07-17-2011, 11:42 AM
Staring at the Sun
Sometimes all I really want to feel is love
Sometimes I'm angry that I feel so angry
Sometimes my feelings get in the way
Of what I really feel I needed to say
~~Modest Mouse, Edit the Sad Parts
Four years ago, Quel’thalas
Spoiler:
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoa5AL6VFk0[/youtube]
Sometimes all I really want to feel is love
Sometimes I'm angry that I feel so angry
Sometimes my feelings get in the way
Of what I really feel I needed to say
~~Modest Mouse, Edit the Sad Parts
Four years ago, Quel’thalas
Sunken eyes, pale skin, gaunt features, thin frame. The past weeks had not been kind to the shambling mass that was the elf; His addiction driving him to and nearly past the breaking point. Now however, he had his prey. Black blood seethed through blades of grass, pouring from wound after wound in the Felstalker’s carcass. It mixed and mingled with the fresh dew, the evaporating liquid congregating amidst the smoke emanating from the black liquid. It burnt at the ground with the foaming energy of raw fel but it was nothing compared to the burning Fin’thori felt within his mind. He longed for magic... A taste, a glimpse, a single moment of contact with the arcane.
“Your death serves a greater purpose, creature... Die knowing your death will fuel me in the murder of more of your allies. The Legion will never prosper.â€
The elf’s hand reached out, grabbing the beast by one of the massive tentacles on it’s back. Yanking on the appendage he managed to roll it onto it’s back before crumbling to his knees at it’s side. He could only rest his hand on it’s chest as he panted. Sweat dripped from his snow white forehead, dripping down into his eyes, encircled with dark bags. Blood flowed from a multitude of wounds as his eyes closed, halting the eery green luminescence that had washed over his face.
Fin’thori couldn’t believe it. After all these weeks, weeks of pain, suffering, meditation. It would finally slip away, and all he had to do was kill a demon, something he already longed to do. Pressing both of his hands against the creature’s chest, Fin’s wild nails dug into it’s flesh. The ill groomed things dug into it’s scaled hide, drawing more of the dark liquid out. Evoking the powers that The Betrayer had given him and his people, a deep purple began to wrap itself around Fin’thori’s arms. The arcane snaked down his appendages, and into the fresh wounds his nails had formed. Like a straw sucking liquid from a cup, bright green fel energy made it’s way up the arcane lines until it was the demonic green that wrapped around his sickly arms.
The elf’s whole form tensed as he raised his head to the sky, nails still pressed into the Felstalker’s flesh. The colour returned to his face, and the bags began to diminish... His frame began to bulk back out to it’s previous state as raw energy passed through his arcane-impoverished body. Digging his nails deeper into the dead demon, the green tendrils grew brighter. Thicker. Longer. They wrapped themselves around his shoulders, and caressed the sides of his head before beginning to fade. The emerald tide lowered, and the tendrils began their metamorphosis back into the deep purple, the left over fel energy sinking back into the corpse. After several moments, they completely dispersed. Fin’thori’s eyes snapped open, the fel green flooding now over his face much stronger than before. The green globes were filled with determination, a newfound vigor for life.
Still resting on his knees, Fin’thori took his fingers to the cooled blood, dipping them deep into the liquid. From memory he drew sigils across his exposed arms, and wards taught to him by other elves across his face with the blood. They said the intricate patterns weakened the demonic batteries they fought, and any advantage was helpful when assaulting demons. He had no need to feed now, not for the next week. Rather, he would devote his waking hours to vengeance. To cutting down swathes of the demonic, those that had killed his family. Rising to his feet, Fin’thori looked up at the blue sky with his emerald eyes, fel corpse at his feet, and echoed the exaltation of so many Blood Elves before him.
“Bless the Betrayer and his gift...â€
Two Years Ago
“Bless the Betrayer and his gift!â€
The Blood Elf’s massive warglaive collided down upon Fin’thori’s sword with a clash, fel fire and sparks arcing around him. Fin growled, pushing all his weight upon his blade in an attempt to get the Hunter away before the next inevitable strike. The Demon Hunter was forced back, nearly getting taken out by a demonic geyser. The green flames were a terrible backlight to the tattooed beast, only made more terrifying by the Hand of Gul’dan in the distance, framed by the sulfurous sky. His assailant burst forward with inhuman speed once more, crashing a shoulder into the ever-observant Fin’thori.
“Stop admiring the view, you idiot! Get back in the fight!†an elf nearby screamed as Fin was forced back into a ruined wall of an orcish building. The speaker wore the decorations of many medals, won over many wars. His grizzled face was unremarkable, only the peppered goatee on his chin marking him an individual, alongside the vicious gaze he could muster at his beck and call. Unfortunately, that glower was aimed at Fin.
Ducking, the demon hunter’s blade slammed into the stone wall, sending more sparks and more flames out around the elf as the battle around them surged on. The Scryers fought vigorously this day, raiding one of Illidan’s demonic training schools. Several Aldor were scattered throughout the pack not wanting to miss out on the fun, but they were falling in equal numbers with the Scryers to the Demonic Adept’s glaives. The Hunters had progressed in their training further than either group had expected. Fin was dealing with that exact problem at the moment, but it would be under control soon enough.
The elf took his chance while the Hunter he fought was on the ground, glaive tossed to the side. Swinging his sword high into an arc above his head he shifted it’s position within his hands at it’s apex so the hilt pressed against the base of his hands. Redirecting the momentum downward, the blade slid easily into his opponent’s chest, sticking into the ground beneath. The man gargled as blood filled his throat, his still intact eyes meeting Fin’thori’s in a desperate plea for aid. But there was no mercy for the mad followers of Illidan, only death at the hand of the Scryers.
“Your fate has been sealed, and so has that of your beloved Betra-â€
A malevolent mass of twisted muscle and inscribed ink slammed into Fin’thori before he was able to finish his sentence, sending him meters to the left. Sliding across the blighted soil, he let out a long moan, cut off once more by a clawed fist hurtling into the side of his skull. The massive Demon Hunter was an uncanny ball of rage, beginning to slam fist after fist into Fin, both of their weapons lost in the battle. Fin’thori’s stuck in the corpse of another elf, the Hunter’s discarded into the midst of a fel geyser. He raised his hands over his head as he was pummeled, time and time again, his vision beginning to blotch over with black and white circles. The black sky began to spread across the whole of his vision as he felt the bones in his arms snap under the pressure.
It’s only a matter of time now...
...I always wondered what it would be like to die...
...How many more hits can I take?
...Two..?
Three?
...More importantly...
...Why aren’t I dead yet?
Fin’thori opened his clenched eyes, a glaive thrust through the chest of his assailant. The Hunter’s mouth was twisted into an eternal scream, his unscarred eyes bound to an endless look of horror. His black blood began to pool upon Fin’s chest. Smoke rose from it, writhing past the blade who’s tip was only inches from Fin’thori’s face. The body fell forward and to the side, tumbling off Fin’thori as the now-revealed figure kicked it from his blade. It reached a massive hand down, grasping Fin’thori by the nape of his shirt. He faded in and out of consciousness, but felt the figure toss him over it’s shoulder, sprinting out into the darkness of the Valley.
• • •
“You’re up.†Fin’thori woke, finding himself propped up against the side of a ruined structure, a small cooking fire smoldering several feet away. The speaker was sitting on a fallen pillar, sharpening one of his two warglaives. The small fire cast flickering shadows across his face, giving Fin a chance to finally catch the man’s features. Dark brown hair, nearly black, was pulled into a tight knot on the back of his head.
The well maintained locks gave way to a duo of rising horns at the apex of their curl, beginning to twist back in order to make a full circle. His hands were clawed, as were his feet, wrapped in a pair of cloth bandages. His body was in a physical state Fin’thori didn’t think possible... He worked his gaze up from his feet to his head once more, finally catching the man’s fangs, his mouth contorted into some sort of death grin.
He could see Fin’thori’s obvious distress as he attempted to scramble back further against the wall, his smirk changing into a blatant grin. He let out a quiet chuckle, resting his blade at his side. The Demon Hunter set his hands in his lap, watching Fin’thori, “You’re well enough to be scared. That’s a good sign.â€
The words did little to comfort Fin’thori.
“Consider yourself lucky. I’m not sure if you noticed, you may have been busy getting mauled... But the rest of your group was overwhelmed. You’re the last one, Scryer. It’s a miracle I stumbled on your fight, and managed to save you.â€
“Save me..? So you’re not going to kill me then?†Fin’thori seemed genuinely worried, his brow twisting into a look of confusion.
The Hunter smirked once more, “Not all of us are crazed, like The Betrayer and his followers, elf. There’s a fine line between devotion and madness, but it’s still a line. I have managed to stay on the practical side of it.â€Fin tried to run a hand through his hair, but found that both of his arms were wrapped rightly in bandages. “Both your wrists are broken, and your left forearm is fractured. The Sanctum of Stars, your base, is just around this bend. I would escort you, but the Scryers don’t take kindly to my presence.â€
Fin’thori, still looking at his hands, took several moments to register what was said. He simply stared at the man.
“That means leave, elf.â€
Fin’thori muttered a response of some sort, struggling to get to his feet. He tried to use a hand to support himself, but collapsed to his side as the arm gave way. On the second attempt, the Hunter grabbed him by the arm. His touch was surprisingly gentle for such a massive figure, but hidden strength was obvious underneath the tempered touch. Fin caught his eye for a moment, before bowing his head. The elf began to walk away from the small fire, and the ruined building.
At the edge of the fire’s light, he turned to face the Hunter once more. He seemed unsure of himself, still daunted by the figure, but managed to ask a final question, “What... What's your name, Hunter?â€
“Varanis. Varanis Sunblaze.â€
With that Fin’thori turned, stumbling back to The Sanctum of Stars. His head swam with thoughts, as blood swam beneath his bandages. He would never see General Starhunter again, nor his grizzled goatee. He would never drink with the men from his squad again, nor exchange stories. He would never try to get a one liner in again in the middle of a battle, even if it would make for a nice story some day. But one thought pierced itself through the inner layers of his mind to press against his foremost thoughts time and time again.
What was Varanis Sunblaze’s story?
It would be years until he found out.
Present Day
“So you’ve seen him?†Fin’thori asked, his patience wearing thin. He was normally an amiable person to say the least, but shady bartenders in the back of some no-name bar speaking in circles wasn’t the best way to start the day. Especially when the thing you’ve been hunting for years could be a mile away.
“Seen who now? I think I’ve forgotten what it was we were talking about. There’s a hole in my pocket here...†The aging elf patted his coat pocket, “That all my thoughts keep slipping through. Maybe if there was something to block the hole...â€
Fin’thori took a deep breath, shoving a hand down into his pocket. He knew something like this was bound to happen. Shoving a small purse into the man’s hand, he asked once more, “Where is the elf? The one who has the horns, and the tattoos under his robes?â€
The other elf furrowed his brow, fishing around in his coat pocket as he pushed the purse into it, “Just gotta find the hole... Aha! There it is. It’s all coming back to me now. He came by about a half hour ago, stopped in for repairs to his dress-â€
“Kilt,†Fin’thori corrected.
“- Yeah, sure. To his kilt, and took off. Went east of here, toward The Scar.â€
“Did he have a mount of some sort, or was he on foot?â€
“That hole seems to be getting bigger now, I just don’t know what to do about it, do you?â€
“I think so.†Fin’thori grabbed the handkerchief hanging loosely from his pocket and leapt across the table. Pressing his hand down against the man’s throat as they both toppled backward, Fin’thori began shoving the cloth into the other elf’s mouth and down his throat before they even hit the ground, “Maybe this’ll clog up that hole for good!†The elf struggled beneath Fin’thori, but he finally managed to get the entirety of the handkerchief into the bartender’s mouth before standing.
Scrambling up himself, before pressing his back to the wall the bartender yelled, “You’re crazy, you know that?!†Fin’thori was already walking toward the exit, “Absolutely nuts!â€
Fin shook his head as he opened the door, sunlight bursting onto his fair skinned face, “You have no idea.†With that, Fin’thori broke off into a run in an attempt to find the most dangerous man in all of Eversong and sway him into teaching a total stranger the way of the Demon Hunter.