One of the most satisfying sounds was that of his hammer hitting metal. Hard hits, light taps, fixing armor dents, hitting the metal when it’s cherry red. There was a satisfaction to working as a blacksmith. Some pleasure to be found in being able to immerse yourself fully into a task that requires so much strength and focus. But enough you could let your mind go. Feeling the tension of your hands and arms and the release as you worked. Some days, but not anywhere near as often as he used to, he worked there longer than he did the infirmary.
But most of his day spent not actively and intently focusing he was always praying. Softly whispered blessings, mantras. Centuries of habit- prayers and mantras not only helped to strengthen his belief but, so he believed, increase his ability to use the Light.
Was it true? It had been habit for so long that whether it was or not did not bother Tyleril. Communicating to the Light and speaking the praises. Reciting his blessings, sermons, prayers for healing and life was part of his day now, as it had been for years.
Today especially he recited those prayers. As he braided his hair and put it up, put on his white Dawnmender tunic and pants, polished his boots and tied his leather bracers he whispered prayers for the upcoming battle. He didn’t focus on any one face in particular. But all of them. The Imperials he knew on the other side weighed heavily on his mind as he belted his heavy aurastone hammer to his belt. How many more faces did he know that were on the other side?
As always the heavy aurastone hammer would remain at his side. Tyleril did not inflict harm. Not to his enemies, not to his allies.
“M-may my path be one of compassion.”
He checked his robes, checked the heavy cloth and leather he wore. The buttons were polish, the leather tied and buckled appropriately. The Light whispered in his ears, wordless and ever present.
“That I never raise my hand to inflict harm but to defend others and myself.”
The halo of his head grew brighter as the familiar prayer. It calmed Tyleril, brought serenity and peace to him. The prayer, like all he would utter from his lips today a plea for good to prevail amid chaos.
“That I never ignore a plea for help or a call for mercy.”
Imperialist and Loyalist faces came to mind. The Light would guide his hands, he knew. Politics…any of this was beyond him. But…
“I will always extend my hand to those in need and will never shun one who is willing to turn to the Light.”
As he finished the prayer he felt the Light gather around him, suffusing him with it’s warmth. The warm glowing symbol over his head, helped brighten his path, make it certain.Even as it faded the determination in his face did not.
Even as he left his empty apartment and shut his forges down he continued to pray. The necropolis, this fight- it was lie to say it did not hurt the man to see so much strife in the city. But for his children, those that were wounded, those who were soon to be wounded…
He could do nothing but pray. For himself, for his allies, the imperialists. For all of them. He was just a healer but perhaps his prayers and healing would make a difference where stuttering words and pleas prevailed.
So he prayed as he walked down the streets to meet at Falconwing Square. If he prayed the Light would would hear him and good would prevail, he was sure of it.
He was born sickly and weak. That he survived until childbirth was a miracle. With a thin reedy voice he wailed for you. You knew his mother, knew why she couldn’t keep him. You were debating on just keeping him till you find him a home. But when you wrap him in his soft baby blanket his hand grabs your finger, holding it so tightly your finger changes color.
From then on he was yours. Oftentimes you wonder if the child grabbed your hand to simply hold you or because he picked you. Soon, barely in the blink of an eye, your husband is gone but you remain, carrying Samiel in a baby’s swing on your back as you work in the forges. With the spells on the headband to muffle the sound he sleeps easily. You worry and fear, often suffering because you need mana.
Everything is for the baby first and it’s so hard to hold him and hope it’s enough. You’d do anything to keep that tiny, angry child alive. When that last vial of precious mana is gone you hug him close and pray to the Light. My life for my child. Anything you could give to help him survive, you promise.
Luck comes in the form of Thina, giving out mana potions. You find the right place and you wait, holding Samiel close. You almost cry as you take the vials. The Light heard you. You commit her to memory as you give him some later.
You won’t be like your parents, you promise yourself, you’ll be a good parent. The best one you can be.
–
He’s talented, you realize one day as a temper tantrum set your sleeve afire. He had the sort of talent you would never have. The kind archmages and heroes possess, one that would see him rise up higher in society than his blackmsith father could ever help him reach. He looks up to you with wide eyes as you put the flames out. You realize he’s waiting for you to react.
Putting on a smile you congratulate him for it. He doesn’t want to be a blacksmith or a healer like you are but this is the sort of talent society craves. You feel fatherly pride at the thought of your boy rising up and living a productive life without ever hungering or suffering like you’ve had to. Some part of you is jealous but you push it away.
The next day after your sleeve burns you start searching for places where he can learn with other children like him.
You find one but you resolve to pick up more work to pay for the high costs. Mage tutors and supplies cost so much.
He doesn’t need to be like you. He doesn’t have to be a smith or a priest and you don’t want to be jealous of the lottery he won with his talent. You alter how you try to parent, get a membership the library. If he can control his emotions then you know he’ll be the best one in his teacher’s eyes.
He could become whatever he wanted to be and rise to the top of society. You are as certain of this are you are of your faith in the Light.
–
You have not been a child for so long you have forgotten that it isn’t only adults that can be cruel. They bullied him. Samiel! Your son. You’d wondered why he’d been so off. You try to convince his teacher to understand, to make it stop. But Samiel punched the daughter of a Magister.
You realize how low you are on the ladder of society when they tell you Samiel will still be punished for hitting her. How do they see he was defending himself and still punish him? He’s not an adult that understands how the world truly is.
You’ve spent centuries learning from religious, philosophical, and medical text alike. You know he can be taught alone so you pull him from classes and as you leave the school that day you don’t scold him. You take him out to get something nice to eat instead.
To be both teacher, parent, and smith eats away your day. You miss when you could have some time to do nothing.
Before resentment grows you strangle it. It’s not his fault. You take on more work. Someday he will go to Dalaran or one of the schools in Silvermoon. Maybe even become an apprentice. Such a thing is costly but if you start now you can help ease some of the financial burden.
–
It hurts. It physically hurts day in and day out now. You know you push yourself to hard and sometimes when you call on the Light to much you overdo it and seize. Less than a decade, your promise yourself, Samiel will become an adult and you’ll stop. But mage spells and books are costly and sometimes you skip a meal or two. But Samiel always eats, as tempting as it is to take some of his snacks or food you ignore it.
His talent grows in leaps and bounds, it seems, and you worry so much. You’re not skilled enough to teach more than the most basic of the arcane and things learned from your Priesthood. But you try, you try so hard to help. He learns from you but you know he needs better than you.
Samiel is still as angry as he was when he came into the world but now he’s old enough to catch the hints of your stress and strain. You work enough for two men, maybe three, and he can see it as you slowly wear down and he grows older, more observant and sharp with fel green eyes that aren’t entirely that of a child’s.
But it it helps Samiel you promise yourself you’ll get up again and again and again. You never yells, your never get mad and even when his snark comes around you take it without worry.
Someday he’ll be amazing. Someday he’ll inspire the world.
Or maybe not.
You promise yourself you’ll be happy and proud of him as long as he can stand on his own. Already he wanders the city like he owns it.
–
You make new friends and get a second job as a healer. It feels amazing to heal again. Samiel gets -apprenticed-, a sign of his future greatness like you’ve always known.
You keep trying to be everything your parents were not. You don’t yell, you speak softly. You don’t order him, you try to tell him the consequences and how they can hurt others. When he found that egg and Khalithas sought you both out you knew he would dig his heels in. You told him then about how terrible it would be to lose a tiny life because you were so proud and assured- not knowledgeable- assured you could do better. How cruel it would be to destroy a life because you thought you knew better. Khalithas leaves with the egg freely given by Samiel and now everytime you see Ruby with her wide eyes and wings you’re reminded of how he made the right choice without being forced.
He’s gotten a penchant for chaos and just like his birth mother he thrives in it. But you keep an eye, warn him and he learns boundaries. Slowly you see him grow and you’re proud.
You try not be like your parents. You do not yell, do not try to force him into following your path. You try to teach him to be kind and he is- in his own way. Snarky and far to smart for his own good. But he’s grown to be better about his acidic wit and can keep his tongue quiet when Rai’thas trips or slowly wakes up in the mornings and makes small mistakes. He’s grown fond of him as well.
You hope you were a good parent. Are a good parent. You hope so much one day he’ll tell you that you are.
–
He just found his first crush. You don’t worry about that either as you watch them play at your smithy. You don’t comment. You’ll be there if he needs you.
SWC – Day 11 HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER ACT WHEN THEY ARE AFRAID?
To my children now and those that might come-
Fear.
It is an instinctive thing fear. Both our teacher and the chains that hold us down. When we cut out selves with a knife or touch a hot stove it is our reminder. Danger, it tells us. That hurts. Don’t do that again. It is what helps us survive. Only a fool does not fear. The one that lacks it is one who has lost something valuable.
And then there is fear when we let it do more than just teach. When fear controls you it becomes your chains. Whether it is because they cannot master that fear or because they have never had their mettle tested, that is when fear becomes your chains. They hold you down, fill you with terror.
Do not deny yourself fear. But do not let your fear master -you-. Every soldier on a battlefield had felt that fear. But they do not let it chain them down. I’ve felt it before. A warning to tell me I am in danger, who is more dangerous than I am.
When you feel that fear try to take hold it is difficult to shake. But everytime you fight your fear you grow stronger. When you grip your daggers or continue to walk on the battlefield. When you cross blades and magic with your unknown foes. I turn that fear into anger. How DARE they fight against me and my cause? Love and your cause will also help you. I fight for Quel’thalas and that bond between my home and people and myself is strong.
I want to survive, to show my enemies I should be feared, to get the peaceful future for our home and people so much. There’s many who deserve that future. Through fighting, purging corruption- I think maybe someday I’ll find it.
I don’t know why I write this. Perhaps I feel some responsibility for you children. For Kassandra,Alexandra, and Samiel and the others that remain a possibility. Perhaps this is how i make up for the motherly instinct that I do not have. By giving you these words when you are older so that you have some comfort. Some idea that, even though I lack the instinct of a parent, I cared for you in some manner.
For whatever it’s worth. Until such a day as you get this it will remain hidden under Thallus’s bed with my bag. I do not desire to head to the city now and here, in a home of memories I am safe as Thallus grumps in another room.
But that, children, is a story for another time.
Stay good, be kind, love the people who would die for you, respect the wisdom others give but take it with salt. Do not give up your freedom. Fight for your people and home but do not be needlessly cruel. I would rather you all grow up kind than cruel with a black heart. Do not let bitterness consume you as I was consumed.Fear but do not let it control you.
These are all such simple words on paper. But I do not know what else to impart to you. I hope when you are all given this and read it you understand I wanted you all to be as good as the people who raised you.
And this needs to be investigated as well Windsong.” The Magister’s tone grew mocking at her name. The paper that was tossed onto the desk bore the seal of a familiar name. A name that had been appearing far to often as of recent. “Another Sir?” She kept her voice polite as she opened the paper to scan it. “Yes, another. It’s more disturbing than the last. Damned reports never end.”
She kept her tongue in her mouth, knowing better than to argue. She had sacrificed much for her people and home, but she avoided rising up in the ranks. Losing more and more of her freedom needled her, reminding her that duty she was given was a rope around her neck. Precious freedom lost. She could feel the rope chafing her neck even when her tapered fingers touched it and felt only her own bare skin.
“I’ll take care of it Sir, of course.” As you should have if you read the letter, went unsaid. For reassurance she touched the daggers belted to her waist as she rose up, walking around the rosewood desk. “See that you do. I don’t like seeing these reports on my desk.” A pause then: “Can you take care of it? By yourself?” Their personalities rubbed each other poorly but they at least were willing to stand as comrades in arms when the situation required. Something in their relationship they were at least willing to give the other without argument.
To serve the state of Quel’thalas they did not- could not do any less.
“I don’t need help this time.” The Magister nodded slowly. “At some point you’ll no longer be able to pass the credit onto me. Somebody will notice you.” The Magister’s lips tugged upwards in a humorless smile.
“Nobody notices a spider.” She promised, tugging her cloak on. Blood red and black, enchanted to keep her footsteps soft. “Unless the spiders grows fat and bold.” And then she was gone.
-Later in the evening.-
It was easy to work in the dark when the lights of Silvermoon had gone dim. Eyes were less observant of their surroundings and questions were not asked. Especially not in the alley of Murder Row. Covered in shadows unnatural it held a good amount of the illicit trade in Silvermoon City and several loitered on the street.
A shoddy door of a small shop squeezes between the bar and a poorly disguised pawnshop was what she had sought and slipped into hours ago. Filled with antiques, poisons, and thistle, it was a poor shop unless you knew the shop keep. “My friend.” Windsong greeted as she entered, offering a lazy salute. The dark headed shopkeep eyed Windsong with sharp appraising eyes. He said nothing back but she saw him stiffen and one hand slip below the counter, not seeing his shadow darken and undulated upwards. “Not taking new customers.”
“Oh, no need to worry about that. I’m just here to see a customer. They’re upstairs, right?” Whatever the shopkeep had been about to say died as a grunt escaped his throat. His eyes widened as he turned slicing at the voidwalker that had dug its claws into his side. The dagger, despite the magical glow it possessed, did not phase the voidwalker. Its shadows grew in strength as it fed off the man’s fear. “Keep him quiet. Lock the door. Ten minutes and we’re out so finish up before then.”
Disappointment, if the voidwalker was capable of possessing it, failed to show in its soft whisper of acknowledgement as its mistress moved around it to open the only other door in the room.
The room’s only occupant didn’t bother to look up as she entered or when she closed the door behind her. Wearing fine robes that had once upon a time been vibrant white and blue and had become ruined with time. The former priestesses’ dull fel green eyes studied Windsong from beneath her tattered hood as she gripped the handle of her mace. “I had wondered if someone would find me.”
“Wonder no longer. You are said to have committed crimes against the state of Quel’thalas-”
“The state is corrupt!” Passion made the priestess rise up. “I gave them hope! I gave them purpose! I showed them the truth!”
“Hold, hold.” She raised her hands in a silent gesture for peace. “Hear me out. You are said to have committed crimes against the state of Quel’thalas- but we know better than that. I’m here to take you out of the city, away from the Magisters. We cannot restore Silvermoon if you are in hiding.”
“How do I know you were sent by one of my flock? You summoned a demon outside.” Hope showed in her eyes and her posture remained alert.
She kept her voice polite. “I say only the truth that I wish to see silvermoon restored to glory and have come here to take you to safety. I summoned a demon, true. But only to cover our trail. Nobody will bat an eye if it was a demon who killed a man in Murder Row.” Half truths were still half truths and the chance for escape, no matter how slender, was enough. A haughty look crossed her features. “Is there anyone else to take with us?”
“No.”
“No?”
“My flock… lost their way and without me they remain lost.” A soft whisper announced the voidwalker’s presence as it slide beneath the door, shadows moving past her feet. “I wasted my breath for nothing then.” Eyes widening, the priestess moved back- but there was no room to go to. No windows to escape from the claws of the voidwalker as it grabbed her slender ankle.
“Dominating and overwriting the free will of citizens to use them as proxies to commit crimes on your behalf, in an attempt to gain power.” Windsong pulled free one of daggers. “Have you not seen how the Light has left you?” The blade slide between her ribs easily, into her heart and with a twist life faded from the other woman’s eyes.
“Quel’thalas needs many things.” She stated matter of factly to the corpse. “But it does not need you.”
What is the biggest trigger for stress in your character’s life?
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Hair? Check. Makeup and clothing? Check. neutral expression on her face? Check. Windsong pressed her hand against the door, pushing it open. The familiar smell of mint and sage assaulted her nostrils. Heat from the fireplace warmed her face, turning her cheeks red. Her heart began pounding as the invisible hand of stress squeezed it. The desk was stacked with papers.
The Magister turned and smiled. The pounding migraine and mana exhaustion became a certainty. “Windsong, I’ve got a lot of work today.” A gesture of his hands and he turned away.
You mean I have a lot of work to do.
The Magister tinkered with whatever was in his hands, ignorant of the world or the way her fel green eyes almost bored holes in his back.
Someday I won’t be there to do your work for you.
And I’ll watch you choke on it from afar.
Bastard.
She relished the thought of his sudden demise as she picked up the first paper.
Write about a phobia your character has. When and how did they discover they had this fear?
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They called her the Bone Witch. Honored Grandmother. Dearest Aunt. Honored Grandfather. Sweetest Uncle. Elder Brother. Affectionate and warm titles you would give to the family member who you held affection like no other. The family member who had given you only kindness and warmth in your darkest hours. T
I never knew what the Bone Witch considered or called themselves in that sleepy village. I did not intend to stay- small villages and odd traditions are not worrisome. But sometimes the Light whispers in your ears and rather than stay overnight after helping the local smith, I took my payment and then I left. It was going to take time to get to Quel’thalas- a week of walking- and I listened to the Light’s whisper.
A single elf walking the path at night, I hoped, would get no trouble. But after leaving the village I began to feel the need to hurry. When I reached the first crossroads I saw them.
The Bone Witch leaned against the signpost for the roads. Nobody would ever believe me, but I swear I saw a woman’s form that shifted to something else. Became male and solidified. When he spoke his voice was saccharine, sweet as chocolate in my mouth. I do not remember the words he spoke or if I replied for my next memory is of their hands on my shoulder. I could smell roses but as he looked up to me the sweet smell of roses became spoiled, rotting corpses and I gagged.
Roses were spoiled for me ever since. But what haunted me, truly haunted me were his eyes.
Shadows. Shadows so deeply entrenched in their soul it was impossible to remove it.
I’ve seen shadow priest. I’ve seen many who can have enough control to wield forces most cannot comprehend. But there is a certain kind of darkness for those who give up everything in pursuit of something. Those people are the countryside myths, the nighttime terrors that crawl over the land. They enjoy the depraved, the fear, the terror, the power they hold over those that cannot leave or fight back.
There is nothing more sickening or fearful than the petty, selfish, greedy desires of small evils. They exist only for their own fulfillment and that fulfillment is twisted and tainted.
I got away from the bone witch and left that small village. But the feeling of him staring into my back as I left has never escaped me. In the centuries since I have often thought of them. I fear becoming such a petty, bitter, bile spitting creature and true or not I have often corrected myself.
I cannot ever walk onto such a path that would lead me there. Fear the Shadows. Fear the Bone With and all others of such ilk. The larger evils are just as depraved but do not forget the small evils that stalk the night.
A later addition to the old and aging paper is below. Judging by the ink it’s less than a century.
Do not go to Southern Lorderon at the crossroads where the village used to be. The bone Witch is still there. They say their village is gone and they need help. Do not help the Bone Witch.
Name one thing your character has lied to themselves about. Why did they do this?
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The ache he felt in his very soul. it tore away at his innards like a starving animal. A never ceasing, never ending pain. But with effort of will he could force himself to continue. He had to work, his smithy would die if it was just him.
In the corner of his smithy, wrapped in soft clothes and his tunics lay Samiel. He called out to his infant son as he worked, giving the comfort of his voice when he could not hold him. Worry filled his smithy, thicker than smoke and heavier than the ore he smelted. When sweat dripped down his face and the liquid metal began to set and cool he turned to see his son.
The tiny infant let out a soft reedy cry as Tyleril’s hands bumped into his basket. “I know. Poppa’s sorry.” he crooned softly. “I’m sorry little baby.” He slide his arms underneath Samiel, lifting the infant up. “Once every three hours for pop, hm? Then I’ll put you back.” He kissed Samiel’s forehead as the infant scowled.
Born after the end of the third war and yet…. he still lived where so many had died. Without the Sunwell.
The mana bottle in his hands felt like liquid diamond.
But a bottle of liquid diamond was far less valuable than mana.
He tipped the bottle as Samiel’s mouth opened. A few droplets to sate the pain, a few more to soothe the need. Then in three hours he would do it again.
“Look at how healthy you are! My big boy, huh?” Samiel scowled at him, grabbing a calloused finger with his hands as Tyleril smiled and gently rocked the infant. “Windsong-” He broke off.
As much as he told himself Samiel was fine he could see how magical addition made the infant weak. That he lived to survive childbirth and reach this age at all was a miracle.
“You’re so good. W-we’ll go take a walk later, hm?”
Samiel’s fine. Weak and sickly, he might not wake up from his next nap. He has medicine for it. Barely. It barely sustains him and you suffer as well. Look at how thin you’ve become. “Someone was whispering to me they have a replacement for mana- silly, hm?” A kiss to Samiel’s forehead as the child began to cry, in a thin and reedy voice. “I know. P-poppa knows. You’re fine Samiel.”
The lie did nothing to easy the fear and worry. But if he said it enough maybe it would become truth.
Write a diary entry for your character, dated 10 years in the future (a tale of ‘what if’s’)
The house was still as the night grew late save for the scratching of his pen on the journal entry page. The passing suggestions Adriannal had given him all those years ago to keep a journal entry for reflection day to day had somehow carried on through the years and now, as before, he was glad he listened to his brother-in-law’s advice. He could flip through the pages and see what life was before in word and picture, and even now he could feel the thickness between sheets where a picture of Velianor and their newly born twin boys was fastened with the date of their birth.
Hati and Skol slept peacefully in their bedroom. Behind him through the open door of the study he could hear Velianor moving through the hall, and her hands that slipped onto his shoulders was a welcome source of warmth as she entered into the room and stood behind him. “It’s getting late.”
“I’ll be there soon.” He lifted a hand and slid it through her red and old hair that she was letting grow out again. “I just need to finish this or my conscience with the voice of your brother will yell at me.”
“That’s a terrifying thought. I’ll leave you two alone.” They exchanged a brief but sweet kiss before she moved out of the study and left him to his work. Smiling he turned back to his task and continued.
Today Hati came to me frustrated and in near crocolisk tears with a tale that his brother had pushed him into the frog pond outside of the gardens. Skol, of course, denied it, but Skol like his mother has always been a mischievous one. Later he confessed to his mother he did push Hati into the lake so he could ‘see the frogs better and kiss one so he could find a princess’. Velianor told him the legend doesn’t exactly work that way while laughing. Great discipline there, love.
The boys are growing so fast. They’re perfect mixes of myself and their mother, and more and more each day I see parts of us in how they speak, how they act, their personalities and characters. Hati, so much more like me, but still with a rebellious streak he could only have gotten from Velianor. Skol, so much more like his mother, but with my distaste for lies and deceit. The cycle of sun and moon goes ever on within them.
Even now looking out into the dark grounds of the Novastorm gardens I find it hard to believe that life for both myself and my wolf of a wife has come this far. I still find it had to believe that my name is now ‘Battlevalor Novastorm’ (perhaps some husbands take issue with taking the wife’s last name for himself, though I never did. Besides, it’s alphabetical and both the twins approved). Adriannal and I will never be Best friends forever, but I cannot deny the love and care he gives the boys, his sister, and the irreplaceable and hard to repay help he gave me all those years ago. He pushed aside his own demons to help me with mine. I wonder if he knows what wonders he really did.
Velianor has grown into Lady Novastorm and her people love her. I couldn’t be more proud.
Keep an eye out on Viridians health. She’s getting a bit slower in her age. She still has many years to go, but the many hours she prefers laying in the sun and taking a nice slow walk around the fog pond is telling.
Tell your wife you love her as often as you can. The years that you’ve been together have been both wonderful and trying, but I couldn’t ask for a better lover, partner, and friend.
He let the ink dry before he closed the book and stood with it in hand to slide back into its place in the bookshelf. A brief puff of breath snuffed out the candle and he made his way towards his and Velianors bedroom, smiling at the sound of the twins talking to each other in their sleep behind the closed door of their bedroom as he passed it.
Tyleril Silversword 