Tyleril wandered the Bazaar with a direwolf following him. Atop the direwolf was a chubby green proto whelp and a young elven child with a deep seated scowl. He seems to be searching for something or someone as he walks up and down the shops, checking the corners and around the trees. The proto whelp gurgles, sitting carefully on the direwolf’s saddle in front of the elven child, The child is silent, fel-green eyes sharp as he looks around.
Tyleril goes down the walk of elders with the direwolf following closely. Atop the direwolf was a chubby green proto whelp and a young elven child with a deep seated scowl. He seems to be searching for something or someone as he walks up and down the street. “Cat!” the child calls out as he sees red hair- but no. The child scowls at the mage.
Atop the direwolf was a chubby green proto whelp and a young elven child with a deep seated scowl. He seems to be searching for something or someone as they peer through store windows and look through the crowd. Tyleril’s frown grows deeper and the whelp lets out a soft whine.
Murder Row was the only place Tyleril searched alone. With the Priest’s halo he was easily spotted, a beacon of Light as he searched up and down the row, heedless of who was there or what they did. No prayers or smiles were offered. His lips thin and the row is given one last search before he reluctantly leaves.
When they reach the Court of the Sun Buttons let out a unhappy gurgle, having grown tired of searching and finding nothing. The elven child scowls as much as he had from the beginning while the direwolf follows Tyleril. Whatever the Priest searched for he was failing to find it. He begins to pray softly beneath his breath as they leave the Court of the Sun with nothing to show.
Farstrider’s Square was almost like a home for Tyleril and still he searched. Between shops, in the allys, asked the other merchants that knew him well. Catriah Phoenixhearth had not returned to stay at the forges, it seemed, and he had grown deeply worried for her. The elven child squints at unfamiliar shadows and faces. Buttons tries to be strong but one fat tear rolls down the whelp’s face.
A letter is delivered and he’s seen lingering, speaking quietly to another Blood Knight before leaving. The mood of Tyleril’s small adventuring party is somber.
It’s not unusual to see your child going through a phase of wanting to be a Farstrider. There are as many books- fiction and non fiction- as there are Farstriders, or perhaps more depicting Farstriders and their role in our society as well as acts of their heroism. The Farstriders are what we think of when we think of our armed forces. Their uniforms are not as magnificent as the Blood Knights, as flashy and rich as those of the Magistrate. Rather, they inspire a sort of awe.
When I was younger I remember seeing them in the forests. I was always overjoyed to meet the ones that would spend some of their time with a young elf. I do not remember their names but I remember what they taught me. What food was safe to eat in the forest, how to tie knots, the times they would guide me back to a path I could follow home. Their skill with bows is without question something that is always spoken of. Few though talk of their druids and the rare mage that rise up those ranks.
Farstriders know Quel’thalas better than they know themselves. They can follow trails through the darkest forest, fight with unparalled bravery in service to our homeland and many of them have died in service. Their love for Quel’thalas and her people took root deeply in their souls. A Farstrider I know describes Quel’thalas as: “The thing I love more than anything else. I still love, rage, weep, and feel fear. But no other love will ever replace Quel’thalas in my heart.”
We all have had the phase of ‘I wanna be a Farstrider’. Most of us outgrew it by the time we grew old enough to find a trade or be apprenticed. Some of us actually are able to meet the strict requirements set down and start the path to become Farstriders.
Becoming a Farstrider isn’t the romanticized path and lifestyle we think it to be. It is a path of hardship, devotion, and sacrifice where you may be called to sacrifice yourself at a moment’s notice. You become a symbol of Quel’thalas to her people. When you become that symbol you will come to realize and understand that it does not mean you become a hero. It means that you will be called away from your friends and family, train until your fingers bleed and your muscles scream in agony, that you, as a person will sacrifice until you are a Farstrider no longer.
But we know the sacrifices they make and perhaps to try and.somehow repay them for it we romanticize them. We tell our children to look up to them and tell them tales of heroism, of the Farstriders that have made their mark upon history. We offer them gifts, our protectors in the wild. They belong to the forest and for love of us and our home they will serve and die for us.
All these things I know though I am not a Farstrider. All these things I tell my children, that they might understand what they see. So that when a Farstrider shows my child how to tie knots or walks them home from Eversong in the evening they’ll treasure these moments. I know I view them in my own rose colored light, that not all of it is so heroic and so on.
But these things I know as an adult my child will also know as they grow. Right now I want my children to have heroes that are flesh and blood. Heroes to inspire them to reach higher, heroes that fight for home, and heroes that they can imitate.
There were days that tiredness came in both forms, physical and mental. The body needed rest yet his mind needed it to keep moving, to burn up whatever emotions or thoughts denied it sleep. As he followed the Light’s will Tyleril slowly processed it. The intense heat in the forges did nothing to burn away his exhaustion as he worked. The Light never compelled, it asked, it pushed, it whispered to his mind. Centuries had honed skill and instinct to a fine point to allow him to work without focus.
Sweat soaked his worn clothes like rain, hissing when it touched glowing metal and hot coals. All around Farstrider’s Square the loud noises of vendors selling their wares, spells and hammers, and the sound of weapons striking target dummies in the yard below mixed together. A whirlwind of activity, magic, and energy. Tyleril’s own magic and sounds as he worked added to the din: holy magic called to his hands as he worked intermixed with the sound of his prayers and chants. Some of them were older than he was, others he knew only in fragments, and some were made together on the spot, but all spoken low enough not to trigger his stutter.
His mind had the briefest though that he could return home now. To a warm cup of tea and cold air with the smell of herbs and dinner cooking. To rest. Fear snaked into his heart at the thought of angry golden eyes staring at him. Death and wounds did not inspire the same fear as the anger that had been directed at him.
But as soon as the fear had registered the whispers in his mind rose in volume, drowning it beneath the desire to see his task through. Peace soothed his heart as pained muscle barely registered. The Light from his halo was bright as he called upon the Light. Not once since Tyleril accepted it had it left his head.
As he began to make the weapon beneath his hands take shape, Tyleril knew the process had only just begun, even if he had started when the sun was starting its climb into the sky.
He had pleaded with forgiveness from the Light often. Grace, mercy, and love he never deserved, but received every time. It did not judge the flawed man he was.
It had helped to shape what he was now though. Perhaps to much.
As it began to take shape beneath his hands he could feel the drain from making the weapon. Not purely the physical ache but the spiritual one as well. Something about the Lightforged items he produced drained him so deeply it took time to make them again.
This was the first attempt to follow the Light’s will and make one anew this year after Ethalarian’s blade the last year. Every time he had considered doing so anew he could feel something in his soul that was drained and raw with effort protested. What did it take from him to make this? His mind couldn’t grasp the answer as he took a deep breath and began to softly speak his prayers once more.
The Light would never take more than what he could offer.
He poured himself into his work. At some point everything was lost and faded away. Time left him first, shortly after the square around Tyleril ceased to exist. It was just him, the taste of smoke on his cracked lips, and the feeling of Light pouring into the item he was making with hands as rough as dried leather. Even his voice died as he neared completion, leaving him as he refused to stop his prayers.
Once it was finished the rest of the world returned slowly. His body screamed for rest and his mind had fallen into agreement, making his hands tremble. Forced to obey, he put the weapon away in his office. Legs made from stone would have to suffice for taking him home. He had listened when the Light spoke though he knew not what it truly wanted.
It cried out in his mind and pulled him from his shared apartments with the twins.
It pulled him across the street. He didn’t know what he was doing but he heard the whispers and trusted the feeling in his gut.
Another weapon needed to be made. More than just a simple one. No.
This would be different. Lightforged.
He sat down at one of the wooden tables of his smithy. It hurt to grasp the pencil but he began to sketch out the rough idea of the weapon.
What it was. What it would be was of no matter. Who the wielder would be was also of no consequence.
He felt the need to make it and so, it would be made. Though each weapon like this sapped him of strength from his very soul. It took time to recover no matter how physically invigorated he felt by the Light.
He sat and he drew, planning and sketching as his mind went over materials and designs.
“Can you hear them calling you?” The stone caves were cold- he had forgotten that each time he’d come here before he’d come with others. “The hunters of souls call for ours.” Fever had caught hold of Tyleril some time ago. When he wasn’t certain. But no cave had a right to feel this cold or this empty.
“The doorkeep needs close the door.” The baby had grown quiet. It had heightened his fear and anxiety even though his hand could feel the rise and fall of the baby’s tiny chest. He hoped that his words kept the baby tethered to life. As angry and unwilling as the baby was to go into the long night it wasn’t enough.
“Armand! Dornall- anyone.” Were there undead here? It was surprisingly clean of the smell of rot. Like fresh water and green plants. Maybe old wards still held or this was not found when the Fall came. “It’s me, Tyleril. I’ve returned. I-” What could he say to ghosts?
As he wandered down the cave tunnel with only a flcikering candlelight and memory to guide him he was unsure. “I know I refused the first time. You said it would change me to take on the blessing. I wasn’t willing to take it then and- if it’s not late now I would like to try.” Nothing responded to his words as his candle sputtered. He still remembered Armand’s face, peppered hair and skin like leather. The smell of cologne and his glasses.
Armond shrugged, tossing another handful of gathered twigs into the fire. Tyleril had never spent much time around humans before he left Quel’thalas and something about how quickly Armond had aged in their short time together bothered him. When their jokes and conversation failed to distract his mind he was often studying his mentor.
“You don’t ever use the blessing you have.” He remarked to Armond casually. “Why?”
Armond tapped his chest. “My heart is weak. Using it again could possibly kill me. It is not that i can’t but rather whether the strain of it will overwhelm my heart.” His face was so often impish that the sudden serious expression looked off. “Mine is battle related sooo…” He shrugged and gave the young elf a sly smile. “Each of them are different. Some are purely combat oriented, others are good for healing or enchanting- the Gods are wise enough to understand that not all of us have the same skillsets.”
“You won’t tell me how you got your blessing.” Tyleril guessed. It wasn’t a question and something gleamed in his mentor’s eye. Amusement?
“No. When you graduate from being a novice you’ll learn it. Since you’re the only elf they might even allow you to try right away. It’s only a year Tyleril. Then when you are on your own I can retire and you can take up where I left off.”
“What happens when I do take one?” They were all so very vague whenever those blessings came up. But the promise of power was alluring and it was not something he could easily let go.
Armond was silent for a long time.
“That’s up to the Gods if you survive it.”
It was their last conversation and the last time he’d seen his mentor alive was his mentor leaving to go to his room at the inn they stayed at. The promise of power had kept Tyleril with the circle for a while longer until he returned to Quel’thalas. He forgot how quickly humans aged and when he returned, expecting to see them all again he had found only their graves and whispers of their passing.
Now when he returned again it was to walk where the ghosts of his memories stayed. The tunnel he followed whispered with each step of his leather boots. The darkness leeched at his candle light with each step, intent on denying him his sight. The sharp pangs continued to claw at his soul to leave a hunger he couldn’t feed and pain that wouldn’t dull. With a soft hiss the candle died, leaving Tyleril and the baby immersed in total darkness.
The warhammer had to be put away so he could reach out and feel clumsily. “Hold on.” He whispered to the child. “Please keep breathing. Stay from the shadows a bit longer.” Moving slowly as he blindly felt his way through the halls Tyleril found himself straining to call upon the Light. He called out for it in whispers, repeating his prayers loudly in his mind.
How long had he casually called upon the Light and taken it for granted? His healing, spells used in righteous anger, casually levitating. The Light was always there, he’d assumed. He was a Priest in title but had he really been a good priest? The thought stung.
He didn’t know the answer.
“We closed the door to so the keep stays safe. The mead fires will burn till dawn.” For all of his efforts it felt like claws were digging into his chest but a dim glow came to life on the hand that held the baby swaddled in blankets. In the dark he didn’t notice his flushed skin, the sound of comforting whispers becoming feverish and delusional.
“Far away… far away.”
The holy magic sank into blue and gold cloth. If there was a flesh wound the skin would knit together. If there was sickness the Light would ease it. The Light could be directed to heal and soothe many things that bothered the physical coil. In the hands of a stronger Priest, a better one the Light would have given strength.
It simply drained Tyleril further.
“I’m fine.”
The baby didn’t respond to his talk but Tyleril told himself the baby was only asleep.
The last site that belonged to the Spiral was nothing- not, compared to the groves and few temples Tyleril had known from his time as a novice. What had compelled them to move the stones that held their prized ‘blessings’ he never knew. Perhaps a religion that was slowly dying lacked the security a grand temple once had and they were forced to move them.
Whatever the answer was it was lost to history now. The groves lost and the temples were gone. Even the bodies of the Spiral priests had become dust. The cavern he sought now simply held the last few reminders that the Spiral had ever existed.
The world had collapsed and fallen to ruin. Death had come for so many of his people.
Quel’thalas was a broken shadow of what it once was and her people were dying. He could only use so much magic before he’d collapse. He couldn’t feed them the magic that they needed. Not enough, never enough. The sharp ache of mana addiction had him too. Like all of his people. All of the Quel’dor- Sin’dorei suffered now. The Sunwell was gone. Hope too, seemed to be gone.
How many of the elder elves and children had he buried and prayed over and watched die? The thought was enough to darken his mood, even in this place. Surrounded by once green trees that were now brown and rotting. The earth was devoid of life and each step of his boots crushed dead grass and plants to dust. Anxiety knotted his stomach, stress forced him to remain alert with each noise making his heart rate jump sharply. Each crunch of dead plantlife or sharp snap of branches was a lurking undead or banshee waiting to kill him.
A fool’s mission… Her words whispered in his mind again.
In his heavy cloth and leather armor he made to much noise. The warhammer in his right hand was made to take down armoured knights and war machines. He could dent plate with the hammer end and use the sharpened claw to damage and tear the plate apart. The wooden handle of it was studded with metal that his thumb brushed against with every sharp pang of withdrawal. The bundle of blue and silver cloth in his other arm was held closely to his chest. It was so still that if it wasn’t for his hand pressed against the cloth to feel the faint warmth he’d have thought the baby had passed to the next world.
Something tugged in his heart as he stumbled and the baby made not a single sound. A small fist weakly waved.
“Don’t die.” He told the bundle of cloth. “You don’t even have a fucking name- you can’t die.” Whatever tugged in his chest had drove him to take the baby. He knew the baby would die before long- that the child had survived pregnancy was a miracle. The child had been too quiet since he came into the world and Tyleril had been the first to hold him in his arms. “I can save you. Just hold on.”
No response from the newborn in his bundle. But should he really have expected one?
No matter. He was close. He knew he was close. What had Armand said to him? “Fourth stone, middle center. Call on the Lady and Consort.” He muttered. The pangs of hunger struck him again as he gathered his magic in his hand.
Clouds gathered in the sky above them. There was no moon to light the forests up tonight. Nothing to guide him but memories and an awakened parental instinct to save his child. No matter the cost. “Light save me.” He whispered. He licked his chapped lips as a low moan whispered through the trees. They were so close now he recognized some of the old ruins around them.
Almost four hundred years ago the religious order he had joined were dying. The Spiral, as they had called themselves, was a group of humans who mixed their religion with druidism and the Light. The circle had never gotten a huge following but had endured for countless centuries. To proselytize was abhorrent to the Circle. Perhaps that was part of their downfall as time progressed and people grew uninterested as other things like the Church of the Light grew in popularity. That and their stolen blessings.
The Circle had a sacred place. Twelve stones in a spiral, hidden in a old cave and guarded by twists and turns. The floors and walls were etched with the stories of their religion and countless clay pots. The stones were the most fascinating, covered in designs so old Tyleril had no name for them. Each stone, he had been told, held its own blessing at some point or the other. And those blessings were only given to ‘the worthy’. Tyleril knew that worthy was only a way to say ‘if you can’t handle it you’ll die’. His mentor had told him once that the blessings had required something. But what he couldn’t recall. The tale of Dornall the Adamant ran through his mind. The cracked stones in the circle held no blessings now- if their bearer died before they could return them then the blessings died with the wielder.
The blessings were doubtless gone now. Time had worn the stones down and they’d be cracked-
A soft noise escaped the bundle. A pitiful sound as the child demanded something Tyleril couldn’t guess at. Tiny hands escaped the cloth to become fists waving angrily at the world. “Ssshh baby, baby shh.” He tried to soothe the boy,leaning to let his long brown hair fall over the bundle.
The smell of rot grew as another moan whispered between the trees.
Light, save him. For my babe, your child, is dying.
Dry twigs snapped. They had gotten so close to the caves after days of his walking. They were so close now. His hand gripped the long handle of his warhammer. “Ssshh, can you hear the Lady crying for you? If you’re quiet the hunter of souls will pass us by and we’ll call in the spring.” An old story the circle had told him.
But not enough to soothe the outraged, reedy, and weakened scream. The child wasn’t willing to go quietly into the long night. Another sound of outrage escaped that, were Tyleril not so weakened and alarmed, would have made him proud and talk about how his son- when did the child become his?- would become a great warrior.
But as shadows took shape not to far away from them all Tyleril could feel was fear. Murky yellow eyes glowed as the bloated corpse searched for the source of the noise. They focused on Tyleril and sickeningly lurched forward. Rotted flesh had swollen and burst, staining what was once the clothes of a magus. The hair was matted, the face torn away by claws and as its jaw opened bile escaped to fall upon the ground.
The caves weren’t far now and he chose to retreat. The undead kept advancing, murky eyes hungering as it reached for them. He couldn’t set his child down and to call the Light’s fury would attract more. As the undead got in reach Tyleril swung his hammer, twisting it so the clawed end sunk deep into the rotten flesh of its neck.
The undead staggered, forced to move as Tyleril pushed it away and down.
More whispers carried on the still night air. Others had heard their brief struggle. In the distance something wailed, sending chills down Tyleril’s spine.
Other undead were coming.
He glanced down to the child. The undead thrashed on the ground before its clawed hands found purchase. He could fight off one maybe. But as the sharp pangs of mana addiction clawed at his flesh and soul he decided to end this now.
“Light damn you.” Three simple words that filled him with righteous fury. He reached and grabbed his warhammer and that was all he needed to do. A sickening noise sounded as he puleld his hammer out, light striking the undead, stunning it.
“Hurry child, the shadows call for our souls.” He was cold but at least the baby would be warm in its cloth bundle as he turned and fled.
He hated crowds. He especially hated them when they slowed him from where he needed to go. But he wanted to go somewhere by himself today to try and glean truth from the Light. Samiel and Buttons were at Celtrois’s home, but he hoped they’d be happy with the sweets he bought them on the way home. Tyleril smiled as he pushed his way through the throng of elves, fighting to keep a warm smile on his face.
He had never made much time for himself, especially not for things like this, since he had become a father. He found small slots of time to set aside for prayers or ritual. But the problem lingering in his mind refused to let go and worried away at him.
He was dressed in the most expensive cloth and jewelry he owned, the sort one would see only for either the most solemn or most joyous occasions. Dressed in blood red, black, green, and gold. Polished bronze jewelry lay on his ears and his wrists, showing off Catriah’s skill at design- the symbol of the Light with a phoenix wrapped around it.His mahogany brown hair was the plainest part of him, unbound to fall to his waist in waves. The delicate jewelry in his hair softly sang with each movement. The halo over his head granted him more space but it was the most obvious blessing of his profession. The halo’s magic was undeniably that of the Holy Light and in the presence of so many other Lightwielders it began to glow all the brighter in response. It flashed briefly in response to a paladin he passed, seeming in the moment it was as heavy as a block of gold and overwhelmingly hot. But it filled him with vitality and he continued to push his way through the crowd.
He didn’t recognize any of the faces here but he refused to look away as his halo drew ever more attention. The stares that lingered made him flinch on the inside, wanting to recoil away and take the ferry back home. Silently he prayed for guidance.
The Sunwell was something he had seen several times before the third war. Something inside of him always mourned the loss of it just as quickly as it sang with joy at the sight of the renewed Sunwell. He didn’t want to get close- he was already a bloody beacon of Light. Instead Tyleril moved away from the throng of elves, moving towards the upper areas, hoping to hide by the sheer curtains. It was foolish to expect an empty level here.
But an empty spot among the curtains for a small amount of privacy was far more reasonable. Tyleril found a small alcove that was just enough for him. There was no view of the glorious Sunwell here. No sight of the Light. The translucent curtains did not provide more than the illusion or privacy.
“Use a spell Silversword.” Veleth’s words echoed in his mind from memory. The dark under croft he had explored with Veleth, Amren, and others had been so dark it was impossible to see the fingers of your hand. But a simple healing spell called to his hands had been enough to banish the darkness. But in the here and now it filled the alove, spilling through the gauzy curtains. As much as he tried to contain it, it was like trying to hold water in his hands. For all the water he held more would spill out with every attempt to catch more water.
So he gave up. This close to so much Light magic it was futile to try and contain it. It spilled over him, filling him with vitality and approval at his choice as he kneeled down. It was so… human to debase himself in this manner. But hadn’t he been taught by them? Humility was one of the virtues of the Light after all. One his knees he clasped his hands together, leaning forward to let his hair fall and cover his face like a curtain. The jewelry in his hair jingled merrily and the metal cuffs at his wrist felt far to tight.
The reason he came here still worried away at his mind and heart. Even as Tyleril opened himself up to the Light and the world around him became only himself it lingered. A shadowy mote in a sea of shining Light.
For several moments Tyleril did not speak or pray, enjoying the feeling coursing through him.
Then Alarthen’s face came into his mind. Alarthen’s face and the stoic silence he had held, even as Tyleril had priest Alarthen’s bloody hand from the stump that was once Alarthen’s arm. He recalled healing it, mending torn flesh, stemming the bleeding, doing what he could to numb the pain. Alarthen’s blood hadn’t been the only blood that dried on his robes that night. But it was Alarthen that Tyleril had done the most harm to.
“I do not-” The words seemed profane to utter from his lips.
Alarthen and Firioneil’s faces a month after he had tended to Alarthen bothered him. Firioneil’s accusing face and Alarthen’s solemn stoicism. The new arm Alarthen sported had given him joy to see. Until Alarthen unwrapped the cloth to reveal the horrifying shadow that had formed to become his arm instead. It formed wickedly sharp claws where fingers once were, hot to the touch, and where Tyleril’s fingers had touched it he was strongly reminded of swollen, rotting, pus filled wounds. “I do no harm.” He whispered again. “I do no harm and yet I gave something to another that, by all rights, should have seen me dead.”
Alarthen had not complained as Tyleril inspected it. No curses flung Tyleril’s way, no anger or sorrow. Tyleril had not denied the arm had come from him either. Beneath the shadowy arm that was seemingly made flesh they could both feel the magic that traced it to Tyleril. Something of that arm was irrevocably Tyleril’s. That couldn’t be denied.
“I do not use the s-shadows and yet I do not know what happened. I only heal with my magic now. It caused him great pain when it grew but yet I am not dead and through it is surely a blight on his soul that festers…” His words trailed off to silence. Now that he was here he had no idea what went wrong. Words alone failed to convey his horror and worry.
Rather than profane the moment with more of his speech he focused on what he wanted. An answer or, at the very least, something to lead him to an answer. So he knelt and focused his thoughts. When the answer came to him, long after his knees had gone numb and the muscles in his neck grew pained, it was enough to rob him of the emotion that being open to the Light had given him.
All the things you lock and hide away. All the hatred, all the fear, all the distrust, the sorrow, the rage. All the things that are to dark for you that you’ve locked away cast their own shadow. To lock something away so tightly that you feel it in the deepest depths of yourself comes with consequences. You did not harm Alarthen- but you planted your own shadow into him and within him it found a place to take root. A place you denied it. To deny the dark pieces of yourself is to deny your own nature.
He withdrew himself from the Light slowly, rebuilding himself and his mental defenses slowly. With each step he withdrew he felt more of himself. A blacksmith in priest’s robes. A elven commoner. He felt less of a priest and simply… exhausted.
The word was whispered so he didn’t stutter. He hated hearing himself trip over his own words. He would start to talk and it was like abruptly tripping over a knee-high wall. The smithy was always warm but this new project of his had seen him spending most of the day there. Melted and shining it had needed to be smelted down after he had cleaned it with saltwater and prayers.
The red Magister crossed their arms beneath the golden phoenix that marked their chest. It was the tabard and what it represented that was, perhaps, the only thing she was truly allied to. Tyleril had offered to make them armor once and the Magister had delivered such a scathing look he’d never suggested it again.
The color of the Magister’s robes were the rich deep red that brought to mind the taste of blood in his mouth. The cloth was richly made and embroidered and he knew if he touched it then it would feel softer than any silk beneath his fingers. The magister’s face beneath the hood was ever shifting- their gender hidden by an illusion that shifted just fast enough to make one question what they had seen. The hair, the sharp jawline, even the body shape shifted if he stared long enough. The magister’s illusion was wasted on the both of them. The illusion that let the Magister slip around unnoticed by the public during their many years of service to Silvermoon.
“You called me off work for this Tyleril.” Even the voice was changed by the illusion, easy to forget and neutral.
“I did. Please.”
“Your boyfriend’s steady drain on my enchanting supplies and magic items has not gone without notice either.”
“I know. Thank you for not getting mad. But I- I need you help again. Please.”
Dull fel green eyes focused on him, considering him beneath their weighted gaze. The eyes searched through him, considering his words and trying to cut through them to find truth.
“I’lll- I’ll repay all that’s been lost and especially for this-” His hand waved to the table that held his supplies. His robes were clearly those of a Blood Elven Priest- but time had dulled the robe he wore in his smithy. The rich red , black, and green of the overrobe lay atop the table and the sleevless knee length tunic and pants beneath it showed the efforts of his work at the smithy. He began to gesture again, opening his mouth to speak- but the Magister let go of their illusion and laid one slender hand atop his own calloused one. “Tyleril. it’s fine.” The freckles on her face were not hidden by her makeup, artfully applied. Blood red lips tugged into a frown as bright fel green eyes stared upwards.
“You don’t owe me anything. It’s a good exscuse to get rid of stuff I no longer need anyway.”
“I-” Her fingers brushed against his palm before they pulled away. The whispers that were always in the background of his hearing increased in volume. “You don’t come wearing that guise for no reason. I grew w-worried. It’s not that you’re unreasonable. But-”
“It made you worry.”
Tyleril nodded slowly. “It is not a good sight.” He admitted reluctantly. “It draws a lot of worry, especially after the first month of this year.”
“My fault. Work doesn’t want to leave my mind today.” But he saw the way her lips twisted and knew he’d caught her in a lie. “What did you want done?”
It was a hard question to answer. Harder still to put it into words. But he tried, sitting down in front of Samiel and signing slowly.
The most important thing we have is choice. From the small things such as where we buy food to whether or not we accept one poor choice or the other. Choice is everything. I value choice because there have been times where it was denied to me most cruelly. So, if I value anything in this life that is not an ally or loved one it is choice. Because each choice defines us whether we realize it or not.
I always offer you a choice. Do you want to study beneath Celtrois or to to the Sunguard’s academy? Do you want to come with me and spend the night at one of my boyfriend’s homes or would you rather stay at our home? I offered you the choice of learning in my smithy or finding your a eventual place at an academy or a tutor. You chose the latter. Do you want to be friends with that person or do you wish to not be? Do you want to learn the ways of the Light or not? I always give one night a week to my children because I care for you and you chose how we spend it.
The halo over Tyleril’s head gently shined as it rested between Tyleril’s ears. His lips thinned as he canted his head, considering.
I chose to become a priest. I did not chose because I cared or thought it a interesting choice. I chose because I wanted power that I felt was denied to me. A elf with little magical talent in a society filled with magic is nothing. But as I grew I did it because I made a choice to change. I wanted to be better than a man bitter at something denied him. I thought I could make that choice and eventually become better. As time went on I think I have become better.
I am not the same novice in the church of Holy Light. I have grown and my teachings are similar, but not the same as they used to be. I have discarded the things of the past that were brittle and unchanging so that I could be proud of being a priest. The world changes and as you have seen before those that refuse to change became bitter and lose considerably much.
There comes a time when you must consider who you are and self inspect. Can you change more if you were willing to change? Can you make things better? I thought long and I thought hard how to change for the better. Some things are simply… part of me. I cannot remove them. But maybe with time I can change them.
So when I saw the chance, I considered it. I mulled it over and thought. Was this the best path for me? As days went by I considered. I knew how to break bone and to cause death. But I cared for them, I needed to see them get home because they mattered. Because I am one man and barely a drop in the ocean. But one man can make a difference in the tides of battle or in the infirmary.
And so, I made the choice. I swore never to harm again.
“You won’t tell me what you said?”
Such things are not for those who have not heard the calling to take the vows, I believe. But a summary could do… I swore to never do harm again. If the Light would grant me strength to keep those I cared for alive, to see them walk back home, to see them leave the infirmary. So that they could lift up their sword and cast their spells again. If the Light would grant me that then never again would I do any harm. Never again as long as the Light gave me the strength to bring them home.
“They don’t care about you the same way. Some of them will probably let you die.” Samiel said bluntly. “You can’t heal them all.” At Tyleril inquisitive brow Samiel shuffled his feet. “Well, they don’t.”
No, and some of them never will. But the Light has given me the strength I need. I need no thanks or happiness to do this. I made the best choice that i thought available to me. And now I live that choice I made. If it turns out to have been a bad choice then I must live with what I have done.
“But you think it’s a good one.”
Tyleril grinned and Samiel swore he saw the halo brighten.
She always knew when she was needed. Or perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps like almost everything about her that refused to fit into a perfectly logical puzzle Windsong was different. A broken piece of one that no longer fit. Long used to Samiel and Buttons playing ‘hide and scare Pop’ Tyleril didn’t start as her slender arms rested on his shoulders, wrapping around his neck as she peered at the papers on his desk.
“Looks complicated.”
The books that littered his desk varied from ‘Basic Treatments to Necromantic Curses for the Beginner’ to ‘Silverwater’s Guide to Advanced Decay’ and ‘The Undead- Detailed reports from beyond the grave’. None of which provided Tyleril with the sort of information he had sought, yet each had been read cover to cover. “S…s-sort of is.” A understatement, at best. “I can tell. Who else wanted to know the state of a Forsaken’s innards when they died and remained?” A snort came from her and Tyleril could feel her nails lightly scratching at the collar of his robes. “What can I do, Windsong? Is the question you want to ask me.”
Tyleril nodded.
“And I will offer up no answer. Some things can be delayed but never cured Tyleril. That is, a fact of life. It’s brutal, it’s hard to hear and I know you hate it.” Her voice was calm but the words were true and the smile he so often wore faded away. “I can-”
“You can’t. Some cures will hurt worse than the disease and their effects will be felt for an entire lifetime.” Silence lingered in the words after as Tyleril’s jaw stubbornly set. “But I-” He broke off, taking a breath. Exhaustion, an old and familiar friend, had settled in and his body both ached from the efforts of the day and begged for rest. “If there’s nothing else, then that- that i c-can do.”
“You can define sacrifice anyway it pleases you. It is your noblest virtue and your worst vice Tyleril. You sacrifice a lot. But in this case-” Her slender fingers reached out to touch the notebook Tyleril had been scribbling in. “If you sacrificed yourself then the loss of you would be greater than what you fix. You occupy a space larger than that curse.”
“He noticed my hair was always dry when I came in.” He didn’t know what else to say as a desire to fix, to mend, to be useful still lingered.
“I know.” She said shortly. Then: “You can’t help your nature. But -listen-. You listen every other time someone says no. Try now before you leave a worse wound than the one you’re trying to heal.”
When Windsong pulled away Tyleril offered up a wave. Windsong offered a lazy wave. “I will be at Thallus’s for a few days- my apartment will be empty. Good night Ty.”
“G-goodnight.” As she left Tyleril returned back to his papers and cracked open one as of yet unread book. Surely ‘Tryshiect’s Studies on the Dark Arts’ would hold some use.
Tyleril Silversword 
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