.

Spoiler:
Songbook Wrote:All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles its a very, very
Mad world, mad world

Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy birthday, happy birthday
And I feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me, no one knew me
Hello teacher tell me, what's my lesson?
Look right through me, look right through me

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles its a very, very
Mad world, mad world, enlarging your world
Mad world


Silence hung over the vale as frantic eyes ran to and fro along the inked words, though they were nothing as to what he hoped. Back and forth they washed over, desperately unraveling a hint that didn’t exist, searching for a secret that was never planted. By the song’s final verse petite stains of water pressed into the pages, falling from where there was no rain.
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#17
Just Married

Nothing like a Shadowmoon Honeymoon
Spoiler:

[Image: Alter1_zps2f92df04.png]

[Image: Alter2_zpsdce21fc5.png]

[Image: Soulstone_zps9140cab6.png]

[Image: Gul_zps5c98bbcf.png]

[Image: Gul2_zps8a25b8cb.png]

[Image: Carpetsit_zps9db1bcad.png]

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#18
"One for the ditch..."

High above the secluded groves of Eversong Wood beams the burning sun, it's golden rays bringing a suppressingly hot summer down upon the lands of Quel'Thalas. Fluttering leaves of Summer's complexion part in the wind, allowing the sun to shimmer up and against a silvery flask, illuminating the muttered words. A sigh. What few fingertips that clutched the pungent container gave away, allowing it to rest on the ground beside it's previous owner.

"I should have stopped this... I should have encouraged her to reconsider. She would have listened, right?"

Senselessly Zethon'aril, a bowman ever-faithful to his home, mumbles about to himself. Back and forth he paces, never venturing far from his fallen compatriot. A sigh. Emerald eyes fall back upon her form- or what he could see of it at least. Subtle curves and vague features are all that can be seen forming along the blanket of scarlet linen that clothes her form. Crouching, Zethon once more reaches for the flask, though this time about he doesn’t bother observing it or tasting it. He simply sets it back down along her waist. Effortlessly the hunter sets himself down beside the woman. He didn’t know why he bothered bringing her to the woods, he knew well that he wasn’t welcome amongst his own kin. With a wavering sigh he turns his attention to the sun hanging high above…

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Koiella’s bout was scheduled for the late night, the moon already nestled high in the humid night’s sky by the time the lone hunter arrived. There were a few words shared between the two, idle and empty threats on behalf of the hunter as he realized that the battle was to be until the death, however his words would go on ignored. Nervously he watched from the high stands as the woman touched down and into the ring, beginning her brawl with a sizable Worgen. Back and forth they traded blow, the woman landing her fair amount, but quickly it became clear that she wasn’t going to fare well in the end. Twitches, subtle contemplations, hoarse breaths. All such played through Zethon as he watched on. The Worgen was certainly close enough to shoot. He could save her, but the other guardsmen of the arena would make quick work. Defeated he gathered his bow and retreated towards the cover of an arch, stuck listening as the battle unfolded.

A clash of steel. The ring of plate, thrashing of claws and the bubble of blood as it dripped from one’s mouth. One final clatter of plate and victorious roar told the man it was over, and certainly not in his favor. For a mere moment his mind blanked, though the neutrality of his expression lasted much longer as he ventured down to collect the corpse. Without thought his lips moved, constantly muttering of how he told her, of how she shouldn’t of fought, but all in all he did nothing to stop her. All he could do was pick up the pieces. From the crowd of medics and guards that tended to the victor, only one lonesome human approached the defeated. Wrapped in his veil of cloth was Koiella’s head, the limb severed gruesomely from the rest of her person with the gnash of teeth.

James Laus was his name, a human sailor and more importantly the Captain of the Mistresses' Herald. Despite his roots and his loyalties he proved to be one of the more honorable men in the arena. Along with tending to the fallen Knight’s head he also passed an offer that the hunter couldn’t quite refuse: A direct trip north. From Gurubashi all the way down to Booty Bay they walked along in near-silence save for the occasional question or basic trade of names.

Her limp corpse was situated at the helm of the ship, however it wasn’t left for all to see, no. Instead Zethon’aril insisted on what has become tradition for his people. Scarlet cloth covered Koiella from head to toe, the gruesome sight hidden away from any of the human sailors that were well too squeamish to see the brutalized remains. There were a number of odd sights. If it was not for the Blood Elf on an Alliance ship, then it could be one so close to the Light so worried about an unholy abomination. Even if not for that then it could be for how vigilantly he tended to her. Over the course of the days at sea he never ventured more than inches from the corpse, most of his time spent either in prayer or repairing the body.

Stitchings were tight and precise, completed only with the utmost care. After all, Zethon had all the time he wanted to make his mends on the knight’s body. A head once decapitated is met with the body once more. Delicately her spine is woven back together, her throat threaded perfectly in place, her neck nestled up and atop her dully-colored shoulders. All other wounds paled in comparison. A flayed shoulder, a torn midriff. The ravaged skin made repair nearly impossible, but with precision and diligence the hunter made due.

In a few day’s time the boat docked in a simple little port along the sea, a recent construction by those mad little goblins called ‘Fuselight by the Sea’. With cloth-covered corpse in-hand Zethon made his way up and into the city, but even then he did not stay for long. He had a responsibility. A charge. He couldn’t afford to wink away what little money he had on beds or food. Instead he spent every silver on the furthest flight north that he could get- Hammerfall. At the moon’s zenith his trip began, both he along with Koiella traveling by wyvern past the dwarven holds. For but a time he could look down and forget his own plight, instead struck with awe on how the dwarven lands twisted and turned beneath the wrath of Deathwing. A broken loch caused the Wetlands to flood even more so than it already was. Cultists seemed to pour out of every little nook and cranny to conglomerate on the deathly dragon’s conquest. When they landed at the reformed internment camp dawn crackled along the far eastern mountains. A new day, and with it comes a dreamless sleep.

Midday boiled away at those living below, the searing heat of summer proving to add all the more of a burden upon the man… though it did not matter. He needed to continue. Not only did he need to keep walking along, but also there had to be a distraction to keep him from brooding over the boiling heat. For the first time in days he delved into his thoughts for the first time in days. Over and over he recalled the previous days. Every spark of steel from Koiella’s battle, every unstable step as they ventured out towards the Alliance vessel, every knit and stitch that fixed her form back together. While gruesome, it got him out of the highlands with relative ease. If only the rest of his trek was this simple.

At one point in his travels the biggest enemy he had was boredom, the lack of life both in him and his companion. As he ventured closer to what was once human lands he ran across those who were, just like the land, once human. Dark robes in the summer’s heat trapped the musk of rotted skin into a condensed cloud around a lone person that could easily be mistaken for a man or a woman. On each side was an escort of the Royal Guard. Sylvanas’ pawns. With the wave of it’s hand the necromancer not only brought her escort to stop, but also for Zethon to give pause.

“My my, what is this?” Hissed the dark caster’s hoarse voice. “A lovely little gift?”

The hunter’s eyes narrowed. He had no care for the Forsaken and their plight, even less so after their recent military advances. With half a step he curled back away from the approaching necromancer. “Nothing for you, I’m certain. Be on your way.”

Of course words never proved to be enough to deter a curious mind. Ever-approaching the necromancer flicked it’s bony, claw-like fingers along the rim of the crimson linen, liftng it up to see the deathly woman below. “Oh-ho-ho, a gift indeed!” It chirped. “What’s the matter with her? A case of the cold feet? A bit… light headed, no? She just looks oh-so-clammy… I can fix her!” The last bit came out with almost too much energy.

Temptation. After all, Koiella was a construct of undeath. Perhaps she would be best off with the touch of a necromancer. His eyes flicker over the greedy little caster and his two guards. Memory clicks. The horrors of the plague, the servitude of men and women to the ‘Queen’.

With a jerk the man pulls back from the necromancer once and for all. “She is not yours.” He states with authority before marching past, shouldering one of the royal guards as he makes his way further down the road. From behind he can hear swords escaping their sheaths and the utterance of the horrid gutterspeak. There wasn’t any time to pause and ponder over what was to come or wit his way out. Conjuring his withered strength the man bolted off into the temperate woods, followed soon behind by the ever-vigilant guard. At the least the lands were in his favor. Over roots and through thick brush Zethon stalked with ease, purposefully taking the most burdensome path where experience proves to be the deciding factor between freedom or a free kill. Leaving the two guards to curse and hiss in the woods he comes upon the river guiding up towards the plaguelands. The home stretch.

At one point the Blood Knights called these lands their home as they helped wage a conquest against the Scourge, however that was months passed now. The only sanctum there was to have would be found all the way in the Eversong Woods. By this point, however, darkness has begun to descend upon the land and any man or woman with enough wit to them knew that it’s no good to stalk the woods alone. After a few minutes’ march into the infamous Eastern Plaguelands Zethon set up his camp and prepared for another light rest.

Another aching, dreamless sleep pried at the hunter’s mind, leaving him in a state of restless sleep. Back and forth his armored form rolled along the trunk of a fallen, corrupted tree. Not far along the form was that unwavering image, that crimson-covered corpse. It wasn’t even three hours of rest before consciousness tugged at his attention, not because it chose to but because another willed it. Those deep, emerald eyes flickered open only to see Koiella and all of her marred visage. A corpse that should very well still be a corpse stood upon two armored feet. The both of her cold hands were clasped around his neck, making the slightest utterance of confusion a challenge as breath quickly became more and more exclusive. Eventually, beneath a hoarse breath, he muttered. “What… Are you…”

Before he could piece together an answer it was placed in front of him in the form of a darkly cackle. “Hello, hello again… Lovely present you have for me.” Came the necromancer’s boasted greeting. “I think she’ll make a fine, fine little servant. Won’t you gal? Mmh… Certainly stronger than those pesky guards.”

As the dark-clad forsaken spoke out into the warm summer’s night panicked thoughts ran to and fro within the hunter’s mind. There were mere moments between himself and unconsciousness. Those emerald eyes stared into Koiella’s mindless own, glaring into inattentive orbs. There would be time to apologize later. With a muttered word the ground around suddenly erupted in holy flame, enough so that even a mindless corpse would reel back in pain. As she writhed and wretched Zethon jolted back from the fairly confusing scene, reaching for that ever-faithful crossbow as he tumbled back. A single shot. A single shot is all he needed upon the dark form. With a heavy ‘ca-chunk!’ a single bolt made it’s way into Koiella’s chest. Seconds later the magic faded from her form. The Shadow, the Holy, all gone. A corpse was made a corpse once more, though now it bore all the more fresh wounds.

Before Zethon could hope to claim any victory he found his form skittering into the nearest tree with a crash of shadowy magic, the force causing him to as a stunning pain crawled over his limbs. Light and shadow dances about as the Forsaken’s vague form passes by, quite clearly reveling in the prospect of two ‘gifts’ on the same night. By now he was out of cheap tricks and fair shots. One single bolt clutched between his fingertips would make the difference between life or death. Putting all of his strength into a single stab Zethon thrusted his hand outward, allowing for the enchanted sting to make contact with the animated corpse. A Wyvern’s sting. The necromancer’s form grew stiff and frigid, seeming but inches away from slitting the hunter’s throat. He evaded cruel fate for but a few seconds more. Stumbling along he desperately grabbed for Koiella, his crossbow and that scarlet sheet. Fueled by adrenaline and nothing more he fled northward into the corrupted forests.

Dawn crept up upon Zethon like a thief, the first rays catching him so off-guard that he flinched away, stumbling down onto a knee before he could properly understand what exactly the sudden gleam was. Nearly without thought he walked the night, hours upon hours until he drew in the fresh scent of Eversong’s midday. It was time to rest.

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For what felt to be countless hours he stared up from between the few branches and leaves of that lonesome vale, praising the sunlit sky above with the awe it so deserved. Eventually his eyes came back down upon the earth, settling on Koiella’s wounded form for but a moment before a voice broke out amongst the silence. An echo from the years past.

“Zethon’aril Eburi’osa!?”



Azalea?
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#19
[Image: AusarsMarkV2_zps330d09a2.png]

[Image: Ausarnote_zps1664a486.png]

Spoiler:
To you, my father, my brothers, sisters,
my dearest mother.

I plead you see the to the side of sanity. The Neferset- we, our Neferset-

have gone mad. They’ve brazenly made an attempt upon the lives of our prince.

Without hazard they plunged a blade into his stomach and let a coward’s

poison turn his blood black! Please, I plead, I plead for your lives!

See the sanity you once did! Deathwing will lead you to ruin. If he won’t

then the Ramkahen will. Save your lives, spare me the pain.

RUN AWAY

Risansis, your most wayward son.
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#20
[Image: WhiteHourglassStamp2_zpsb2e1fbd4.png]

-Krilari-

It was a curious sight. Never before had I such a visitor, yet there he stood before me. A man who was undeniably regal. Lengthy blonde hair sat atop a squat, rounded visage which bore nothing but good tidings in it’s smile. His complexion was tanned to say the least, one may say it resembled the color of sand. Of course his garb wasn’t far from either. A tight leather jerkin of black cloth laid over a cuffed, bronze-tinted shirt of wool. His leggings were far more loose and hardly matched the regality of his upper half. His feet poked out from beneath the tattered cuffs. They were bare, gnarled by hours of shoeless travel and yet there was not a wince to be found upon his visage as he greeted so carefully in the Matron’s tongue.

My eyes snapped to attention at such a simple utterance. At first glance I took him for a mere hermit in search for a meal but then, then he was a figure far above me. I bowed my head and graciously welcome him in.

His visit was brief, but efficient. Always is with the matters of the Bronze. Not a second to waste or it may make for quite the mess to clean up. His, or should I say, her name was Saidormi. I never bothered to ask why she took a male guise nor did she ever bother to explain it. Instead her words went right to business: It was celebration, in a way. I quite honestly forget… I believe it was five-hundred years of service? Perhaps six?... Three? None the less I have served for a time and served well and the Matron saw it fit to part with a trinket from her great horde. It was a simple little hourglass forged of glass as any other, locked with gold as any other, and held up by a chain of bronze as if it were to be a necklace. The Personal Hourglass, it was called, and within it were held but a few grains from the sands of time, enough to tease a simple mortal mind. It took but an utterance of draconic and history would be mine to explore whether it be my own, or those I hold dear- literally so.

As quickly as she had come she had left, and left I was staring blankly as grain after grain perpetually ticked through the glass pipe. I did not immediately indulge. I couldn’t of. I needed to prepare. I settled myself down in the parlor, tucked cozy into one of my study lounges beside my favorite bottle of Al’shar red. I sipped, paused, contemplated, and sipped again. Hours ticked by without much ado. Only once my sobriety was not my own did I hold the hourglass aloft and whispered with gentle care not to slur.

“Belaros.”

Darkness engulfed my mind soon after. Through my own eyes I saw myself standing out in a vast void, and in a sudden moment I was him. I stood, dumbfounded as I clutched tight to this hourglass of mine. Was it a trap? I could not tell. All I could do was gather my wits and reach out.

And for but a moment I stood upon the edge of existence, eons before me, millennia behind me. My own mortal hands reached into the vast expanse and grasped at the chords of reality. It was through them that I played but a simple melody. From darkness came light. By my whim alone every second of existence I've ever known was mine to witness. From birth onwards I stood in awe, watching as my days blurred before me as the tempo grew haste. I was dumbstruck, paralyzed though also eager, I was ever eager. A twist of the strings, a shift of the tone and the wind suddenly fell from my lungs. A glimpse—that's all I hoped for—a glimpse into my future, but it was not to be. Chaos claimed the reins. All around me war clashed. Fire crawled into the cackling twilight skies. Pillars of ageless construct toppled, crushing elven soldiers while wyrms of chromate scales fell bloodied and beaten before warriors of pale flesh and gaunt complexion. My melody had turned sour; my heart had sunk. In desperation I twisted the strings and threw myself from the assaulting visions.

It was night then. When I finally stirred from the timeless magic I was left to stare at the White Lady and her Blue Child gallop across the sky. I couldn’t move if I so wanted to. The Hourglass had left me memorized still. Instead through the night I only raised an arm with hopes to grasp at that White Lady and whisk her away from the twilight sky- to no avail. It was only once the heat of sunlight burned into my eyes that I turned myself over and crawled off to live my life.

This was a mistake I made only once.
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#21
[Image: AusarsMarkV2_zps330d09a2.png]

Ausar sat all alone upon his rise. It was a secluded section of the city, a lonely terrace where neither Neferset nor Ramkahen tread thanks to the ceaseless warfare in the more populous quarters. He sat restless, head pivoted about, back and forth as his eyes narrowed to pierce through the night’s darkness. So often he gave his neck rest only to nervously trade his spear back and forth between trembling hands.

“She was due ages ago.” Murmured the novice with another twist of his neck. “She’s not coming… she’s probably lost. Maybe brother put her down. I knew this was pointless.” With a huff he hoisted up his spear and set it to idle along his torso. Those eager eyes of his turned down to the sand-washed stone, following it as he paced off into the darkness.

And right into a stone wall.

Ausar lept in place! Fear struck the boy senseless, sending him skittering back desperately as his hand pawed at the weapon he had so easily set aside just moments before. By the time he held it aloft the ‘wall’ had moved in, it’s hand sweeping down to pin his weapon back by the shaft. “Quiet, would you!?” Comes the harsh, inhuman voice as it’s free grips the man closer. It was only then that Ausar had the mind to use his eyes. His eyes traced over the stone groves, over the gems that lined it’s breast, over what expression remains in it’s wrought visage. Realization snapped. “O-oh… you’re.. ah… h-here…” Ausar laid his eyes upon the woman- and had an outsider looked upon her the same they would only see another faceless man, but amongst one another there was no question. A towering beast of a Tol’vir, her form quite literally chiseled from stone and inlaid with stones, gems, and all such extravagance. No matter how pampered she may appear, she was a warrior at heart. A blade rested on each flank, held in sheathe by a sash pinned with a mark of the Neferset.

Hands shifted about. The Tol’vir urged her younger back towards the terrace as she took a place upon it herself. “I am. Did you think I would not be?” Now that the moment had passed there was a vaguely feminine voice that chirped out from the stone construct, no longer passionate, though always harsh in it’s pitch.

“W-well… I was e-expect-...” Ausar paused for a calming breath. “Y-you were running late. I had thought you were done for, or that you had..! Never mind. You’re here now, that is what is important, and wholly your own mind no less.”

“I am. I sent you word back, did I not? I said I would be here and here I am. Tardy, perhaps, but finding path past your father is by no means an easy task. A faithful farce is difficult to maintain.” Her stone visage sank with exhaustion, yet looking down upon her child had brightened it somewhat. “Tell me, Risansis. What is it like? The freedom. To breathe again. to walk without worry?”

“Ausar… My name is Ausar.” He did not dare look in his mother’s face as he uttered the words.

“Ah. So your betrayal is complete.” Sorrow once more curved at the stone visage. For a moment even anger dared to bit into her lips, revealing a snarl of a frown, however she quickly shook it away. “No. I understand, Ausar. I understand. I should have expected…”

“It’s… difficult.” Came Ausar in swift response, quick to steer the topic away.

“Which is?”

“To breathe. I can breathe, certainly, and I can walk about without worrying about a leash, but I worry none the less. War, mother, it’s raging all around. I can’t live without worrying if one day I’m just going to take a misstep and end up dead in some trap. You’ve told me to take faith in the Makers. Since I was a child you assured that Golganneth would guard my life, that Eonar would bless it… but I stand here. Every night there are tormentors. Kabuus haunts me in my dreams! Kabuus! The harmless tale you had told me now refuses me rest! This existence has been naught but pain since I had left, and I don’t know when it’s going to end… If it will end. If I had just remained then perhaps I wou-”

Crack. A stone hand whipped itself about, catching Ausar on the cheek in a stern blow. “You do not dare say you wish this existence!” Her words came low, but harsh once more. The anger once contained now welled up fully along the woman. Those red eyes of hers- the telltale sign of Deathwing’s mastery- glared deep into his trembling own. “Look upon me! Look! I am not myself! I am a stone husk… a body breaking and shattering with every step. I can not hold you with the warmth. I can not hold any of my children. I can not love them. I can only look on with rage as they grow to be warriors, fighting a horrid cause. There is no kindness left in me, the Old Ones have stolen that from me. There is no mirth… nothing but rage… It is a blessing that I am here. A true sign of Eonar’s saving hand, as I can think of nothing else that keeps me sane.” Her furious ramble had finally calmed, her stone breast once swollen now calm again as she retreats a step back, sorrow taking hold once more.

Silence hung thick in the air for a moment as the child nursed his cheek with the rub of his palm. “I-i see…” His eyes glanced towards the woman, then to the floor. “We’ll need to see you away from here, then.”

“What? I can’t. You know that just as well.”

“Why do you think I bothered, Ki’sa? I know these are troubling times… I don’t mean immediately, but this city is going to fall. No one else sees that, but I don’t want you caught under the rubble. Just… give me a few days to plan, alright? Maybe I can strike a deal with Ramkahen.. or something. I just need time.”

A snort. “Ramkahen will not house this shell. They are warm of heart, but they are not foolish. They will think me a spy. A traitor. A liability. I will not know lasting peace amongst them, Ausar. Even you can see that.”

“Not lasting, no, but… some? Long enough for us to make more permanent plans. There is a world beyond! A magnificent world that we have never dared to see with our own eyes… Trust me mother. There is a place for you still.” Despite the slight sheen of red that burned through Ausar’s fur he smiled with all honesty and mirth. Though his elder did not look so sure.

“Perhaps. Look. I wish you to have this.” Reaching back along her stone hide, the sizable warrior-woman had taken the layers of plate that once guarded her and set it upon his spine. Following after she knelt low, affixing guards to each of his four paws. “You speak to me of this world. You’ll need to realize… it is dangerous. If you haven’t come to see this yet, then you will be needing this far more than I.” The armor was either of fine make, or given to a fine warrior. Only a few notches of battle are to be found amongst the chitin-fashioned plates. Despite the years of service they still retain their gilded trim and glorious luster, though the glory is lost somewhat upon it’s new, smaller host. After another fair pause Ki’sa adds. “You will grow into it.”

Through the rest of the night the two had muddled over more kind discussions. Of days long past. Of joys long gone. They talked until the Sun had begun to rise, and at the first beam of light upon the terrace they parted.
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