Comments Off on Riders in Lordaeron – Memory
November 7, 2013 – 1:33 pm
(Written by Jolly, Tarquin, and Annalea)
The highlands of Lordaeron were not for the faint of heart; be it the putrescence of the Scourge’s long-lingering remnant, or the rock-strewn hills and valleys that made farmers out of only the most hardy and stubborn of peoples, the very land itself was a fine depiction of the people that had long inhabited it. The clouds that had moved in threatened to wash the land in dread, with Thorim’s distant rumbling echoing the sentiment. Coniferous and deciduous trees alike fought branch-to-branch in tight knots dotted throughout the ups and downs of the horizon, nature’s own version of unlikely allies against a never-ceasing tide of earth. The only invaders able to easily take the place lacked the necessities of food or rest that the land demanded of a traveler.
Through this scarred home the party pushed, coming across the old dirt path that led up a hill, steep on both sides and knotted with trees. “Through ‘ere,” Aely said, leading ahead with more eagerness than the others. The sky had begun to let loose the faint pitter-patter of rain that was sure to thicken soon.
Before she could reach the top of the hill, one of the trees moved. Not a tree, but near as big around as the oak he moved out from behind. He remained in the shade, the blade of his greatsword held straight and steady before him, ready for grim business. His face, despite its youth, was as craggy and full of old tales as the very land they had traveled across.
“Aely,” the man said, dropping his guard and moving forward two steps, seeing only her and not registering the others initially. When he did see the others, his eyes widened angrily, blade coming up again fiercely. Runes along bare arm and blade flared a malevolent purple. Kaleigh’s blade was out and her body in front of the paladin in what was an inhuman feat of speed, a hairsbreadth from violence. “Who–so manah,” Jol said through gritted teeth. “Ap Danwyrith onleh, yeh said!”
Tarquin drifted out from behind the two armored women, scarecrow frame banded in dark leathers. “So she said, aye. But I am a cautious lad, an’ willna go in the deep dark woods alone.” He showed his teeth in a perfunctory smile. “Yeh shid recall that ay me, auld boy, if it’s Jolstraer ap Taborwynn yeh are.”
“Fear?” Jol asked, his eyes half looking inwardly. “Nae. Far pas’ that, me thinks. If I am ‘oo I am.” He frowned at that, the faraway look going further, deeper in. The blade never wavered; the violet hues thrown off by his runes danced to a dirge unheard.
“Souls carry mem’ries like scars ay tha bodeh. From fleshwounds tae tha bone, ‘ey remain. Wot manner ay fel can make ‘et? Arcanery? Dark necr’mancy?” The runes flickered in color, an unholy red. “Blood ay tha witch. Bite ay tha Scourge. Cold ay tha grave. Kynaugh magyath.”
Kynaugh magyath, mouthed Tarquin back at him, face carefully blank. The younger man stepped forward, and Jolstraer’s hands tightened on the hilt of his sword, hard enough to make knuckles crack. Chryste was between them then, in two quick steps, but Jolstraer looked right through them all. “Awright, big lad,” Tarquin began, “Let’s say that yeh–”
“I. Exist!” bellowed Jolstraer, his eyes regaining their focus and flaring with the impassioned cry. “Tha road ay tha otherwordly is full ay gits an’ charlatans! Lorn Daer Ronae, tha taint wos named. But tha blood ay Lordaeron is strongah. Believe as may be, but ap Taborwynn remains ‘ere wit’ tha living. Me will is me oan, me fury’s unquenched, an by tha blood ay our oldfathers ah’m nae done wit’ this worl’ yet! Seek yer proof, Tarquin!”
There was silence in the glade when the echoes of the death knight’s challenge faded, a true silence, as if beast and bird had fled. It came to Aelflaed, through the twin curtains of her hope and her dread, that this was familiar. The stillness and the quiet of decision, before blood was spilled. And what would she do then, if the choice was forced on her?
Then Tarquin gave some minute signal and stepped back, and Annalea slipped forward in his place. Hair pulled back, wearing a leather vest over shirt and breeches, she could have been a craftswoman hawking her wares in Trade Square. Jolstraer looked through her, then at her, his eyes softening. “Anna. Pret’y lil’ songbird. Darker now, yeh feel.”
“Still a flatterer, I see.” Anna stepped forward from the other three then, showing courage in the face of what might very well be a greatsword-wielding madman. “Jolly was always straight with us, so I’m just going to say it: I need a look inside your mind. To make sure these Aes’kyr didn’t leave any traps behind, or that they haven’t managed to thoroughly convince some other poor dead man that he’s our Jolstraer. It’ll hurt some, I won’t lie, but it’ll fade. Will you trust me?”
“Yeh ken tha dead can sing? Beau’iful, wordless, sadder an’ swee’er ‘an any livin’ mout’ ken try ta match. Drive ay soul mad, because yeh ken ne’er escape it.” Jolstraer straightened, slowly, lowering the sword and plunging the point into the earth. “Word ay tha colors, yeh ken ‘ave me trust. But pray, one errant tendril an’ ay’m liable tae die wit’ me han’s aroun’ yer pret’y lil’ t’roat.”
Perhaps she ought to have flinched from that thought, but Anna stood her ground and met the huge man’s eyes. “I’ve had rougher hands than yours around it and lived to sing the tale.” She held up her hands. “But I won’t go fucking with your mind. You have my word.”
She looked about for a sheltered part of the hill and pointed at a fallen log beneath a stand of thick pines. “There. It’ll keep the rain off of us if it starts coming down. I just need you to lie back and let me sing.”
The big man let out a long breath, as a man does before he lifts a heavy burden for a long travel. “Aye ‘en.” He trudged towards the log, thumping down with his back to the log like a sack of turnips. “Least ay git ay song out ay ‘et, aye?” he said to no one in particular as the four arranged themselves around him in various states; Anna was calm and collected, kneeling there beside him like they were settling for a picnic. Tarquin hovered just outside of arm’s reach, shifting and swaying, his eyes flickering between Jolstraer and Annalea with animal alertness. Aely was at Tarquin’s shoulder, her face impassive but her stance near radiating nervous energy. Kaleigh took up her post behind the big Northman, and he spared her a glance as they settled in.
“Keep yer blade out, Kaleigh,” Jol said with a resigned sigh. “Make ‘et quick if’n ‘et goes sour, ay?”
If Chryste said anything, Jol didn’t hear; Anna’s sweet voice filled the air with song.
At first it was only the stirred forest air, the rumble of thunder from the north and the tang of dampness in the air. Jol opened his mouth to speak, and that’s when the forest itself…came alive. As she sang, the memories came to life in his eyes. What the others could not see came to life in the forest around them.
The song had a Northern lilt to it, a melody they could almost (but not quite) put their fingers on. A few more bars, maybe, or the first bit of the chorus, and the name of it would come. Except the song changed. Here it was a ballad, here a marching song, a lullaby, a dirge. That melody remained, drawn out, sped up, but always there, hiding in the tune. And while she sang, Annalea sifted through the memories of the man claiming to be Jolstraer:
…Of five brothers, riding against the Orcs near Darrowmere…a broken drunk, stumbling into the Pig and Whistle…fire and brimstone in the depths of Blackrock, guarding backs coated in Black and Red…Aelflaed, and pride…
“Easy now,” Tarquin said, to nobody in particular. Chryste Kaleigh didn’t need the warning; she held her sword level and statue-still, a heartbeat’s action away from Jolstraer’s broad back. At the Boss’s elbow, Aelflaed knit her hands together and mouthed a prayer, whatever words were in it lost to the sound of Annalea’s song.
…Northrend, pain and uncertainty of Threnn’s slumber…Angra’thar, fighting side by side with his family, pride and glory…fear and worry – where was Aely!?…picking a fight with Bricu, going fist-to-fist despite the festering plague in his side…his family, trying to save him…
Annalea sang, until her voice was a hush, the notes in the lower part of her range. She drew a breath — not the end of the song, but a pause, a storyteller’s trick — and when the next notes poured forth, they were brighter, hopeful. The melody invoking home to those inclined to hear it. Invoking family. She guided the memories along, watching as Jolstraer thought–
…Of Aelflaed, so strong and so beautiful, the last sight he saw living…
He sat bolt upright then, his face a rictus of pain and an angry shout coming from deep within. The song stopped as abruptly as he moved, his fists all balled up like a child about to tantrum. “Enough!” he gasped, chest heaving and unshed tears in his voice. “No more, please,” he pleaded, leaning back against the log with a heavy thump. The rain began to fall, pattering against the forest in a sharp contrast to the five stalwart forms nestled in its midst.
Annalea stepped back calmly, but still got herself out of swinging range. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s Jolly.”
Comments Off on Riders of Lordaeron – Logistics
September 13, 2013 – 7:11 pm
(With Tarquin and Annalea)
Once more, four people made their way through the thickets and hills of Lordaeron, this time in the crisp chill of late morning, seeking after the Rider. Aelflaed had snatched what sleep she could while Chryste winged her way to them on gryphon-back; the same jostled nerves and fearful hope that had kept her from any real rest also kept her moving and alert. Even she’d been well-rested, though, this would have been a hard party to read.
Chryste, of course, was as unreadable as she always was when armed and prepared for violence. Any fears or doubts, if she had them, slowed her no more than the monstrous sword across her back seemed to. She brought up the the rear, and Aelflaed led them herself; between them, Tarquin and Annalea were a matched pair. Bright-eyed, alert, their smiles stowed for once in favor of the steady wariness of hunting animals, and whatever worries they brought with them to the wood hidden behind it.
Aelflaed halted them at the same spot Orryl had on the night before. She was no tracker, but the night was carved in her memory like graven stone. “‘Tis off here,” she told them, “well back’n the forest.” She looked at Tarquin, too tired and heartsick to care if she was overstepping. “An’ I think ye maun like ta talk oan what wir goin’ ta be doin’ once we get there, boss.”
Tarquin looked at her strangely, then at Annalea with a species of chagrin floating across his face. Annie was the one who answered. “It would help, wouldn’t it? Sorry, Aely. We get used to…” she made a minute gesture that carried a world of explanation in it, with her clever bard’s fingers. Kaleigh, al’Cair, ap Danwyrith – hands and head and mouth – with no need to state the plans they’d gotten used to carrying out. Aelflaed had known them longer than to be offended.
“Anyro’,” Tarq offered, looking into the scrub and the shadows of the tree line, “Best we speak it, whatever, an’ be certain. Annie?” The priestess lifted an eyebrow, and Aelflaed surged into the gap before she could speak.
“Beg pardon – Annie, Tarq-” Chryste, peering off into the distance, didn’t seem to give a damn who was talking – “Want ta be clear oan’t. What it is wir lookin’ t’find. Jolstraer, e’en when he wis with us, ye ken how it went wi’ him, th’ stubborn auld mule. Do things jus’ t’piss ye oaf, remind he wisnae auld an’ bent’s all thit…” She mastered herself, fought the tide of memories, things she hadn’t mourned for years coming back up again.
Chryste’s soft voice surprised her, especially with the dark woman still looking out at the trees. “Yeah. Foul-tempered fucker, wasn’t he? If we’d tried crowning him King of Stormwind, he’d of said he didn’t need an ugly damn chair, he could stand on his own two feet.” She laughed and showed them a rare smile. “You think it’s him, Aelflaed?”
“Pretty well convinced, yeh. Sounds like him, feels like him. I’d think if it wis sommat tryin’ ta pretend ta be him, they’d be nicer, an’ less flummoxed by findin’ me. He’s… well, e’en if it is Jols, he’s dangerous. He attacked me fir tellin’ him I thought he wis full ay shite. Likely will do similarly if wir na careful about how we approach him – he may be defensive, air jus’ flat out hostile. An’ he’s … stronger than he used ta be. An’ bigger. ”
“Stronger and bigger,” said Anna, contemplating. “At least you didn’t add ‘meaner’ to the list. The Jolstraer I remember was, uh, cantankerous, but not mean. Not to anyone in the Colors, at least. If it comes to fighting, you three can hold your own. And, well. Not that I want to knock him down, if it’s really Jolly, but if he gets past Chryssy and yourself and Tarq…” She held out one hand and walked a coin made of shadow across her knuckles. “Let’s leave that as unlikely for now, and hope it’s him. And he’s in a good mood.”
“Think yeh that last twa’s a bit, uh, contradictory?” Tarquin smiled faintly. “We’ll be mindful, Aels. Wir here ta find a mate, no’ start a fight, so we’ll eat a few kettles ay shite if that’s what’s served. Awright?” Aelflaed nodded. There was nothing for it now but to trust them. “Now ta the first point – Annie?”
“Right.” The shadow coin grew and elongated, twining around her fingers in a thick tendril. From there it split into a hundred thinner threads which she gathered into a loop. “I’ll want a look at him. Jolstraer, that is, not the body he’s been shoved into. Whatever this… Aes’kyr? Is that it? Whatever she did, I ought to be able to see the traces of. But that’s only going to tell me that someone shoved a soul into a body. I can do that from a distance, but…” Annalea mmphed. “I doubt he’ll like the rest. I need a look inside, to make sure it’s not some poor sad git made to believe he’s Jolstraer ap Taborwynn. That’s twofold: looking for outside fuckery first. I doubt he’ll take too much issue with that.” The skein of shadow threads disappeared up her sleeve. “If I don’t find any, I’m going to want a stroll through his memories. To be absolutely certain.” She grinned at her companions, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I doubt he’ll take well to that.”
Aely attempted to grin back. “Dinna think he will, but if ye explain it, he maun be muir obligin’ than jus’ outright goin’ siftin’ through his head. I canna actually prove it’s him oan my own anyway, an’ I’m na afraid ta say as much. I heard his last confessions, so I dinna ken there’s much ye’d find wha’ I dinna already ken anyway. He says he’s unfinished business, an’ things he needs ta say – best way fir him ta say it is fir folk ta actually believe it’s him. An’ ye can offer tha’ proof, Annie. Only hope he sees it tha’ way.”
“If it’s him, Aels, then he will. I expect yeh’ll make him.” Either Tarquin was dead certain, or bluffing like a champion. “Let’s be about it, then. Take us ta the man.” Aelflaed nodded and turned towards the treeline, and after a bare moment’s hesitation, led them off the road and into the forest’s edge.
Comments Off on Riders of Lordaeron – Problematic
September 11, 2013 – 9:47 am
She hadn’t wanted to leave Jolly – not so soon after finding him again – but once away, it took about five minutes for Aely to figure out she had a problem.
That problem had just announced that it was not really dead, and it had a new body, but it’s own old brain. And that problem needed to be reintroduced to the Riders – deserved to be, for all he’d been through. But she had no idea how to convince anyone that it really was Jolstraer, wearing some hapless Scarlet like a new suit, back to haunt the world and cuss out it’s denizens with the best of them.
She wasn’t really sure how she was even sure it was Jolstraer, but somewhere, deep down, something had clicked into place . Whether it was the roar, or the self-hatred, or that he’d known her but attacked her anyway – or just that the voice was right. Still, she distrusted her heart’s response – was she just clinging to false hope because she was so out of her mind over losing Arrens?
Aely rode into Hearthglen, past the training camps and the gryphon master, past the barracks, into the civilian part of town, straight to the house Tarquin now shared with Annalea. The man she called boss was in the yard, in a ragged vest and trousers, beating the hell out of a somehow smug-looking target dummy.
For the second time in the span of a day, she took a deep breath, steeled her nerves, and walked up to him. “Oi, Boss?”
Tarquin’s head snapped over, the short wicker blade in his hand stilling. “Awright, Aels?” he gasped out between lungfuls of air.
“I’ve… got some interestin’ news. I think ye maun wan’ ta be sittin’ down fir this too.”
“Huh.” The boss leaned against the manikin, wiping sweat-slick hair off his forehead. “Maun’s well, then. I think this fucker’s winnin’. One tick.” He dropped his weapon carelessly and pushed off to gulp down some water and dunk his head in the barrel, while Aelflaed waited as patiently as she possibly could, nerves fraying at the edges, circling back over the same questions she’d been asking herself since she got back on her horse.
After what seemed like an hour, Tarquin finally dropped his gangly frame into a wicker chair and nodded to the empty seat next to it. “What’s the score?”
Aely did not sit, opting for something more like pacing instead. “‘s… well, I headed out wi’ a few Argents yesterday ta look fir someone they’re callin’ Sir Spooky – some dark rider, seems ta be oan our side, but makin’ folks nervous. I went wi’ them, figured I could use sommat ta do. We found him though, an… well.” She ran her hands through her hair, pushing back the loose curls. “Says he’s Jolstraer ap Taborwynn, back fra th’ dead.”
“Jolstraer.” Tarquin was smiling faintly, but it was hard to say whether he was amused or just Tarquin. Aelflaed was too rattled yet to consider punching him if it was the former. “An’ did yeh tell yir Sir Spooky yeh ken Jolly’s fate, better’n any in this world?”
“Did. Offered ta show him wi’ my sword too. He swears he’s th’ only one’d have th’ nerve ta call himself Jol Taborwynn, an’ tha’ some Val’kyr found his ring an’ gave him a new body. I couldna beat ‘im in a swordfight if I tried, but I matched him at wits, an’ beat him wi’ Light, an’…” She swallowed again, glad at least to see the smile gone from Tarquin’s face. “…an’ I think he is tellin’ th’ truth.” She sank into the chair next to him.
Tarquin’s face was blank as fresh paper as he looked at her, tapping one thumb idly and slowly on the arm of his chair. “Yeh think he says it true. That he’s Jolstraer – our Jolly – come again.”
“I do. I’d swear it. He’s e’en th’ same voice.”
“Once mair, Aels.” Infuriatingly, coldly, steadily. “Tell me once mair.”
“Oan th’ ashes ay th’ house I sang o’er. He recognized me, an’ … An’ I think he speaks truth.”
The boss rocked back a little in his chair, and there was his smile. A bit different, though – like he smelled the scent of the track that might, just might, lead to believing her. And what that belief would mean. “Three times yeh tauld me, then. ‘Moan.” He unfolded his gangly frame with a grunt and headed into the house, which was, all things considered, a bloody mess. “Annie’s up the lab. I’ll get her presently.” Aelflaed rose and followed, Tarquin still talking over his shoulder. “First, but – where are yeh, yeh bollocks – right.”
Tarquin tossed aside a blanket atop a table and turned up his buzzbox. He went through the agonizingly slow process of switching it on, dialing it in, and finding whatever mysterious, ghostly waves would carry his voice across the world, while Aelflaed hovered, cursed herself for hovering, and cursed herself again for not doing…something. “Chryssy,” Tarquin finally said. “Am I wakin’ yeh?”
Chryste Kaleigh’s response came with a minimum of hiss and crackle. “Of course not, Tarq. If you did, I’d have to murder you. So I guess I’m having some awful dream.”
“Well awright. When yeh wake, hie yirself ya Hearthglen, an’ dinna spare the bird.”
“Can I murder you when I get there?” Aelflaed assumed Chryste was joking only because she knew Tarq had done worse than wake her from a mid-afternoon nap.
Tarquin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kaleigh.” She grunted in response. “Posthaste, aye?” There was a long silence on the box and then, an answering “Aye,” and the click of gnomish technology calling it a day. Tarquin turned to Aelflaed, who was eyeing him with what she hoped was concealed impatience.
“Chryste?” she asked him.
“Aye,” he responded, flipping his own buzzbox into silence. “She’ll be quick eno’, an’ I need me rig an’ ta find Annie.”
“Quick enow, boss,” Aelflaed agreed. “But why?” Chryste had wept on Jolstraer’s death, but so had a good many others. For a long – she pulled back from that precipice. Tarquin smiled at her a little bitterly.
“Yeh told me three times, Aels, an’ so I believe yeh fine. But could be wir both wrong.” He turned away, heading for the stair to his rooms. “An’ then we’ve some thing bearin’ auld Jolly’s name. That’s Kaleigh’s job.”
Comments Off on Riders of Lordaeron: Arrangements
September 9, 2013 – 10:05 am
It was an uneasy goodbye for him, but it was agreed by both he and Aely that a stroll back to Hearthglen would not be very easy to explain, nor would the explanation needed for the three Argent soldiers once they regained consciousness. Aely would get word to Tarquin. What would happen then…well, Jolly could not be concerned with that.
She had certainly come into her own in the time he had been…departed. That much he was glad to see. This was something that preoccupied his mind as he retreated further into the highlands of Lordaeron, back into forests and glens that, in some cases, had not seen men since before the rise of Arathor.
Four days, they had agreed upon. In four days he would move back down into the lowlands south of Hearthglen, and there he would meet with them again. How that would turn out…well, he would know then. Distractedly, he looked south. Somewhere out there, he knew the ring lay. In whose hands, he was completely uncertain. He hoped to find them before they unlocked its secrets. He hoped to get his hands around their neck.
August 4, 2015 – 12:22 pm
An old story, reposted here as I’m shaking the mothballs off Ankona and needed an easy way to show people a little bit about the (batshit) things she gets up to. Enjoy, and don’t be too creeped out!
It really …
November 14, 2014 – 7:32 am
So I haven’t finished the intro quests yet (the server queues from the reduced server capacity due to the DDOS attacks meant I only got about an hour to play yesterday), but I’m finding that Draenor is pretty cool so …
November 13, 2014 – 12:30 pm
The morning of the all hands summon to the Blasted Lands, Aely went for a walk. The late fall air was clear and cool, and leaves crunched under their feet in the less-traveled parts of the streets. She and Roger …
November 11, 2014 – 3:09 pm
What a long strange trip it’s been. I’ll be the first to admit that, at the beginning, I wasn’t sure Pandaria was going to be for me. I’ve made clear my dislike of daily quests, and that seemed to be …
October 24, 2014 – 12:01 pm
Squire Benjamin William Sullivan stood in the middle of Light’s Hope Chapel in his underpants.
Actually, it was white linen pants and a shift, but the effect was approximately the same. The little chapel was warm, on the edge of …
June 29, 2014 – 4:39 pm
So I’m not really in a position where I should be creating alts. This, of course, does nothing to deter me from making alts when the inspiration strikes. I’ve been really enjoying my Alliance hunter, and she’s my raiding main …
November 19, 2013 – 4:46 pm
Bad things are happening in Stormwind – and beyond.
The Hand of Lothar, they call themselves.
Yva Darrows was their first target.
Tirith and Aely were their second and third.
They have since… expanded their reach and escalated their methods …
November 13, 2013 – 9:59 am
The cathedral bells stop ringing overnight, except for chiming the hours. Three bell strikes, and Angoleth padded softly around another corner of the Cathedral District, staying carefully in the shadows. Trained ears picked up Mogget’s soft breathing – nearly inaudible …