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.
She sat at the edge of one ruined yard and stared at the stream that had carved a path through the ruins of Silvermoon along with the rain. The same rain that soaked her clothes, sapping away her warmth and leaving a lingering sense of unhappiness.
Unhappiness bit away at her day, taking away the pieces she had built herself up with. Her clothes were wet, her makeup ran down her face and mud caked her boots.
But she still breathed. It wasn’t real after all. Stress and anxiety lied to her.
But it screamed it was true.
“Lies.” Windsong whispered, watching the small stream run.
She just had to keep breathing. Keep going. She knew it.
Ignore the screaming. Keep going. SImple enough when spoken aloud or written down.
But as the rain fell harder her head lowered and shoulders sagged.
It would take time before she returned to climb over the fences to her now- usual haunt. “Eventually.” She would eventually.
First to rebuild herself. Piece by broken piece until she was whole and had won her internal struggle.
Then she’d return to being bitter and angry again.
Samiel eagerly opens the parcel, expecting mail. The statue he pulls out gives him pause. He doesn’t say anything as he examines the carving of Buttons. He couldn’t read Shalassian but that other fat Whelps would Astrelline have met on her travels?
Samiel’s room was the smallest bedroom in Tyleril’s apartment. A corner was set aside for his and Razail’s tent-bed. Books sat crammed onto the space of a handmade desk and stolen notes from other apprentices were carefully hidden beneath it. A mage light kept the room bright even as the sun outside the window began to lower in the sky. Silence reigned in the apartment now with Pop and the other residents of the apartment busy and away.
And in his room Samiel stared at the carving. His mind mulled over the last few times he’d seen Absolain and Astrelline.
‘Dangerous’, was what Pop had said Abs had called her. Abs had called Pop a holy imbecile. Tyleril had tried to hide that from him but Samiel had overheard his father as Tyleril had anxiously paced. Unaware of the meeting between Tyleril, Aestus, and Thanelor Samiel was left to wonder what else had happened. What else had made Pop’s anxiety spike so high again? What else was unsaid that he wasn’t hearing? Irritation made his lips tug into a scowl. To much was missing he didn’t know. To many pieces he wasn’t aware of. “It’s complicated.” He mocks Absolain’s words, doing his best to imitate the same tone the words had been delivered to him. The words echoed in the room long after they left his lips.His fingers tapped against the statue. Stop, Pop had said. But didn’t Pop take a vow to protect everyone? On the battlefield and off. He said to leave Absolain alone. Abs was angry, Pop said.
Samiel resisted the childishly angry impulse to burn the wood, though he felt his fingers warm up.
“I ‘spose…"
He begins slowly. He couldn’t go beyond the safe places Pop had limited him to. Thane and Mother wouldn’t help him find Astrelline either. Absolain was angry. Pop was anxious and the way his hands shook made Samiel suspect something was very wrong. "Not dead then. ” Astrelline was alive.
But what was he supposed to do? To young to leave home without an adult but not old enough to be treated like and adult. Gears turned and he ran his mind over spells, homework, lectures, and stories. There was a answer to be found, a way to do something. Anything.
Left to his own devices Samiel set the carving on his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. He grasped at books to browse through them as he began to sketch. He was silent. But anger stirred in his chest, encouraging Samiel as the child began to focus.
“I’ll find something. I’m a kid or I’m an adult. But I’m always a kid when it’s convenient.” The last word held the stirrings of anger. “I’ll show everyone.” Somehow.
Though he refused to leave the statue alone for long. It would have a new traveling home on Samiel’s bag.
Blood was potent, Mother had told him once. To often, she had said, people discarded pieces of themselves. You could locate someone with their hair, blood droplets, or personal items. Mother said she was a monster and shouldn’t a monster be able to hunt it’s quarry? He hadn’t questioned her words. Like many things his mother had said and done it just…fit. Mother was a puzzle with missing pieces Samiel could not figure out. But she was a puzzle he knew. Mother was the monster under the bed, the thing in the closest, the who when you called out “Who’s there?”, and other things better left alone in the dark.
So Samiel let the missing pieces of Mother’s puzzle stay missing. She was brutally honest to him and it was a brutal honesty he appreciated best after much thought and silence.
Pop had dropped him off at Celtrois’s one story mansion home. His hand had trembled less today and when Samiel asked him what was wrong Pop had smiled and promised everything was fine.
But he lied.
Samiel could see the lie on Pop’s face before it was spoken aloud. Ghosts of leftover emotion lingering in his fathers fel-tinted golden eyes. Fine. If Pop was going to lie then Samiel was going to figure out his own answers to problems. “To young to be an adult. But an adult when it’s convenient.”
Celtrois’s home was richly furnished and kept meticulously clean through magic. It didn’t scream decadence but the furnishings oozed nobility in a way that only the oldest and most dignified noble houses seemed to manage. Everything looked costly. Samiel had apprenticed under Celtrois for a year now and knew the secret was not that the items were expensive- it was that they were old. Age was, in its own way, something that gave the items more. He might have been wrong but Samiel was certain that seemed right. Outside of Celtrois’s home there were grounds that Samiel considered large. Large enough to keep him hidden from his Uncle’s sharp eyes as he kneeled down on the ground.
There were few spells Samiel had been taught that he was allowed to use without asking for permission. After the dragonfire incident with Reynllin Celtrois and Pop and limited what Samiel was allowed to practice outside of Celtrois’s watchful eye. “Technically, I’m following the letter of the law and not the spirit.” He said aloud, reassuring himself.
A map of Quel’thalas lay on the ground, held down by one hand. “A bit of hair, a memory, and a droplet of blood.” Mother could do her spells with no regents, he registered and this knowledge brought annoyance with it. He pricked his finger with the tip of his knife and waited for a small droplet of blood to well up and fall onto the map. “One blood drop.” A few scales, painfully stolen from a dragonhawk, set atop the mirror. “And for the memory…” He remembered what Astrelline smelled like, the feeling of her hands when she touched him and how it felt for his magic to be made null. Seeing her smile and say Buttons name wrong. _Button._
He didn’t need to _find_ Astrelline exactly. Just the disturbance she made. He began to whisper aloud his memories of Astrelline, focusing his magic on the map. The scales seem to burn away with the blood droplet and the paper beneath them was gone. He should have used a proper scrying mirror.
Find the disturbance. Charm a monster. Send a letter. It seemed so simple. But as the map under his hands began to grow warm he had a moment of doubt that it would work at all.
It was impossible to stay afloat in a sea of exhaustion so he settled for drowning slowly, tucking away his trembling hands beneath his sleeves, calling on the Light. Even the dim glow he summoned gave him some peace, burned away the feeling of cold on his hand. When was the last time I was this worn?
He barely had time to watch Alarthan walk away before Samiel’s voice whispered in his ear. How the child had snuck up he didn’t know, but he was to worn out to jump. “What was that Pop?”
“Ah..s-something I hope I helped.” The arm itself was shocking to the point Tyleril could only offer up vague answers to its questions.
“I don’t like it. When are you gonna tell Luneth and Firi?”
“I w-won’t.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“No more so than any other in the city like him inclined to do harm.”
Silence and then: “Tell them anyway.”
“It is not my place.”
“Why?”
“Those that come for advice and guidance from me should be able to do so w-without fear I will tell on them. Unless there is a clear and obvious threat- which I did not see, yet- then I must maintain confidence.”
Samiel’s fel green eyes looked to Tyleril, narrowing before he turned to see the direction Alarthan had followed. “I’m not a priest.”
“No,” Tyleril agreed. “you are not a Priest.”
“So -I- can tell.” Where had Samiel been hiding that Tyleril had not caught even a hint of his son? But if Alarthan could walk in front of him without Tyleril’s notice…
“You could.”
“You shouldn’t have sparred with Mother today.” Samiel told him as the child pulled away. “Your hands are trembling now.” There was disapproval written into each word, strong enough Tyleril could taste it. Like lemons in his mouth. Samiel turned and began to walk away.
“You’re a catalyst for change. Some people might envy that.”
“A catalyst?”
“You are not content to remain as you are. Whether it is improving your spells or searching for knowledge you’re never content to remain still.”
“Pop like to stay in Quel’thalas.”
“Tyleril focuses on different things than you do. But he doesn’t remain the same. The man he was four centuries ago is not the same man he was now. His change is slow and subtle. A rock worn smooth by the ocean. You’re the spark that lights the field afire.”
“What happens if I stopped?”
“You stop. You stagnate. You exist and little more.”
“Isn’t everyone else a catalyst then? By your definition Mother.”
Windsong looked down at Samiel from where she floated in the air. Her fel green eyes seemed to stare through him, causing him to shift uncomfortably in the clothes she’d made for him.
“Not everyone. We all change, albeit slowly. Long lived as we are some people settle. Not you. You’re not satisfied with ‘the sun is yellow’ you want to know why. “
“What if… what if I wanted to know why you left me with Pop?” It wasn’t a question he meant to ask. But it lingered in the air after he said it. Mother looked down at him again, but he resisted the urge to squirm and stared up at her. She looked beautiful to him in her mage’s robes, corn white silken hair and fel green eyes. She didn’t move often and something about her had always reminded him of a spider. Watching, waiting to see which part of its web you would tear up with your clumsiness.
“Because I am not a Mother.” She said flatly. “I have no parenting instinct, no flesh-inspired desire to protect and care. I love you now for the person you are Samiel but I do not have a parent’s instinct.” Mother’s eyes left him to look across the street. “It might be hard for you to understand that. But I, on my own, am no parent. A screaming babe does not inspire any reaction to me. You managing to survive birth was a miracle. That you survived to reach your age even more of one.”
“Oh.” He didn’t have anything else to say.
“It’s shit you grow up like this. Lacking a group of friends close in age. But you’ve made due. You might complain and clash with Tyleril but the man has done more for you than I have ever been able to. You aren’t content to sit and wait for the world to put things in your hand. You seethe and rage, you consume knowledge, you seek to protect what’s important, and to reach out where others would turn away.”
He squinted up at her, wondering but daring not to ask the lingering question in his mind.
But she knew anyway. Somehow Mother always knew.
“No. The man that contributed to your existence isn’t aware you exist.”
“Why?”
Mother put a finger to her blood red lips before leaning down to whisper to him. “Because then you’d be in danger. Tyleril would be in danger. Politics are dangerous Samiel. The ones your birth father are in even more so.”
“Do you think he’d be mad at you?”
“At me? Yes. He’d be very mad I’ve kept him in the dark so long. Be grateful you look more like me than him.”
Curiosity brought forth the next question. “Why? What’s he like?”
“Older than I am. Wise but with little magic talent. You two are both stubborn and quick-witted, clever. Dry humor.” Her lips twitched into a fond smile.
But the smile was brief and she shook her head. “No more Samiel. That is all. When you grow older I’ll tell you more but not now. You need to be able to defend yourself proper before I throw you to the wolves.”
Like many of his conversations with Mother seemed to end she left him with several questions. He wasn’t ever certain if it was a good or bad thing to leave somebody with so many. But, he assumed, if Mother knew the answer to so much like Pop did, then surely each good answer would have more questions.
The information on his birth father, however, was new. He didn’t know what to make of it, mulling over the information. Something new to think about and pry for more in the future.
Perhaps that’s what bothered him the most. More than Astrelline’s words, more than Razail’s current muteness. More than Buttons stealing his food. Rather than stay and fight or simply swat away a territorial dragonhawk, Tyleril had picked Samiel up and ran. The dragonhawks Samiel was used to weren’t a threat, not really.
But Tyleril picking Samiel up and running away had been an unwanted reminder of the vows he had taken. Astrelline’s words later that night hadn’t helped either and he’d been angry ever since.
This is what I chose Samiel. For everyone. Tyleril’s words echoed in his mind. Your father wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t believed to the core of his being it would help us all…it’s hard to love a man who gives so much. Thanelor’s words drew a scowl.
“The rest of them won’t care.” He’d told Pop. “Your vows don’t mean anythin’ to them. They’re not gonna help or sacrifice for you ‘cause you’ll do it for them.” Tyleril took a deep breath, standing up to tower over Samiel. Pop looked like he could withstand a blow from a cannon and keep standing. But the argument they had, short as it was, seemed to tire him out. Tyleril reached up to run his hand over his hand, dark copper tresses bound in a thick waist length braid. “Yes. But they do not have to. They never n-need to Samiel. This…it’s me. It’s what I do.”
It was true. Tyleril was always like that. But it didn’t make Samiel any less unhappy as he stalked away from the forges. Walking through the city was a blur of red, small enough to slip through the crowds and dart down the streets until he reached the gates. The loud sound of chatter, the sounds of plate and the arcane guardians faded with the smell of magic regents, sweat, and the smell of perfumes.When his feet reached the end of the bridge where it met the dirt road he looked around.
Laz waited for him there in mortal form. It made his heart beat a little faster and the irritation drain away like water through a sieve. “Laz!” The whelpling’s amber gold eyes found him as Samiel sprinted up, reaching out to grab onto Laz
It does nobody any good to hold in their anger Samiel. If you have the option to walk away and come back later then choose it. Some things cannot be fixed when they leave your mouth. You’re very damaging with your words when you want to be.
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?”
Prayer is communication with the sacred and divine- whether it be the local woodland deity, Elune, the Light, or the Eternal Sun. it is a form of speech and like speech it can be divided between formal and informal. Informal speech can be called conversational speech. It’s everyday speech with nothing fancy. In prayer this informal speech is most appropriate for the divine you are on good terms with and likely to be friendly to you. The light, for example, that i hear often I will repeat informal prayers to- I am however, always respectful. The divine that I am not familiar with I tend to use formal prayers only. As a Priest of the Light I’m certain, for example, Elune will accept my prayers. I doubt Elune would not appreciate me acting as though we were on excellent terms.
If I were to pray to the Eternal Sun or the Sunwell, as some do, however, then I would retain some formality but I would not worry as much.
Formal prayers tends to have grammatical niceities observed, with more prose and the older forms of speech are used. It may contain archaic terms that still exist and are rarely heard or words that are more common now but that are used with archaic meaning. These words are used for their psychological and social implication- always aim for clarity and make sure your formal prayers are carefully chosen and arranged.
Others will note that battlefield healers tend to use a mix of both or not need words entirely. That requires practice and skill, your intent clear and your will strong. In the case of, for example, a priest of the light whose skills healing on the battlefield are legendary. Those skills are honed through experience and blood. Many healers new to a battlefield have found themselves fumble, unused to the short time they have to react to what goes around them.
Power words are short prayers, easily and quickly spoken. Often three lines or less. A good example is:
“Heal these wounds forevermore, these injuries do Restore!”
At the simplest, prayers are talking to the Divine. But the divine is different from us, talking to it is different than talking to another elf. You show this by the style of speech you use when you address them. What you recognize as Divine and its name can tell you much.
A letter that -should- have reached Reynliin unmarked. However the letter had several large inked feet and tiny handprints that could only belong to Reynliin’s Buttons.One tiny candy has survived Button’s prints.
Tyleril Silversword 