athelar
ATHELAR VALARYON
CRUSADER OF THE ARGENT ADVANCE
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The Burden of Despair
Chi shimmered around the knight's form, stripped to the waist and bathed with sweat, the man's spiritual energy surrounded him in a sheath of protection as Corta had taught him, armouring him against the flame. And for good reason, as he battled against two humanoid forms crafted solely of flame.
Athelar's hands came up, elbows jutting back as he locked himself into his fighting stance, the man's golden eye blazing in the dim light of the hidden temple of the Mush'al Al'ar.
The first of the elementals came in, leaping into the air and kicking high at the knight as the second dove in low, driving a flaming fist towards Athelar's gut. The golden haired elf's left arm rose up, chi blazing around his forearm as he bashed the foot aside, his right palm crossing his body and driving down, smashing down into the skull shape of the second elemental's form. He stepped in, moving past the first as it collided with the ground, the second crashing back beneath Valaryon's strike.
Athelar's left foot, wrapped in linen, scuffed over the floor of the temple as he brought it back behind him in a semi-circle, rotating to face his opponents.
"Remember the Lesson of the Reeds," Al'ar's voice echoed through the chamber.
The knight's eye narrowed in recognition, watching as the pair of elementals recovered and regrouped, their fists driving together as one. Athelar could sense their power rising, merging together as their flames crackled and grew in intensity. They launched forwards, surging forth in a torrent of deadly flame, seeking to engulf and consume the knight.
Valaryon's footing shifted, and as the pillar of flame seared towards him he moved, arms extending out to either side of his form, his hip turning his body so the flames danced along his back, passing by him. No blunt force, but moving with along with the flow of battle. The reed that bends with the wind rather than stands against it. The sheath of near transparent, golden chi that surrounded him shimmered as it worked, defending his flesh against the searing heat of the flames. And then his palms turned towards the pillar and he rotated, hands glowing bright.
The pillar began to shift, molding along with Athelar's movements as he altered it's design, turning it to his will. His right arm swung down and up in a circular motion, his left coming from above and down to join as the elemental's pillar was bent, forming into a sphere at the golden haired elf's beck and call.
And as he looked beyond, he saw that the pillar had been joined to the elementals, their joined limbs still outstretched. His lip curved into a grin and he began to **pull*.
The elementals seemed to scramble as they realized Athelar's intent, the knight not resting with simply turning their attack against them, but rather he began to siphon from *them* as well. Open palms swirled in circular motions, one high and one low, in opposing patterns as the sphere of flame before him grew, the elementals dragged towards it helplessly. Sweat beaded at Valaryon's brow, the chi surrounding him glowing bright as it worked to protect him from the heat.
But before long, the elementals were joined with the sphere, the massive fireball crackling between his palms, arms stretched wide.
"Excellent," the Phoenix's voice intoned. "You learn quickly, Child of Flame."
Athelar smiled as he nodded and then he drew his hands apart, tearing the sphere in two, palms jutting outwards towards two opposing braziers on either side of the chamber that had gone dark. As the flames reached them, they erupted into light, the shape of humanoid elementals appearing for a moment before they returned to the shape of regular fire.
"But you still have much yet to learn."
The knight nodded, the chi surrounding him fading as he released his concentration, the battle over. At the far end of the hall, the form of Al'ar hovered above its nest.
"Approach, Child of Flame," it echoed.
Athelar nodded and stepped forwards, wrapped feet padding over the soft, violet carpet as he walked the length of the hall towards the Phoenix. In his time here, the knight had learned this form was merely one avatar of many, crafted of flame from the original to see to the work that required doing. But this did not mean he paid it any less respect, dipping his head low, golden locks damp with sweat clinging to his muscled and heavily scarred back.
The knight reached out for his discarded shirt, but the Phoenix Avatar made a disapproving sound.
"Your scars make you who you are," it intoned. Athelar glanced up towards it, uneasy. It was second nature to him to hide them whenever he could, a deep rooted shame seated within him, though the man had attempted to lessen its hold over him in the last few months. The Avatar seemed to be aware of this.
"You cannot master what is outside," the Phoenix spoke. "Until you master what is within." It cocked its head to the side, studying the knight as he drew close. Athelar exhaled, but nodded just the same. He knew the words held wisdom, but it was much easier to understand the path than to walk it.
"Acceptance will come in time," the Avatar continued. "But for now, a different matter." Valaryon looked to the Phoenix curiously. "Grab your cup, Child of Flame, and sit."
Athelar nodded, turning towards the belongings he had left at the side of the hall near the Avatar's roost. He shuffled through his belongings, fishing out the plain, clay cup that Corta had given to him with the direction it be the only use he used as he went through the Burdens of Shaohao. He turned back towards the Avatar and crossed to it, taking a seat on the floor.
"Time is short," the Avatar spoke. "And knowledge is precious," it explained. "Hold out your cup."
The knight raised a golden brow, but he extended his empty cup forwards.
"The gift of foresight is both a blessing," the Phoenix told him. "And a curse." It turned it's beak towards him, flaming eyes fixing the knight with a solemn, almost sorrowful gaze. "One may see wonders and gain clarity from their visions, solidifying their resolve," the Avatar continued. "But there are also those destined for a dark fate, and that knowledge drives some to madness."
It studied Athelar for a long moment.
"I wonder which one you are."
The Phoenix's head craned forwards, a tear rolling from its eye, splashing down into Athelar's outstretched cup. The golden haired elf looked down at it as the water splashed into the clay pottery, then back up towards the Avatar of Al'ar.
"The choice to know is yours, Child of Flame."
Athelar looked up towards the Phoenix, its flames crackling softly in the dim light, much like the braziers that lined the chamber. He considered the Avatar's words, measuring the weight of them thoughtfully. Then... he nodded.
"Drink."
Valaryon looked down to his cup and then lifted it to his lips. He closed his eye and tilted his head back, letting the tears of the phoenix flow into his mouth. It tasted salty and it tingled over his tongue, warming his throat as it sank within him. Then he felt the heat begin to rise within his chest unbidden, his brow breaking into a sweat. His flesh grew hot to the touch, steam rising from his skin as it reddened. Something burned inside him, filling him with an unyielding warmth, as though he were suddenly made into a furnace. His sight began to waver, becoming blurry as he felt himself fading into that place between consciousness and not.
And then the visions came.
He stood in a place overgrown with foliage and trees, the canopy blotting out the sun. There was shouting all around him, thundrous blasts of gunpowder and the rumble of engines. The air tasted of sulphur and ash, flames rushing through the overgrowth. A terrible, monstrous cry ripped through the air and the man looked up, the familiar shape of the undead red dragon, Karvistraz, screeching as it was struck.
Another cry, and he turned, seeing hippogryphs bearing the barding of the Argent Crusade falling from the sky. Another turn, and a dark owl with a train of stars glimmering behind her was sent careening to the earth.
And at the center of it all, a massive beast of nature rose from the earth, strange green energy swirling around it as the world shuddered beneath its roar.
The vision shifted, brambles and vines rising up to engulf him, thorns piercing at his flesh as he was slowly consumed, the cries of man and swine filling the air.
The stench of rot assailed him, the all too familiar tang of unnatural death magics singing the atmsophere around him, the otherworldly voice of a summoner rising high and terrible.
It shifted again, the sight of a Kaldorei male speaking with a Silver Owl. He was filled with a sense of dread, of knowing there was nefarious purpose here. He looked and the face of the man was familiar to him, but not. It looked like someone he knew...
And then into the depths, white stone broken and crumbling, claimed by the ocean but lingering in its dark purpose still. A name sears into his mind. Quel'shalla. And then it is gone, a swarm of dark, slithering shapes blotting it out as they race towards the surface.
A darkness rising from the depths.
He could feel their overwhelming power. The threat they presented. He could feel an unyielding helplessness as thousands of unseen voices cried out in despair. He looked and he could see the Resolute in the sky, her guns thundering to no avail.
Hopeless.
Hopeless.
Hopeless...
Athelar shuddered and his eye snapped open, his clay cup dropping from his hand and falling to the floor. He looked down and watched as the pottery struck the ground, shattering upon impact, the pieces breaking apart and scattering. The knight stood frozen and still, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his body. Then, slowly, he looked up towards the Avatar of Al'ar...
But it was gone.
Athelar was alone.
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The Hidden Temple
He had followed the path into the mountains.
Athelar had remained in the dead city of Mythranor, putting to rest the ghosts of his past, and then he had turned towards the south where he had witnessed the phoenix rise from his mother's pyre, soaring towards the mountains. He had felt the call within his chest, and it lingered still, beckoning him to follow. Guiding him in his path.
For months, the man had felt the fate leading him in this direction. Pulling him towards a greater design that he did not fully understand or realize, bidding him to embrace it.
And so he followed.
He was still deep in the Ghostlands, the wind cold and carrying with it the air of decay, but as he ascended the deep mountain passes the corruption began to lessen, shedding away some of the grey and haunted tone his homeland had taken on. Far from thriving, the mountains were still lifeless. But, rather than unnatural dread, there was a solemn serenity within the high places. A lamentation for the honoured fallen.
He moved through the high passes in silence and respect, his chest thrumming with the sense of something powerful growing ever nearer. Until finally, the golden haired knight ascended the final rise and found a large, elvish styled entryway built into the rock face of the mountain, high and hidden away from the rest of the world. Upon the double doors of crimson there was the shape of a golden phoenix emblazed, though time had dulled its shine. Athelar realized that no one had been here in a very long time.
The knight stepped towards it, the blood in his ears pounding as he felt power thrumming.
But, there was no handle on the door.
He reached out, pressing his palm to the sigil of the Phoenix... but there was nothing. He pushed, but the door did not budge. It was barred to him, refusing to allow him to pass.
Athelar's brow knit and he looked over the door. It was almost seamless, though the knight could see that it was meant to open. Around the form of the Phoenix there were five circles cut into the door, rimmed in gold. The Argent looked to them curiously.
The golden haired elf stepped back and drew in a deep breath, holding it in before releasing through his nostrils slowly. Over and again, his chest swelling as he filled his lungs, centering himself. His eye closed and he dipped his head as he felt his Chi within, answering his call. It flowed from his core through his body, running down the meridians of power that traveled along his form. His palms tingled with warmth as golden light bathed his hands.
Then he struck out with one single, solid open-palm struck to the center of the Phoenix. The golden light of his Chi rippled across the doorway, permeating within. And just as Corta had taught the elf to reach out with his spiritual energy to look into the body of another for injury, he now sought out the inner workings of the door.
Five locking mechanisms formed behind the crimson door, their design growing clear to the man as he peered through his minds eye. A shift in air pressure would cause the tumblers to move and release, ultimately unlocking the door. Athelar's lips curved into a smile.
"Clever..." He uttered quietly.
Valaryon pulled his hand back, focusing. Golden flames sprang up around his palms, first the right and then the left. He brought his hands around in a swirling formation, concentrating his power as his fingers moved, forming a ball of flaming chi. Then, his fingers grew rigid, turning in and he plunged them into the mass of golden fire, pulling handfuls away and lifting them to his side, the flaming spheres hovering around him.
Five of them.
His eye opened then and the elven knight looked to the doorway of the hidden temple, golden light blazing within. And he thrust his arms forwards, sending all five spheres racing forwards, crackling in the air as they met their mark and entered the golden rimmed holes of the door. The heat of the flames altering the air pressure, forcing the tumblers to move. Athelar listened as the tumblers click-click-clicked into place, the mechanisms behind the door clunking as they unlocked one by one.
And then the door opened...
Athelar looked within, the hidden temple bursting the life as braziers erupted in flame one after the other down the length of a long hall. Pillars of a deep crimson rose from floor to ceiling, thalassian architecture in design as recognized by the swirling golden filigree. The knight stared in awe, his chest thrumming with power.
He had found it.
But the hall, for all its grandeur, stood silent and empty save for the crackling of the freshly lit braziers. Valaryon stepped forwards, moving within. And as he crossed the threshold, the doors behind him closed, the thunder of their sealing echoing down the length of the chamber, leaving Athelar standing alone in silence.
Then, at the end of the hall, flames of orange and violet began to stir from what appeared to be a massive next. They rose up, growing bright, swirling together in a splendid miasma as they formed into the shape of a massive phoenix.
And then the voice of Al'ar echoed down the length of the chamber.
"I have been waiting for you a long time, Child of Flame," it uttered, powerful but not deafening. "It is good that you have come."
"There is much yet that must be done... And time is short."
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He had never had the chance to say good bye.
In the chaos of Mythranor's downfall, trying to escape the city as it was set to the torch and its citizens cut down by the Scourge, Athelar had done everything he could to keep his little brother safe. And that had included leaving the body of his turned mother behind, his blade driven into her skull, left limp and lifeless on the floor.
He remembered the night it had happened with crystal clarity, the events of that night had played over and over again in his mind, wracked with guilt and shame.
The golden haired elf had gone to Arathyr's room, the sounds of screaming and crying already echoing through the halls of the palace. He had found the boy at the window, staring down at the mayhem, frozen in horror. He had gone to the boy's side, pulling him into his arms, telling the boy that he would be alright.
I will protect you. That's what big brothers are for. He had promised.
And that promise had been tested.
With the young elf clinging to him in the elder brother's arms, Athelar had left Arathyr's bed chambers behind and moved into the hall already growing dark with smoke.
"I can't see!" Arathyr had cried. "Ath... I'm scared! I don't want to die."
Athelar had pushed forwards half-blind, ever aware of the shrill screaming of the dying nearby. He knew he needed to get them out of the palace, there were secret passages from his father's study, he just needed to...--
A dark figure thrust into him, hidden in the smoke, slamming the golden haired elf into the wall. Arathyr was shaken loose from his grasp, the younger elf flung away as Athelar crashed to the ground. The figure was on top of him, grasping, clawing, reaching for his throat. Athelar fought against it, shoving it away, but it's strength was unnatural as it bore down on him, horrendous, beastial sounds issuing from his mouth. He slammed his open palm into it's face, a sickening crunch filling his ears as something gave way, but still it came.
It rose above him, pinning him to the ground. Desperately, the elf grasped for the blade at his hip, his fingers curling around the handle of the elvish dagger sheathed there as his other hand rose, his forearm jutting out to defend himself against the figure. Still it came, bearing down on him, gnashing it's teeth.
And then he saw her face.
Athelar blinked in surprise-- in shock-- as he saw the face of his mother looming over him, recognizing her eyes amongst the twisted, dead features. Her flesh was grey, pallid and dead, her eyes covered in a deathly white film. But it was her.
"No..." He murmured.
She came at him mindlessly, railing against him, hardly restrained as he fought to hold her off of him. Saliva and blood dripped from her maw, splattering the golden haired elf. He recognized her features... but there was nothing left of the woman he had loved in the creature that came for him now, hungry and savage, seeking to tear him apart.
Arathyr's cries reached his ears, the young boy not far off. And as he fought, it seemed the figure of his turned mother noticed them too, her face twisting in the direction of the wailing child. A sudden, cold realization pierced Athelar's heart and he felt the woman's pressure on him begin to lift, her attentions shifting to easier prey.
He hand shot up, the elvish dagger in his hand ramming up beneath her jaw, slammed deep up into her brain. Athelar stared up in horror as her face twisted mournfully, black ichor dripping down onto his hand from the wound. Her eyes. Her lifeless, pale eyes... they turned down to him and for the briefest moment, Athelar felt as though something within his mother surfaced before her body went still, slumping down onto him.
The Knight's jaw tensed at the memory of Arathyr's wails, the sound of his anguish tearing through his mind as the elf stood before the funeral pyre he had built within the courtyard of the palace. He had descended down from the Aerie and walked through the deserted, broken streets of Mythranor. Memories of his past lingering on the street corners and in the parks, pieces of him that he had forgotten until those places lay before him. Shards of a broken life, left abandoned like shattered glass on the floor.
Athelar exhaled, staring at the shrouded form resting upon the pyre. For years, he had dreaded this place and feared what darkness still lingered here. Not of the Scourge, but of his own guilt... For years, the words of his father had echoed through his mind, blame set on his shoulders as the elder Valaryon had railed in his anguish.
His son, the disappointment, had murdered the love of his life. And in that loss, a cold man turned to ice, his disappointment turning to hatred.
"I am sorry, Minn'da," he whispered to the shrouded figure resting atop the stacked wood. "I should have come sooner... I should have set things right, long ago."
He closed his eye and dipped his head, the man's own grief rising within his throat, seeking to choke him. But he bit it back.
"I... know it's not my fault," he said quietly. "For a long time, I thought it was. I let myself believe... that it was," he confessed. His face contorted, but he held strong. "I know it wasn't you... not any more. But..."
He exhaled, gritting his teeth.
"I watched the life fade from your eyes and for a moment I saw you. I saw you. And I think about how your last moment was feeling me ending your life. And I... I'm so sorry."
Tears rolled freely from the knight's lone eye, but he did not sob. He looked up to the shrouded figure and then he stepped forwards.
"I will always mourn your loss, Minn'da," he told her quietly. "And I will always grieve what happened to us. But, I know there was no other way," he said. "And I know I did what I did to protect Arathyr... as you would have wanted."
Golden flames rose from his hand, flickering from bare flesh as he looked to the shrouded figure of his mother above.
"Shorel'aran, Minn'da," he spoke quietly. "Al diel shala. Elu'meniel mal alann." The flames left his hand, arcing towards the base of the funeral pyre. It began to spread quickly, consuming the kindling and rising up, golden flames consuming the pyre and the shrouded figure of his mother, her body finally given it's final departure.
"I love you..."
Athelar stood silent and still, standing vigil as tears quietly ran down his cheek, the silhouette of the flames from the pyre reflecting over his face. A final goodbye. A grief set to rest. He watched as the fire crackled and burned, cleansing in its destruction. And then he saw it, a flicker at first, but a shape forming within the flames as they reached skyward. Twisting, the semblence of a shape forming within the dancing fire.
The form of a phoenix.
The golden haired knight's brow knit in surprise, the man looking closer to ensure that he was truly seeing what lay before him. And he watched as the phoenix rose from the pyre, rising above the flames that released his mother's tormented form, and soared towards the south. Towards the mountain range beyond. And in his heart, Athelar knew he was being called.
He looked towards the funeral pyre once more and dipped his head, bidding his mother farewell.
In flame, we are cleansed.
In flame, we are reborn.
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The City of Mythranor, Quel'thalas (Ghostlands)
Present Day
Everything was so different now.
The golden haired knight stood at the precipice of the Aerie, his lone eye looking out over cold, dead waters. Life had been driven from this place, replaced by silence and loss. Rotten foliage had begun to overtake the stone platform hanging over the cliff, the once well maintained facade beginning to chip and fall away in disrepair. This place had brought him joy, once. It had been a place of sanctuary and peace in a time when the world seemed stacked against him.
And now it stood broken, just like the rest. Fractured and crumbling in a place long forgotten.
As a boy, the elf had left his studies in the city and run through autumnal hills to the Aerie owned by his family. He had tended to the dragonhawks they raised there, feeding them and cleaning their scales. And then he would stand in this spot, overlooking the vast ocean, dreaming of what lay beyond that great blue expanse.
The province of Mythranor, and its capital city, had been the ancestral holdings of his family. The coastal city had been a thriving hub of trade and commerce, travelers from far away lands telling stories of wonder when they came into port. The young Athelar had dreamed such dreams listening to that tales, thinking over them as he stared at the golden horizon as the sun set. A scion of House Valaryon, shackled with responsibility and expectation, the youth had dreamt of such freedom.
He remembered the first time he had mustered the nerve to leap from the Aerie's platform. The boy had left the city, rushing tear-stricken from his classes. A noble household known also for its prestigious magisters and arcanists, it had been expected-- demanded-- that Athelar follow such a proud and longstanding tradition. But the youth had never been a good student, his mind wandering from his studies, his eyes traveling from his books and instructors to the window, longing to be outside running through the fields. That day, his uncle Kal'tharon had gripped him by the collar and slapped the books from his desk, the tomes clattering to the floor.
"You stupid boy!" The Magister had hissed. "Pay attention! Or these lessons will never make it through your thick skull."
Even at that young age, Athelar had known he did not have the talent to weave the arcane as his family could. Perhaps he had always known that his path lay elsewhere, as if he could sense the path of his fate and knew that he was wasting his potential trying to please his father and uncle. But still, those words had stung. He had still been young, his armour not yet crafted to defend himself against the barbs and cruelties the world had to offer.
He had stood at the edge of the platform, much as he did now, and he had stared at the waters as they reflected the golden light of the setting sun. Countless times he had envied the dragonhawks as they launched themselves from the Aerie, their massive wings beating against the air and lifting them high into the heavens. Carrying them away from the turmoil and the disappointment. He wanted that feeling, that weightless sense of freedom. To leave his pain behind and just... soar.
The young boy had backed up from the edge, his tear-stricken face staring ahead with determination. He had been afraid for so long, but finally... finally he knew he would do it. His body tensed and behind him one of the Aerie's attendants had noticed him and realized his intent, the worker shouting out to Athelar. But the boy would not be stopped. Not today.
He refused to be frightened any more.
The golden haired youth surged forwards, long lanky legs stretching wide as he sprinted, his leather boots slapping against the stones. The attendant dropped his things and ran towards Athelar, but the boy was fast. He raced to the edge of the platform, his heart hitching in his chest. He had thought of this so many times, had tried to muster the nerve so many times... always he had been too frightened. Always, he had doubted himself.
But not today.
His foot planted against the edge of the platform and he sprung off of it, leaping up into the open air. Time seemed to slow as the wind brushed through his wild, golden locks and the boy's lips curved into a wide, open smile as he stretched out his arms. His lungs filled with the salty, ocean air and in that moment, Athelar of House Valaryon had felt true freedom.
The wind whipped against his face as he began to descend, the boy's body sailing towards the golden waters below, his arms held out to his sides like a bird.
Then he crashed to the waters below, plunging into those chilly depths as his hands rose together and palms joined, diving deep. The attendant above reached the edge of the platform and was shouting, desperately seeking for the boy's body to arise. But the waves lapped at the rocky cliff face, the Valaryon Aerie standing tall and imposing.
A sigh of relief, then a curse, left the attendant's lips as Athelar finally surfaced, the golden haired youth breeching the waves, laughing. True, joyful laughter rising from deep within him, releasing all the pent of hurt and anger that had churned within him for years.
But now, those waters were not golden, but rather tinged with a foul and unnatural green. The breeze carried a deathly chill and the scent of decay infiltrated the nostrils. The knight's jaw tensed, sorrow rising within him. A joyful memory, tarnished by the rot and ruin that had plagued this place.
Why had he returned here? What had he hoped to find?
Everything good about this place had died long ago.
You have lost one eye but you are not yet blind, Child of Flame, a voice soft and soothing echoed in his mind. What lessons have you learned so far?
Athelar's brow rose, surprised by the foreign voice in his mind. It was familiar to him though and he nodded, considering. " -- to find joy where one can," he answered. "Because it is fleeting. To be the reed rather than the oak against the storm, to bend and flex with tribulations rather than stand against impossible odds and be torn out by the root." The knight looked to the greyish green sky but saw nothing. He was alone. "That wisdom is about perception," he continued. "And experience, both my own and of those closest to me. It is about more than just having the knowledge, but knowing what to do with it."
He answered aloud, but there was no reply.
The knight exhaled, then moved to sit down, thinking on the voice and its question. He thought on the Burdens of Shaohao, of how the Emperor had faced against his Doubt as vanquished it not by force, but by acceptance. He looked towards the platform and he pictured the boy that had sprinted towards the edge and leapt off, and he remembered how freeing it had felt.
And slowly, the knight began to smile.
The ruin of this place did not take that memory away.
It did not tarnish it.
It was simply the man's perception, guided by sadness.
Athelar shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he came to the realization. The only thing altering the man's view of the memory was himself, and without that shadow hanging onto it, it was still a joyful memory.
A memory of a boy learning to shrug off the shackles of expectation and be free.
"Oh, Corta," the knight spoke quietly to himself. "I think I'm figuring it out..."
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The Burden of Doubt
The air was thick with smoke, threatening to strangle him, blinding his sight and filling his mouth with the acrid taste of sulphur and ash. He raised his hand, moving through blindly, his ears filled with the sound of screaming. Flames flickered through the dark, billowing clouds of destruction, beacons leading survivors to their doom. The sound of steel rang through the night, the horrible squelching of flesh being torn apart drilling into his mind.
Mythranor had fallen.
"Ath... I'm scared!" A timid, frightened voice called behind him.
He turned, looking down to see the face of a young Arathyr looking up at him, trails of tears marring a face caked with dirt and soot. His little brother, terrified, as Athelar tried to lead him to safety as the Scourge moved through the elvish city, destroying all in its path.
Then Arathyr's face shifted and he now saw the face of his mother, her flesh pallid and grey, her hollow eyes staring lifelessly at him. He suddenly found himself on the ground, her hands clawing at his chest as she loomed over him, her bleeding mouth opening wide as she went to tear out his throat. His hand shot up and he rammed a blade into her skull, through the underside of her jaw. He watched her fade into her second death, slumping ontop of him, growing still and silent.
"You killed her." A stern voice, hard and cold, sounded behind him and suddenly the man was standing somewhere else, the destruction gone and replaced with an overwhelming sense of shame and solitude. "You murdered her." That voice spat with venom. "Get out of my sight."
The voice of his father.
"I thought you were dead!" A female voice spoke, her voice full of emotion, as though she had been crying. "I even got your letter... Lordaeron fell and I thought you were dead," she repeated. "So, I grieved you. And then I moved on. That part of my life ended and I'm... happy now. I'm so sorry, Athelar. There's nothing I can give you any more."
He remembered stumbling through the dark streets of Silvermoon, a bottle in his hand, coins jingling at his side as he searched for a mage in the middle of the night. " ... I need a portal," Athelar's voice slurred. "I don't care where. I just need... to go... I can't be here anymore."
The August Celestial of Wisdom, Yu'lon, the Jade Serpent's face loomed infront of him now.
"Your journey takes you back home, Child of Flame," her voice spoke-- cool as the morning dew, but her words filled his heart with dread.
"You must face what you have left behind."
Athelar jerked awake, the sheets wrapped around him torn away. His body covered with a cold sweat, but the moisture sizzled and steamed from flesh hot to the touch. At his side, Corta stirred, her hair wild and eyes bleary with sleep. It was the middle of the night. After a moment, he recognized the Adept's Quarters from the Jade Temple around him and realized where they were. He turned towards her, his lone golden eye flickering in the darkness. Sadness touched his lips and he reached for her, urging her to lay back down.
"I know what I must do," he told her quietly, his voice touched with melancholy. "I need to return to Quel'thalas," he said with a sense of dread. He reached for her cheek, caressing her cheekbone with the side of his thumb gently as he offered her a soft smile.
"But, this Burden... I must walk alone."
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The Rise
Flick, flick...
Athelar's brow creased as he felt something flicking his forehead, his eye squinting as it opened and was met by the reddish gold light of dawn in his face. There was a figure there, squatting beside his head. He blinked, trying to focus, and he recognized the green skin of Corta Nosesplitter beside him, though the monk was bathed in golden light.
"Wake up, Goldilocks," she spoke. "Can't stay here forever."
The knight grunted, raising a hand to his face. Then he tried to move, and realized that he couldn't. He looked down, eye widening as he tried to move his foot... but couldn't. He was laying on the rocks at the base of the mountain, his waist extended higher than everything else, the rocky ground jutting up at his back. His shoulders and head were floating in the water, and that was when he realized that the golden form of Corta was squatting on the water's surface.
" ... I can't move my legs," Athelar told her, alarmed.
Corta shrugged nonchalantly, flicking her gaze to the knight's feet. "I didn't figure you could after a fall like that," she said and then glanced up to the terrace high above. "That's not the way I would've chosen to come down."
Athelar smirked, though it was more of a cringe as his entire body was wracked in pain.
"Are you-- really here?"
Nosesplitter returned the knight's smirk. "Maybe I am," she replied. "Maybe I'm not." She tapped a knuckle against her skull. "Monk's secret."
Valaryon grunted, displeased by the vague response. He looked down towards his feet again, unable to make them budge. His body was wracked with pain, but he realized he couldn't feel anything below his wait. He knew in that moment that he was paralyzed.
A curse escaped the man's lips and he looked up to the sky and the sun's rising. He had been here for hours. There was a flutter of wings nearby and Athelar turned his head towards the movement. Carrion birds, he saw, waiting for the elf to expire. The end was near and they knew it.
"You better start figuring a way out of this mess," Corta spoke as she stood up.
" -- where are you going?" Athelar asked, surprised at her coldness.
"This isn't my story, Goldilocks. It's yers." Corta shrugged as she began walking away. "The fires of the phoenix burn the brightest at death's door," she told him cryptically.
"Now, get yer head in the game... or yer dead."
Athelar's jaw tensed as he watched Corta walk away over the water, the golden bathed Fistweaver fading into the rising sun. He was on his own. His lone eye turned back towards his unmoving feet. That was a problem, and a large one at that.
Focus, he told himself.
The knight drew in a deep breath, pained lungs swelling with air as he breathed in with his nose. He held the breath for a long moment before releasing it through chapped lips, and then he repeated the gesture over and again. Focusing himself, centering his spirit. His eye closed, brow knitting as he visualized his broken body. The knight's dented and damaged armour lifted away, fading from view in his minds eye, revealing the gravely injured body beneath.
Athelar saw the shape of his form, the lines of bone and vein appearing beneath his skin. As he focused on himself, he saw where the damage was. The knight's armour had taken a signficant portion of the damage, preventing the elf from being torn apart by the rocks, but there were countless broken bones. That the man was alive at all was a mircle in itself. And there, Valaryon saw, was his spine. Fractured, as he had suspected. This was too much... far too much for him to deal with alone.
To hold onto hope, even when all seems lost.
The words from the Argent Oath came unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He remembered swearing those words, standing before Mirchea. That was the line he had balked on, the half drunken elf's brow creasing as he considered those words. The man that had sworn those words had lost his sense of hope.
But Mirchea had returned it to him.
Athelar breathed in again, centering himself. The knight attuned himself to his spirit, feeling the golden energy swirling in his chest. He had studied the pathways of energy through the body, had learned the twelve major vessels and the body meridians, he knew how to manipulate his chi...
And as he tapped into his fount of spiritual energy, he knew that it had diminished, and that he did not have the strength to mend himself. That stark realization drove a blade into his heart. In that moment he knew he was going to die.
"Light, damn it all..." He uttered, letting go. His muscles relaxed and his head leaned back, his bloodied golden mane floating in the water. He heard the carrion birds fluttering near him, ready for their meal. He could feel his heartbeat beginning to slow. The strength leaving his body. He didn't have enough left to save himself...
You don't have permission to die yet, soldier. Valaryon's own words echoed unbidden in his mind, the knight's eye opening in surprise. There's still work that needs to be done.
Athelar's eye squinted, the sun rise was so bright. But then he realized it wasn't just the sun. And the fluttering... that wasn't the carrion birds. The sky was full of fire, fire in the shape of a giant bird.
"Al'ar..." the knight whispered in awe.
Above him loomed a great and majestic phoenix, called to him now in the knight's most desperate hour. For weeks, months even, the elf had touched upon the creature's power. Grasping at the edge of it, stretching a hand out to its ethereal flame...
And now it came to him when he needed it most.
The phoenix let out a mighty cry, the sound echoing across the bay as the flames of its body flared-- but the knight was not burned. He felt its heat coursing through him, fire searing through his veins, but his skin did not blacken nor turn to ash. The flames filled his chest, filling him with divine light. His golden eye erupted with renewed life, burning brightly. He felt his body mending itself, bones setting and knitting back together. His skin burned hot, but he was untouched by the flame.
He was the flame... reborn.
The phoenix mark on his chest, burned there during the rescue of Anguis'ana in the depths of her cavern in Darkshore grew bright. The golden flames washed over the knight, broken flesh sealed once more in a healthy glow. Athelar felt his strength return, his chi swelling inside him, surging through his body like electricity. He had never known the touch of such power, not even his calls to the Light had been so strong.
Athelar rose to his feet, eye matching the gaze of the mighty phoenix. It did not speak, it did not need to. The knight understood. He nodded his head in gratitude before the massive wings of the phoenix surged, kicking up dust and debris as the divine entity returned to the sky above. He watched as it flew and felt a thrumming in his chest, his heart matching the beat of the phoenix's wings.
The heart of the phoenix.
He lost sight of the phoenix in the brightness of the sun, but he knew that part of it now burned inside him.
As he turned away from the sun rise he noticed his dagger in the water and he knelt down, picking it up, fingers coiling around the leatherbound handle of Shadowfang as his eye turned towards Zouchin Village. In the distance he could see robed figures moving about the buildings, alerted by the cry of the phoenix. Cultists. He rose to his feet.
There was still work that needed to be done.
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During the Sanguine Internecine Pt. III event (DM: Mirchea) of TROPIC SUNDER, the blood plague ravaged several of the coalition forces seeking to bring an end to the Cultist’s madness. After Athelar was given the antidote, he went to check on his fellow crusaders and found Tagghart cradling Anguis’ana’s body as she faded from this life. Athelar and Abaddon worked together to bring Anguis’ana back from the brink.
Art by Alteya https://www.deviantart.com/alteya/gallery
(Commissioned by Tagghart)
#Athelar Valaryon#The Argent Advance#The Argent Crusade#World of Warcraft#Moon Guard#Moon Guard RP#Warcraft Conquest
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The Fall
"Guan-Yun, Zhihao, Anguis'ana-- free the prisoners!" Athelar's voice shouted as the Argent Knight pointed to the terrace at their left, an iron barred cage housing the missing pandaren from Binan Village and beyond, captives for the Dokani's foul blood magics. Then, the knight turned towards the main terrace and the scene before him.
Dokani Blood-Binders in the midst of a dark ritual, siphoning blood anima from bound and helpless pandaren at their feet, a cultist of the damned watching with pleasure as an amalgamation of unholy shadow magic and Dokani blood magic, encapsulated in saronite plates, was empowered before them. "Take out those Blood-Binders," the captain growled. "They're giving that creature it's power."
He brought his axe to bear, golden flames of holy light erupting from the broad blade of Al'thanyr as his lone eye burned at the darkness before him. "ARGENTS!" He roared, his muscles contracted, ready to charge forwards into the fray. "ATTAC-- *hrrk!*"
Athelar's eye widened in surprise and the elven knight turned his head down, seeing twinned tendrils of blood-- their ends hardened into sharpened barbs-- protruding from his chest and gut, having punched through his armour. His eye lifted as he saw that the tendrils had lanced across the terrace from the saronite plated creature, the Dokani Dreadnought.
Immediately he felt weak, those crimson tendrils pulsing as the knight's life essence was siphoned. The world seemed to slow as his arm dropped, Al'thanyr falling from his fingers and clattering to the ground at his feet. He turned his head, looking to Mirchea at his side. He opened his mouth, but no words came out...
And then he was ripped forwards, his body torn from his comrades as the Dreadnought's tendrils recoiled with sudden violence, hurling the Argent Captain across the terrace. His body slammed into the stone floor of the platform, the barbs tearing from his body as they retracted and the knight tumbled towards the edge, armoured plates clattering against the stone before he fell into open air. He reached out, armoured fingers scratching at the dais as he fell back until finally he found purchase in a crack. He felt his right shoulder *pop* -- it had been dislocated but a few days ago already and he knew it had again. He hung there, for a moment, and knew beyond a doubt that he had mere moments before he fell to his death.
He looked across the terrace to the Argent Advance. He saw them standing there, some frozen in horror, others screaming his name. His brow creased. He wasn't ready to leave them...
" -- Fight."
That single word uttered, buzzing through their communicators. He wanted to say so much more, to tell them what they meant to him... but he did not have the time. His grip failed, the stone crumbling beneath his fingers and he fell back into the darkness.
Athelar fell through the air, watching as the terrace above grew smaller. He felt the wind blowing past him... and then he slammed into the rock face of the mountainside. His body twisted unnaturally, armoured plates screaming in protest as he scraped along the side, tumbling down. He smashed into water next, his mouth open in surprise, the liquid filling his lungs. He gasped for breath, scrambling as the rapidly moving current of the falls took him, racing him towards the edge of the first waterfall.
The elven knight was cast out, launched from the falls and into the open air once more. He grasped at the sky helplessly, unable to form a single coherent thought as he was thrown. His vision was blurry, though the stars above twinkled in the black night sky.
Then he smashed into the rocks again. This was when his communicator broke, dashed upon the rocks. Pain erupted through the knight's body as he was swept up by the current once more. He could feel he was heading towards another set of falls-- knew he would be thrown again. He reached for his belt, fingers grasping around the handle of the kaldorei dagger free. He tore Shadowfang free and as he surged towards the falls he stabbed out, the blade finding purchase in a crease between the rocks. Athelar's body stretched out, torn between the unyielding force of the waterfall and his defiant hold.
His life flashed before his eyes as he hung suspended above the final drop, the falls smashing into his face, seeking to drown him as he hung desperately to life.
He remembered the Aerie as a child, how he had loved to leap from the cliffside to the ocean below.
He remembered the fires as Mythranor burned, the Scourge overtaking the city.
He remembered plunging his blade into the skull of his mother, her eyes clouded in undeath as she grasped for him and his younger brother.
He remembered the Halls of Blood and the dark teachings of the Blood Knight Order, instructing the knight to subjugate...
He remembered the chill air of Icecrown on his face and the clarity it brought, a chance of freedom. He remembered the sound of the crowd cheering, glory bestowed on him as he stood victorious at the tournament.
He remembered Ashenvale, tucked behind a wagon after a battle, his hand alight with golden flame as he went to mend his wounds. An orc tearing around the corner, yelling at him to stop.
He remembered the walls of Lordaeron crumbling beneath his feet, the knight falling as the Alliance's siege weapons hammered the city.
He remembered waking, bound and captured. He remembered the Sparrow, with his balding head and his beady eyes. The endless questions and the blades carving his skin... He remembered the Sparrow's neck snapping in his hands.
He remembered returning to Silvermoon. How cold and lifeless it seemed. How unnatural everything felt after his return... He remembered how his life had moved on without him...
He remembered Outland, trying to drink himself to death in Shattrath, drowning in his own misery... And then he remembered Mirchea, standing in front of him, and he remembered being offered a second chance.
He remembered the twinned silver bars being pinned to his collar. He remembered defending the Valley of Honour from the Scourge. He remembered Corin's Crossing. He remembered Stranglethorn Vale.
He remembered the darkness of the Temple of Bethekk. Reaching out into the Beyond and grasping the fleeing wisp of Anguis'ana's spirit, pulling it back to her body. He remembered carrying Halandor's nearly lifeless body through the Alliance camp, seeking C'thonia's aid.
He remembered returning to the caves that Alliance had held him captive in and setting the remnants to flame...
He remembered sitting around the table, warmed by the fires of the Filthy Animal, as Sonceri and Mirchea chatted and planned long into the night, sketching out the first plans of the Resolute...
He remembered standing in the cold of Northrend, helping Halandor to reconnect with the Light for the first time. He remembered the joy and emotion in the fallen paladin's face as the first veins of light appeared in his lichfire eyes.
He remembered the Shadow overtaking him by the hand of the Mawsworn. The invasive power overwhelming him. He remembered his desperation, his fight to overpower it and make it his own before it dominated him... He remembered Uolin's teachings, mentoring the knight, teaching him to control it.
He remembered his rage as he tore through the Burning Sun's forces that stood between the Advance and the captive Anguis'ana. He remembered the darkness that burned inside him as he gave himself over to the Void to save her, tendrils of shadow wrapping around him and pulling him into the Great Beyond...
He remembered the Advance coming for him, pulling him from the shadow of his madness. He remembered the love they held for him.
He remembered Corta's cheeks growing red. Their first kiss. He remembered the moment he felt his chi glowing in his own hands...
He remembered the Resolute falling from the sky...
He remembered it all.
Athelar felt Shadowfang loosen in the cracks above, the knight's body shaking as he dropped a moment. He looked up at the dagger and saw that it was about to break free from the crevasse and send the knight plummeting to his death on the rocks below.
"Not yet..." Athelar uttered. "I'm not ready... not yet..."
And then it broke.
Athelar fell through the air one final time. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, the knight falling to the rocks below. He thought of the letter he had written, much like the one he had before. He thought of Corta sitting aboard her ship, reading his last words. He thought of Mirchea standing before his crusaders, preparing them for the battles ahead. He thought of how each of them would take his loss.
"I'm sorry..."
And then the knight smashed into the rocks below... and the world went dark.
END OF PART ONE
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WONDERLIGHT BALL
The acting Argent Commander of the Advance is outfitted in a set of brilliantly polished ceremonial armour. Still built for function, as suits the needs of an Argent Crusader wholly dedicated to his Oaths in protecting the world of Azeroth, this armour is plated in silver and adorned with gold filigree.
Draped across his chest is a crisp and starched Argent Crusade tabard embellished with golden trim, a golden commander's pin attached to his lapel. Lower-- above the crusader's heart, are the various medals and commendations awarded to the knight for his service to the Crusade, pinned with delicate and precise care (* see below for details on awards).
At his hip, a ceremonial blade emblazoned with the insignia of the Argent Crusade, along with the regimental emblem of the Argent Advance and the Vanguard division. While intended for show, this blade is still functional-- one never knows when the Crusade must set itself to its purpose.
The elf's mane of golden hair, typically tied back in a rough and wild fashion, has been neatly brushed back, oiled, and pinned in the fashion of Thalassian nobility. His right eye is covered by a neat and polished black leather eyepatch, hiding away the majority of the old injury sustained there, though the healed scars of a savage beast's mauling are still evidence that this Argent is a knight whose service has been fulfilled in the field.
#Athelar Valaryon#The Argent Advance#The Argent Crusade#Tournament of Ages#ToA2021#Moon Guard#Moon Guard RP
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He stood at the bow of the Resolute, the airship docked in the goblin port of Bilgewater Harbour, staring off across the Great Sea. On the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise, casting a reddish gold hue over the calm waters. A gentle sea breeze brushed past him, ruffling the golden mane that sat on his shoulders. He closed his eye, feeling the zephyr against his skin. And then it was gone.
He turned towards the interior deck of the airship. There were some crewmen moving about even at this early hour, but it was not their actions that concerned him. Athelar's golden hue turned towards the door he had watched Commander Kul'therin leave from earlier, still under cover of night, the elf's words echoing in Valaryon's mind.
I leave Friday, before first light.
Athelar had stood on the deck and watched in silence as Mirchea had departed, the Argent Captain standing stoic and still from across the length of the Resolute. All the words that needed to be said had been said already. A knowing look, an understanding nod, and Valaryon had lifted his hand and given his Commander one final salute before the man had disappeared beyond sight.
The knight exhaled, then turned back towards the horizon, feeling the warm glow of the sun on his face. He looked down, now, to his hand and opened his plated fingers, revealing Mirchea's golden Commander's pin resting in his palm. It looked small sitting there in his hand, but in that moment it felt as though it bore the weight of the world.
I won't let you down, the memory of Athelar's own words echoed in his mind, a promise given to his friend the evening he had been told of Mirchea's pending departure. Whatever I am... Whoever I've been... those people mean the world to me. As do you. And I know they mean the world to you too.
The Captain offered the pin in his hand a frail smile, before nodding. However unsure he might have been about the challenges ahead, he refused to disappoint his friend. He remembered standing before the Argent Commander, drunk and broken, and remembered how Mirchea had seen virtue and promise within the eyes of the tormented man. Remembered how he had decided to take a chance on him, and given Athelar his shot at redemption.
Athelar breathed out, then raised the pin and fastened it to the collar of his tabard. Then, the acting Commander turned back towards the deck of the Resolute and nodded firmly.
It was time to get to work.
@mircheakt
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Northern Stranglethorn
Somewhere near the Rebel Camp
His courser was bathed in sweat from the humidity of the jungle as Athelar brought the beast to a slow walk, hooves crunching over fallen branches and dead leaves. Stars shone in the night sky above them, the pale glow of the moonlight passing through the openings in the foliage above. The pair neared the opening of a nearby cave, and as they did so the Argent Captain brought the courser to a halt and dismounted, patting the horse's flank.
"I won't be long," he spoke quietly to the courser. He grabbed a large container from the saddlebags and turned towards the cave's mouth. "Rest here."
Athelar walked slowly, perhaps cautiously, towards the cave. His eye fell over the old stone of the cavern well, narrowing on the stains of fel fire. Silently, the knight stepped forwards, entering the darkness of the cavern.
His heavy boots echoed against the stone, the cave long abandoned. Valaryon suppressed a shiver as ghosts from the past returned to haunt him. He remembered the sound of shouting -- the sound of screaming -- as he fled barefoot over these stones for freedom, bloodied but finally liberated.
Athelar descended deeper in, a set of manacles left forgotten on the cavern floor. The captain inhaled a deep, shaking breath as he knelt down and picked them up in his free hand, casting his eye further into the cave.
He continued, walking further into this labyrinth of memory. He remembered walking this path, blindfolded and bound, being shoved by rough hands, spat at by cruel tongues. He had left pieces of himself deep within this hole in the earth. Shards of a spirit that could never be whole once more.
Finally, he came upon it. An opening in the cavern, rusted iron cells bolted to the stone. Deserted now, but Athelar could remember the screams that had echoed off of these walls. The Argent set down the large container in his hand, moving into the center of the room. He closed his eye, a tear forming at the corner of it as he remembered.
For months he had been imprisoned in this place, deep beneath the earth. Bound, questioned, tortured... They had stolen his freedom, his dignity, his spirit...
He remembered the Sparrow. A thin, balding man with cruel eyes. He remembered the manacles biting into the flesh of his wrists as he hung limply from the ceiling of his cell, blood running down his forearms. His hair long, grungy and matted, a veil over a face turned savage and confused. He remembered every question, every cut, every burn... He remembered it all with the utmost clarity, like a hot brand searing his mind. He could never forget.
"You don't own me any more..." Athelar whispered, his voice hoarse.
He remembered the day they had come. His liberators. They had come with mayhem and destruction. Fel green flames scarring the stones, blades cutting from the shadows. Demons in the darkness. But they had come to set him free.
He remembered the mask of his savior, a skull white as bone, eyes staring silently at him as his chains were cut free from the cell. His savior watched as the unkempt elf turned on his captor, The Sparrow, and closed on him within the confines of the cell. Watched as Athelar wrapped his chains around the Sparrow's thin neck. Watched as they tightened, biting into the Sparrow's flesh, and Athelar squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed...
He remembered that anguished scream that tore from his lungs as he felt the Sparrow go limp in his grasp. He remembered the madness that clung to the corners of his mind. He remembered the frenzy, the fury, the pain.
And he remembered the way the sun burned his eyes when he stepped out of that cave for the first time, bloodied and broken, but free.
Athelar turned and collected the container, opening it and being met with the acrid stench of fuel. He began pouring it over what remained. Desks, chairs, cloth. Every thing that had been left behind in this accursed place.
His hand brightened with a golden hue, streams of holy light swirling around his finger tips. He remembered returning to Quel'thalas after he had been freed. The dirt had been washed from his body, his injuries had been sealed and bandaged. But his mind... his mind would not fit back together again. The pieces were broken, and jagged, and didn't fit. Like a mirror that had been smashed.
Before it all, before he had been captured, before he had been imprisoned and tortured, he had stood on the walls of Lordaeron with red banners flapping in the wind. He had just finished writing a letter but the horns had begun to blow. He hadn't had time to send it and in the battle it had been lost. She had never received it. She had never known what he had meant to say...
He remembered standing in the middle of the street at night, being told that she had been told he was dead. That she had grieved his loss, screaming and crying into the night. And that she had moved on. That her heart belonged to another now. That there was no place for him anymore.
Athelar's jaw clenched and he blinked away another silent tear, golden flames engulfing his hand. He stared into them, watching as they danced over the plates of his gauntlet.
"You don't own me any more."
Words spoken with conviction and golden flames sprang up, consuming the fuel-soaked remains, scouring over the ghosts of the past and burning them with righteous retribution.
As those flames consumed, the remnants of what was would be turned to ash.
And from the ashes... a chance for rebirth.
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THE RESOLUTE
What once had been merely an idea has been made manifest by the hard work and devotion of the Argent Advance and its allies. The ACAS Resolute is a fully operational state-of-the-art airship, boasting a bristling payload of heavy cannons, a robust infirmary and surgery suite, a squadron of dogfighting gyrocopters, and the finest magitech hardware the Resolute's lead engineer, Sonceri Vousineau had to offer!
Crafted to provide a mobile headquarters for the Argent Advance division, the Resolute is home to its valiant crusaders and operations crew. A veritable fortress of the skies, the Resolute will allow the Argent Advance to pursue their mission statement of defending Azeroth with the necessary firepower to back it up.
Led by Commander Mirchea Kul'therin-Soltair, the Advance and the Resolute will now travel the open skies, bringing aid to those that need it.
Howl of Hati and Stormhowl are the twin wolfhead heavy cannons at the bow of the ship, boasting massive rounds fed by an auto-loader, each manned by a gun crew.
The Iron Line an anti-air cannon built on a rotating platform to defend against incoming enemy fighters.
The Juggernaut is a heavily armoured tank, used both on deck and on deployment, providing much needed protection and support to its allies.
The Foxfire Squadron are a small squad of gyrocopters deployed as a quick reaction force against incoming threats and.
The Guardians of Honor is a small contingent of hippogryphs and riders, expertly trained in aerial close combat.
The Solace Brigade are the healers of the Resolute, trained medical professionals and skilled wielders of light, shadow, life, and chi magics.
The Golden Wrenches are the mechanics and engineers of the Resolute, keeping the heavy gunship running efficiently and deploying rapidly to repair any damage sustained in battle.
( The Argent Advance would like to extend a HUGE thank you to @sonceri-mg for her work in bringing this vision to life through her talented artwork and design ideas. Thank you, Sonc! )
@argentadvance @mircheakt
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The shriek of steel tearing filled the air, chaos screaming and engulfing all of his senses. Athelar looked up, seated in the hull of the Juggernaut as the colossal form of the goliath gargoyle loomed above, its claws rending the armoured plating of the tank, throwing them haphazardly away in pursuit of its prey. Its sole mission the obliteration of the Captain that had infuriated it.
Athelar looked up in defiance, half of his face scarred and the empty socket of his right eye covered in a black leather patch, but his good eye burned with righteous fury, glowering gold.
No words were spoken. None needed to be. The captain had given the battle everything he could. It was up to Mirchea and the crew of the Resolute to finish the job.
Foul magics pooled in the goliath's eyes, swirling in a miasma of corrupted power.
This was it.
This was the end.
Memories passed before Athelar's minds eye. Visions of the past; a carefree childhood amongst the eternal beauty of Quel'thalas, the High Home. The tragedy that came after, undead masses scouring the land, swathes of destruction left in their wake, a permanent scar of everything the Thalassian people had lost.
He remembered the eyes of his mother clouding over into undeath and the blade he had plunged into her skull. He remembered the horrified, anguished screams of his younger brother and the tears that had streamed down his young, haunted face. He remembered all the days that followed. The endless pursuit to defend his home, his family, and his brother from ever enduring that pain again.
And he remembered the broken man that had been lost in his cups, the weight of a thousand failures on his shoulders, his mind wracked with pain and guilt. He remembered Mirchea standing before him, solemn and without judgment, offering a second chance. He had sworn an Oath in that tavern, the words of which had never stopped echoing in his mind.
And those were the words that reached him now as he stared up at his demise.
~To hold onto hope... even when all seems lost...~
Athelar had faltered when he had repeated those words of the Oath to Mirchea, the commander's eyes sympathetic and understanding. But now... now they brought the man strength as his gaze hardened, glaring defiantly up at the colossal gargoyle above.
"Not... yet..."
He stretched out both hands, aware of the crew of the tank tucked into the hull with him. Time seemed to slow to a stand still as Athelar stared up, watching as plumes of necrotic energy surged from the goliath's occulars down at the torn husk of the Juggernaut and its crew.
This could not be the end for them. There was still work to be done.
The Crusade was not finished with them yet.
A golden glow emanated from his palms, tendrils of holy light extending and swirling around his fingertips. Deep within his chest, Athelar could feel it. A spark turning into a flame. Despair reforging itself into hope.
Athelar Valaryon opened his mouth, roaring in defiance as his eye blazed with golden flame. Holy light surged from his hands, the air around the hull of the Juggernaut shimmering as a golden barrier materialized, hardening, shielding the crew beneath it as the gargoyle's profane magics slammed into it.
The knight grunted, feeling the overwhelming power slam into the barrier, his jaw tightening as he focused on the fire raging within. He felt the heat of the light burning from his heart, through his veins, surging through his limbs as he summoned every once of power he could muster. He looked down and he saw the astonished faces of his comrades as they stared up at Athelar and the divine shield, stricken with awe as wave after wave of necrotic energy assaulted it.
Valaryon felt the overwhelming weight of the goliath's power crashing into the barrier, as though the might of the ocean crashing against a pier. His muscles strained, his spirit strained, every fiber of his being fought against the inevitable. And as he did, he remembered the Oath.
"Never forsake your duty to Azeroth..." the captain grunted through grit teeth.
Above them, Athelar's shield shuddered.
"Her People..."
Cracks began to splinter across the barrier, threatening to shatter.
"Or the Crusade...!"
The sound of cannon fire thundered beyond and the goliath above them shuddered, its magics faltering. Then instead of dark magics, it was massive pieces of broken stone raining down on them, burying them in a mass of rubble and a cloud of dust.
Athelar surged awake, tearing the sheets away, his bandaged body covered in a sheen of cold sweat. His eye patch was gone, the empty socket exposed while his left eye burned with golden light. His chest, heaving with breath, began to slow as he realized where he was. He closed his eye, taking a moment to center himself.
He had survived. The battle was over. The goliath had been slain.
The captain rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around his midsection as he crossed the floor barefoot to the window. He looked out over the port of Bilgewater Harbor beneath a night sky, his eye roaming over the darkened streets towards the shipworks before finding what he was looking for.
There, sitting in port for repairs, was The Resolute. Battered and bruised, but standing proud and defiant. Athelar set a palm on the windowsill, fingers tightening around it.
It had been the Hand of Domination that had come for them. He remembered the words spewed from the banshee, Lady Mournfall's, lips. The threat of a promise kept. Athelar could not help but feel that they would not stop until they were destroyed.
He thought of the lives lost-- pilots, mechanics, priests, crewmen. His grip on the windowsill hardened, his knuckles turning white.
"You will be avenged," Athelar whispered to the darkness.
A promise.
An oath.
"I swear it."
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Athelar stood alone at the edge of the encampment, golden hues fixed on the town of Corin's Crossing, infested by the Scourge. Snow still fell lazily from the night sky above, turned a brownish grey from the corruption of the plaguelands. It built up on the Captain's heavy pauldrons, but the elven crusader did not appear to notice or care. His thoughts were elsewhere.
He remembered the morning of their deployment. The apartments he had procured in Orgrimmar, small and compact as they were. Those cramped quarters were filled with stacks of books, sheaves of paper covering every flat surface. Nothing like the splendor of Silvermoon City, but it had become his home. He had made it his home, with his little brother, Arathyr.
"Put down your bags, Arathyr. You're not coming."
Athelar's voice echoed in his mind as he remembered that look of confusion, then hurt, as Arathyr had stopped packing his bag and looked up at his elder brother.
"What do you mean? Of course I'm coming."
"No. You're not."
Arathyr shook his head, stuffing a large textbook into his bag and slid the drawstring closed, hoisting it onto his shoulder. "Yes, I am," the young mage argued. He moved forwards, heading towards the door.
"Arathyr, stop."
"I'm going!"
Arathyr sought to shove his way past the larger, armoured elf but Athelar seized him by the collar of his tunic and shoved him against the wall. A stack of books tumbled over, Arathyr's research, and crashed to the floor. Athelar met his younger brother's gaze, his golden hues narrowing.
"No, you are not. You are staying here."
Arathyr's violet eyes, shimmering with the arcane, flooded with confusion.
"But, I'm a crusader..."
Athelar sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, before opening them to look at his younger brother once more.
"Yes, you are. But you're not ready for this yet."
"But, I've been training..."
"You have. And you are getting there. But this is too dangerous for you."
"But... you need me..."
The elder Valaryon brother relaxed his hold on his brother's tunic, reaching up to hold the side of Arathyr's head in his palm. Athelar dipped his head forward, resting his forehead on Arathyr's.
"I need you here, Arathyr. Safe and away from danger."
"But you taught me how to fight..."
Athelar nodded, pulling back to see Arathyr's violet eyes welling with sadness.
"I did... But, this is not a fight. This is a war, and in war, even the best fighters die."
Arathyr swallowed, meeting his brother's gaze. "'To never forsake my duty to Azeroth, her people, or the Crusade'..." He quoted, biting back his tears.
Athelar nodded, his eyes closing with regret. "Your duty is here, Arathyr. I need you to continue your research," he replied, motioning to the litter of books and papers strewn about the apartment. "Find me something to use in this fight. Find us a way to win."
The younger Valaryon opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped himself. His brow creased, and he understood. Perhaps it was the memory of Mythranor's fall, seeing the chaos raging behind him as Athelar bent down to pick up his little brother and carry him away from the Scourge to safety. Perhaps it was the defense of Orgrimmar, after the battle had been finished, and Athelar found his little brother sitting, clutching his knees to his chest.
Perhaps... perhaps it was simply love, and Arathyr understood that it was Athelar who was scared this time. Scared of losing his little brother. Scared of losing any of them. Arathyr nodded and let his bag fall to the floor.
"I'll stay..." Arathyr replied. "I'll stay... and I'll find you a weapon."
Athelar nodded and embraced his brother, holding him close.
"Thank you," Athelar whispered into his ear. "I love you, Arathyr."
~I know.~
The Captain's eyes focused again on the town of Corin's Crossing, Arathyr's last words still ringing in his ears. His jaw tightened and he turned, looking back at the tents of his crusaders. It was war, and in war, even the best fighters die.
But, not today.
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