Worm Bait
Velharil wouldn’t say that the Crimson Halls incident had affected him in an entirely negative way. In fact, the months following the regime change turned out to afford him more freedom than he had enjoyed in years, possibly decades. No Princes, legitimate or self-declared, were left to breathe down his neck, keeping him and the other Darkfallen blood mages from squabbling over resources or sneaking off to build personal power bases; patrols of paladins no longer criss-crossed the snows every few hours, smiting any unfortunate Scourge who poked his head aboveground to check if it was safe. The new leadership showed little interest in what remained of the undead army, allowing Velharil to set his own hours and assignments. The deep reaches of the nerubian cave system proved itself not only an excellent place to hide from the last remnants of the Crusade but also a repository of knowledge and culture that neither Ner’zhul nor Arthas had taken much care to preserve; the solitary San’layn kept himself well-occupied with transcribing and translating what he found in-between his tactical retreats from the odd roaming Faceless.
There were downsides, of course, like the silence. The silence was profound, filling entire grand halls which, Velharil deduced from the murals, were once meant to accommodate assemblies of thousands; it stretched on and on through the chambers and passageways, interrupted only by the skitter of mute cave spiders or the occasional echoing wail of a lost thrall in the saronite tunnels even deeper below. Those noises, along with the chittering of the few remaining crypt fiends who would occasionally skulk past, at least prevented the silence from becoming deafening. But it wasn’t the lack of sound that bothered Velharil as much as it was the total and utter absence of speech; the last spoken words he remembered distinctly were those of a new Lich King, echoing in his head, and that was months ago. Months? Years? The indefinite expanse of lonely silence was far more maddening than any Old God’s mutterings could possibly be.
And there was the hunger, too.
A powerful shiver ran through his body, becoming trapped in his ears, which trembled intensely. It took a great effort to refocus on the hieroglyphics in front of him. Yes, unexpected fortune had come to him to relieve the terrible silence, and it would soon return to offer a solution to his other torment, as well. But he needed to be patient, to busy himself with scholarly distractions a bit longer, to tamp down his greedy imaginings, at least for the moment.
Just a bit longer to wait for relief.
The trip back to the lower levels of the Nerubian city wasn’t very eventful. There were guards and broodlings about but they weren’t interesting. The statues and weird pool and egg-things, Chry pointed those out but he and Jiel didn’t really linger. After all they were there on business, not some Reliquary sightseeing expedition.
It was almost Blade business, dealing with remnants of His power and all.
Past the broodlings, past the repaired wards, past the scorched floors where he’d torched the ugly lumbering undead the last time he was here. Up the stairs and they paused at the edge of the dais to lurk for a few minutes, watching their quarry as it puttered about with its tablets. It was absorbed enough in its work it didn’t seem to notice visitors had arrived.
Chryseth leaned against Jiel for a few moments before gesturing: Stay here out of sight. After getting a silent Scourge-gesture of acknowledgement he moved purposefully up the stairs to stand a few feet away from Velharil, hands in sight and holding a few small wrapped packages.
“Good afternoon,” the mage called out. Though he wasn’t honestly sure what time it was, afternoon was a good guess; after all, he intended to be home in time for dinner. “I said I’d be back and here I am!” Sooty added a cheerful bit of punctuation to that, snug and cozy in his master’s shirt.
The Darkfallen elf stood straight up, erect ears quivering for a moment before he turned, looking over his shoulder, milky eyes alert and intense. “Aaah, and so you are,” he murmured, breaking into a slow grin as his nostrils flared. “And so is the young one. But your laconic friend couldn’t make it?”
“Fraid not,” Chry replied. “Just me and my l-loves.” The hatchling chirped again and worked his way out of the nest and to the mage’s shoulder, peering around curiously at the Darkfallen and accessories. “And books and tea and things, like I said. Hope they’re to your liking.” He held out the packages, ears flicked forward.
Velharil laughed quietly, shaking his head as he moved closer. “Gifts! Wholly unnecessary, my dear. Lively company is a rare treat all on its own!” Still, he extended a hand -- a slender-fingered, almost-clawed hand -- to take what Chryseth offered.
Two tins of dried herbs for tea (one mana thistle, one something that Chry had thought smelled wholly alluring when the Consortium trader offered it to him). A volume of recently published research on the Nerubian language. A tin of cookies, freshly baked, with mana candies packed beside them. The magelet watched eagerly to see if his offerings were well-taken.
“I said I’d bring em and I did!” he said cheerfully. “Made the sweets myself.”
The San’layn examined each item in turn, sniffing a pinch of tea leaves held between his thick black fingernails, flipping casually through a few pages of the book. He paused on a chapter heading, looking up at the living mage, grinning wide. “How unusually kind of you. I’m touched, but -- may I ask something, dear child?”
“I always reserve the right to decline to answer,” Chry said, still ever so bouncy and bright. “Not that I w-wish to be rude and I hope it doesn’t offend.”
Velharil chuckled and nodded acknowledgment of that, putting the book aside to pry open the tin of cookies and sniff deliberately, savoring the scents as he inhaled. “It’s just...” He snapped the lid back in place and set the box aside, returning his full attention to Chry, his gaze intense, attentive. “... Wouldn’t they normally send a fellow who attempts to befriend the San’layn to a sanatorium?”
Chry had to laugh and shrug at that; Sooty scolded softly and resettled once his perch was still. “I guess so. But I don’t g-go advertising my peculiarities to the people who are in charge of such things. It’s easier than they m-might like to think, being quietly... crazy.” His hand slipped down to rest on his swordhilt, fingers curling around the guard.
Velharil’s intense gaze moved to Soulspark for a moment, but it quickly returned to Chryseth’s face, lingering there a moment before he turned his back to sort through his things. “Ah, of course. But what gives you those peculiarities, I wonder? Shouldn’t you be afraid?” And he straightened, picking up his iron teapot and turning back to the other elf, lifting it and his eyebrows questioningly as he smiled and added, “Or at least repulsed?”
Chry nodded to the teapot and considered the question for a few moments. Another shrug, this one carefully one-shouldered to not jostle the hatchy. “I’ve rarely c-concerned myself with shoulds, my dear fellow. They offer too many c-constraints, generally unncessarily. Best to leave em to the city magisters. No offense if you w-were one, of course.”
Velharil laughed again, heartily this time. “Don’t worry, the necromancers check for and remove any sticks up the asses of the dead before raising them.” Once again he performed his water-conjuring trick, filling the teapot and setting it on his palm, mage-fire engulfing his hand and warming the iron vessel. “But still, my dear -- wouldn’t happen to have something better than ‘my dear’ for me to call you, would you?”
“Call me Cloudfoot,” came the easy answer. “Or Keenblaze, if old school-names are too informal for your tastes.”
“Keenblaze, then, in the interests of avoiding ‘Ey, Worm’?” The San’layn added a sprinkling of dried mana thistle to the water. “But surely you know that we are not still blood elves.” He glanced up, sharp, yellow teeth showing in his smile. “So I wonder what under the sun might have motivated you to come with gifts instead of torches?”
The magelet considered again. “Well,” he said finally, haltingly, “I suppose there’s the queer notion that you don’t automatically d-deserve to be put to the torch. You are not an elf, no, but there m-might be enough elfishness in you that a bit of companionship, some books, some tea... m-might bring you pleasure. Naive of me I suppose, but then I spend a l-lot of time around undead. Mostly hasn’t hurt me yet.”
Velharil laughed enigmatically, no readable emotion in his face, as he extended his free hand, a glass of ice forming in it. “Sylvanas’s people?” he asked, tone mild, as he poured the first cup for Chryseth and offered it to him.
Chry took the cup and had a leisurely sip, eyes not leaving the other mage’s face. “Sometimes. Sometimes Ebon Blades. Sometimes ghouls and geists. Not Darkfallen in g-general, though it’s hard to say if that’s from lack of exposure and opportunity or just because it’s a dumb idea.”
“Ebon Blades,” Velharil echoed, tone amused but not disdainful, while pouring himself a drink in a second frost-magic glass. “I suppose you must not be naive to the nature of the Scourge’s children, then. But now I’m afraid I understand you even less; are pity and sympathy enough motivation for you to extend a friendly hand so recklessly?”
“It’s n-not even precisely sympathy. Let alone pity. I’m not certain how to explain myself, though if you wish to understand I could make the attempt.” Chry’s eyes remained on the Darkfallen as he took another longer drink, savoring the herby goodness. “I cannot pretend we are fellows, nor that I understand you, but I know how terribly lonely I’d be in your boots. Or I think I do anyhow. That is something I can entirely empathize with.”
Velharil half-chuckled, intense gaze finally dropping from Chryseth’s face and settling on the surface of his tea, a few stray flecks of mana thistle swirling around upon it. He was silent a moment before and after his first delicate sip, and then, without looking up, he murmured, “Few show any interest in making an attempt.” He glanced back up at the living mage, green-white eyes quieter now, body still except for the minute but regular twitching of one ear. Another pause, and then, rather suddenly, “Tell me of you, Keenblaze.”
“There’s n-not much to tell, honestly. I’m a student of the arcane without a master. I dabble in runecraft and engineering -- did a lot of work with the Argents during the war, maintaining their cannon and whatnot. I travel a lot. None of my House survived the war, so I’ve no proper ties anywhere. But that’s n-n-not, you know, uncommon these days.” Sooty peeped a soft question, beak suddenly finding stray bits of Chry’s hair to groom, and the mage reached up to pet him reassuringly. “Of course, I’ve got improper ties all over. Yes, especially to you, Soot.”
The dead elf made a soft, thoughtful noise, leaning in closer, both ears attentive when not seized with twitching fits. “I’m sorry about your family,” he murmured -- the sentiment sounded genuine, if subdued; who hadn’t lost children, parents, brothers and sisters? Another long pause, and then, with a little tilt of his head, he asked, “Is that the little one’s warmth I feel, or is that... Are you a student of flame?”
“Both, I guess.” Soot peeped again and fluttered his wings a bit, leaning down to examine the strange elf. “I c-can cool myself down if it bugs you. Don’t need to be all flaunting my -- burniness at you.”
Velharil lifted a hand slightly, as if to reach out and touch the little phoenix... or perhaps Chryseth’s face. He dropped it almost immediately, though, and lowered his head, letting out a brief, strained laugh. “Ha... It wouldn’t do much good.”
Chry watched him, Velharil’s face and ears, gaze finally dropping a bit to those clawed hands. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “If you want, I can leave. I wouldn’t wish to... cause distress. Just tea and cookies.”
The Darkfallen shook his head slightly, though he stayed quiet for a moment, ears just slightly trembling. Finally, he looked up, smile struggling against the sadness in his face. “... Such an amusing coincidence. You are a bit younger, but...” Again he tilted his head, studying the taller elf’s countenance. “So much like what I was.”
Velharil’s head once more suddenly dropped as he let out a little almost-a-sob, his shoulders falling.
Sooty settled back against his master’s shoulder and together they studied Velharil, searching and calculating and intense. “And how d-does that make you feel?” Chry asked finally, somewhere between curious and sympathetic.
The answer was a strained little laugh. “... Happy, really,” the Darkfallen murmured, glancing up again, expression now turning almost wistful. “Happy to be delivered such a sweet gift, to be able to have those things again.” And the hand holding his glass of tea suddenly released it, the unhappiness evaporating from Velharil’s face and leaving only joyful excitement as he lunged forward, talon-like fingernails shooting towards Chryseth’s throat.
They hardly got anywhere near it. Almost as soon as he started to move, he jerked back, crying out with frustration and surprise. He threw off the coils of necromantic energy just in time to leap away from the point of the spell-breaker’s sword coming down at him. The San’layn continued to dart back, eyes wide, fearful and angry, as he hissed in the jagged language of the Scourge, “Ebon dog!”
Sooty lifted off his master’s shoulder, growing and throwing off a wave of sudden tremendous heat. Wings beating, he hovered between Chryseth and the Darkfallen, screaming a warning. The he darted off to keep the Darkfallen pinned, unable to flee from the Blade without inviting a toasting.
“I am not yours,” Chry growled in the same tongue. Soulspark in his hand he edged forward, fingers of his other hand wreathed in flame. “You forget your place.”
Velharil’s eyes widened at the sight of the full-grown phoenix, but he barely paused for a second; the sight of a giant, angry Sooty seemed only to cement his already firm decision to flee. He held out a hand, a powerful blast of cold air and biting ice flying into his enemies’ faces as he worked backwards. The spell did nearly nothing to stop the death knight bearing down on him, though; a twirl of his blade devoured it, as he continued to barrel forward, his footing as solid on the ice that had formed on the stairs as it would be on packed earth.
The phoenix kept behind the Darkfallen, trying to herd him toward the death knight -- or at least hinder his escape -- a darting dive at his back, a furious trill. A blast of fire shot from Chry’s hand to Velharil’s feet, a surprisingly gentle tickle of flame meant more to make the ice slippery than to do any serious damage to its target, the Darkfallen leaping away with a feral howl.
He would not be able to retreat with the phoenix harrying him, and so he turned his attention to him, tossing a wide swath of frostfire into the air that bore down hungrily upon its target. But the moment it took to cast the spell allowed the death knight, face twisted into a mad snarl, to catch up, runeblade slicing open the magical shield around the mage in one strike. The San’layn was barely able to draw his own blade in time to save himself from the second strike, parrying it and blowing a puff of flame into the Blade’s face. Mornherald stumbled and his quarry turned and fled.
Sooty lunged toward the frostfire, trying to devour it but finding the combination not remotely to his taste. The phoenix choked and screamed again more in anger than pain. A gout of flame to cleanse his palate and he twisted to follow the san’layn, hurt but not entirely deterred.
In the confusion, somehow Chryseth had vanished entirely. A slight ozone-y whiff was the only possible clue to his actions; perhaps he’d also decided to flee? But the air in front of Velharil erupted suddenly in flames and the mage stood before him, sword going for the dead elf’s throat. Surprised and unable to dodge, the Darkfallen shielded his face with his sword arm -- Soulspark cutting through his cloth-wrapped forearm, nearly to the bone. He shrieked, but, without a pause, thrust his other hand out against Chryseth’s chest, blasting him with a burst of frost magic. Chry grunted and stumbled back a bit but quickly tried to regain his ground.
Velharil pushed past, the wound spraying ichor from his arm barely slowing him -- but he hardly needed to be slowed for the other three to close in. He did have one advantage, though; weeks upon weeks, hours upon countless hours, he had studied these ruins and their winding passages in great detail. He changed direction suddenly, darting away, the death knight only a few steps behind, just enough ground for the wounded blood mage to make it to the edge of the platform first and, without hesitating, launch off it into the darkness that stretched on indefinitely below. Mornherald’s tunnel vision opened up just in time for him to see the edge in front of him, and with a panicked shout, he tried to brake -- but the momentum of the heavily saronite-clad elf was too much, and he, too, tumbled over the edge.
Sooty dove over the edge after him, catching the Blade with surprising tenderness and carrying him back to deposit as a prize and offering to his master. Jiel landed on his butt with a clank, eyes wide and burning bright with surprise, before he shook his head to clear it and unsteadily returned to his feet. “My error, Champion,” he murmured, turning back to the edge and peering down... cautiously, from a safe distance away. “Shit... can’t see anything down there.”
“M’ sure that was his intention,” Chry said, walking up to lean against him. Sooty took the Blade’s other side, stretching to offer some hair-grooming. “And n-not your fault at all. Attacking someone in his home turf’s always dicey, and in h-h-his place I’d have had a few dozen escape plans in place. At least.”
Jiel nodded, gazing down into the darkness a moment longer before growling and tightening his grip on his runeblade; it hadn’t even gotten a taste of blood, unlike Soulspark. “Let’s go straight to the Shadow Vault. They’ve gotta hear there are still San’layn lurking about south of Icecrown. Maybe I can talk Deadkeeper into sendin’ me down with a hunting party...” He spat off the edge of the platform, glowering.
“After we -- you. After you’ve reported, we could go hunting ourselves. Still cultists I bet. Lingering Sourge. Somethin’.” Chry’s gaze slipped to Jiel’s runesword even as his hand went back to Soulspark’s hilt. “And f’ you can use a mage with your squad, let me know? I live to serve, Champion.”
“No other mage I’d rather have with me for either of those,” Jiel replied, gently bumping against Chryseth’s shoulder (gently! minding his pauldron’s many spikes). “Guess I owe you another life-debt now,” he joked, “or maybe just an every-bone-in-my-lower-body-debt.”
Chry laughed, bumping back just as carefully. “Owe it to Sooty if you want. Though he’d prefer payment in grasshoppers and scritchies. C’mon, let me make us a portal. Not goin’ to Dalaran, not worth maybe setting him loose there if he follows us. But the Vault should be good. He can go there f’ he wants.”
Jiel gestured Scourgeish assent. “Vault, then south, for the Cult of the Damned. Then back to the Tundra for me, I suppose, if they don’t need me for anything by then. Or do you think a grasshopper hunt’s gonna get me in trouble with D.E.H.T.A.?”
“I don’t think they’re a protected species. We should be safe. I c-can get us some nets and we can catch butterflies even!” Already cheerful again -- the prospect of a hunt, several hunts, always left him that way. Chry gestured to Sooty, a quasi-Scourge fingerflick, and the phoenix obediently diminished in size. Once he was small enough to comfortably fit, he reclaimed his place on the mage’s shoulder.
The portal opened before them, cold and yet inviting. Icecrown awaited their return home.
There were downsides, of course, like the silence. The silence was profound, filling entire grand halls which, Velharil deduced from the murals, were once meant to accommodate assemblies of thousands; it stretched on and on through the chambers and passageways, interrupted only by the skitter of mute cave spiders or the occasional echoing wail of a lost thrall in the saronite tunnels even deeper below. Those noises, along with the chittering of the few remaining crypt fiends who would occasionally skulk past, at least prevented the silence from becoming deafening. But it wasn’t the lack of sound that bothered Velharil as much as it was the total and utter absence of speech; the last spoken words he remembered distinctly were those of a new Lich King, echoing in his head, and that was months ago. Months? Years? The indefinite expanse of lonely silence was far more maddening than any Old God’s mutterings could possibly be.
And there was the hunger, too.
A powerful shiver ran through his body, becoming trapped in his ears, which trembled intensely. It took a great effort to refocus on the hieroglyphics in front of him. Yes, unexpected fortune had come to him to relieve the terrible silence, and it would soon return to offer a solution to his other torment, as well. But he needed to be patient, to busy himself with scholarly distractions a bit longer, to tamp down his greedy imaginings, at least for the moment.
Just a bit longer to wait for relief.
The trip back to the lower levels of the Nerubian city wasn’t very eventful. There were guards and broodlings about but they weren’t interesting. The statues and weird pool and egg-things, Chry pointed those out but he and Jiel didn’t really linger. After all they were there on business, not some Reliquary sightseeing expedition.
It was almost Blade business, dealing with remnants of His power and all.
Past the broodlings, past the repaired wards, past the scorched floors where he’d torched the ugly lumbering undead the last time he was here. Up the stairs and they paused at the edge of the dais to lurk for a few minutes, watching their quarry as it puttered about with its tablets. It was absorbed enough in its work it didn’t seem to notice visitors had arrived.
Chryseth leaned against Jiel for a few moments before gesturing: Stay here out of sight. After getting a silent Scourge-gesture of acknowledgement he moved purposefully up the stairs to stand a few feet away from Velharil, hands in sight and holding a few small wrapped packages.
“Good afternoon,” the mage called out. Though he wasn’t honestly sure what time it was, afternoon was a good guess; after all, he intended to be home in time for dinner. “I said I’d be back and here I am!” Sooty added a cheerful bit of punctuation to that, snug and cozy in his master’s shirt.
The Darkfallen elf stood straight up, erect ears quivering for a moment before he turned, looking over his shoulder, milky eyes alert and intense. “Aaah, and so you are,” he murmured, breaking into a slow grin as his nostrils flared. “And so is the young one. But your laconic friend couldn’t make it?”
“Fraid not,” Chry replied. “Just me and my l-loves.” The hatchling chirped again and worked his way out of the nest and to the mage’s shoulder, peering around curiously at the Darkfallen and accessories. “And books and tea and things, like I said. Hope they’re to your liking.” He held out the packages, ears flicked forward.
Velharil laughed quietly, shaking his head as he moved closer. “Gifts! Wholly unnecessary, my dear. Lively company is a rare treat all on its own!” Still, he extended a hand -- a slender-fingered, almost-clawed hand -- to take what Chryseth offered.
Two tins of dried herbs for tea (one mana thistle, one something that Chry had thought smelled wholly alluring when the Consortium trader offered it to him). A volume of recently published research on the Nerubian language. A tin of cookies, freshly baked, with mana candies packed beside them. The magelet watched eagerly to see if his offerings were well-taken.
“I said I’d bring em and I did!” he said cheerfully. “Made the sweets myself.”
The San’layn examined each item in turn, sniffing a pinch of tea leaves held between his thick black fingernails, flipping casually through a few pages of the book. He paused on a chapter heading, looking up at the living mage, grinning wide. “How unusually kind of you. I’m touched, but -- may I ask something, dear child?”
“I always reserve the right to decline to answer,” Chry said, still ever so bouncy and bright. “Not that I w-wish to be rude and I hope it doesn’t offend.”
Velharil chuckled and nodded acknowledgment of that, putting the book aside to pry open the tin of cookies and sniff deliberately, savoring the scents as he inhaled. “It’s just...” He snapped the lid back in place and set the box aside, returning his full attention to Chry, his gaze intense, attentive. “... Wouldn’t they normally send a fellow who attempts to befriend the San’layn to a sanatorium?”
Chry had to laugh and shrug at that; Sooty scolded softly and resettled once his perch was still. “I guess so. But I don’t g-go advertising my peculiarities to the people who are in charge of such things. It’s easier than they m-might like to think, being quietly... crazy.” His hand slipped down to rest on his swordhilt, fingers curling around the guard.
Velharil’s intense gaze moved to Soulspark for a moment, but it quickly returned to Chryseth’s face, lingering there a moment before he turned his back to sort through his things. “Ah, of course. But what gives you those peculiarities, I wonder? Shouldn’t you be afraid?” And he straightened, picking up his iron teapot and turning back to the other elf, lifting it and his eyebrows questioningly as he smiled and added, “Or at least repulsed?”
Chry nodded to the teapot and considered the question for a few moments. Another shrug, this one carefully one-shouldered to not jostle the hatchy. “I’ve rarely c-concerned myself with shoulds, my dear fellow. They offer too many c-constraints, generally unncessarily. Best to leave em to the city magisters. No offense if you w-were one, of course.”
Velharil laughed again, heartily this time. “Don’t worry, the necromancers check for and remove any sticks up the asses of the dead before raising them.” Once again he performed his water-conjuring trick, filling the teapot and setting it on his palm, mage-fire engulfing his hand and warming the iron vessel. “But still, my dear -- wouldn’t happen to have something better than ‘my dear’ for me to call you, would you?”
“Call me Cloudfoot,” came the easy answer. “Or Keenblaze, if old school-names are too informal for your tastes.”
“Keenblaze, then, in the interests of avoiding ‘Ey, Worm’?” The San’layn added a sprinkling of dried mana thistle to the water. “But surely you know that we are not still blood elves.” He glanced up, sharp, yellow teeth showing in his smile. “So I wonder what under the sun might have motivated you to come with gifts instead of torches?”
The magelet considered again. “Well,” he said finally, haltingly, “I suppose there’s the queer notion that you don’t automatically d-deserve to be put to the torch. You are not an elf, no, but there m-might be enough elfishness in you that a bit of companionship, some books, some tea... m-might bring you pleasure. Naive of me I suppose, but then I spend a l-lot of time around undead. Mostly hasn’t hurt me yet.”
Velharil laughed enigmatically, no readable emotion in his face, as he extended his free hand, a glass of ice forming in it. “Sylvanas’s people?” he asked, tone mild, as he poured the first cup for Chryseth and offered it to him.
Chry took the cup and had a leisurely sip, eyes not leaving the other mage’s face. “Sometimes. Sometimes Ebon Blades. Sometimes ghouls and geists. Not Darkfallen in g-general, though it’s hard to say if that’s from lack of exposure and opportunity or just because it’s a dumb idea.”
“Ebon Blades,” Velharil echoed, tone amused but not disdainful, while pouring himself a drink in a second frost-magic glass. “I suppose you must not be naive to the nature of the Scourge’s children, then. But now I’m afraid I understand you even less; are pity and sympathy enough motivation for you to extend a friendly hand so recklessly?”
“It’s n-not even precisely sympathy. Let alone pity. I’m not certain how to explain myself, though if you wish to understand I could make the attempt.” Chry’s eyes remained on the Darkfallen as he took another longer drink, savoring the herby goodness. “I cannot pretend we are fellows, nor that I understand you, but I know how terribly lonely I’d be in your boots. Or I think I do anyhow. That is something I can entirely empathize with.”
Velharil half-chuckled, intense gaze finally dropping from Chryseth’s face and settling on the surface of his tea, a few stray flecks of mana thistle swirling around upon it. He was silent a moment before and after his first delicate sip, and then, without looking up, he murmured, “Few show any interest in making an attempt.” He glanced back up at the living mage, green-white eyes quieter now, body still except for the minute but regular twitching of one ear. Another pause, and then, rather suddenly, “Tell me of you, Keenblaze.”
“There’s n-not much to tell, honestly. I’m a student of the arcane without a master. I dabble in runecraft and engineering -- did a lot of work with the Argents during the war, maintaining their cannon and whatnot. I travel a lot. None of my House survived the war, so I’ve no proper ties anywhere. But that’s n-n-not, you know, uncommon these days.” Sooty peeped a soft question, beak suddenly finding stray bits of Chry’s hair to groom, and the mage reached up to pet him reassuringly. “Of course, I’ve got improper ties all over. Yes, especially to you, Soot.”
The dead elf made a soft, thoughtful noise, leaning in closer, both ears attentive when not seized with twitching fits. “I’m sorry about your family,” he murmured -- the sentiment sounded genuine, if subdued; who hadn’t lost children, parents, brothers and sisters? Another long pause, and then, with a little tilt of his head, he asked, “Is that the little one’s warmth I feel, or is that... Are you a student of flame?”
“Both, I guess.” Soot peeped again and fluttered his wings a bit, leaning down to examine the strange elf. “I c-can cool myself down if it bugs you. Don’t need to be all flaunting my -- burniness at you.”
Velharil lifted a hand slightly, as if to reach out and touch the little phoenix... or perhaps Chryseth’s face. He dropped it almost immediately, though, and lowered his head, letting out a brief, strained laugh. “Ha... It wouldn’t do much good.”
Chry watched him, Velharil’s face and ears, gaze finally dropping a bit to those clawed hands. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “If you want, I can leave. I wouldn’t wish to... cause distress. Just tea and cookies.”
The Darkfallen shook his head slightly, though he stayed quiet for a moment, ears just slightly trembling. Finally, he looked up, smile struggling against the sadness in his face. “... Such an amusing coincidence. You are a bit younger, but...” Again he tilted his head, studying the taller elf’s countenance. “So much like what I was.”
Velharil’s head once more suddenly dropped as he let out a little almost-a-sob, his shoulders falling.
Sooty settled back against his master’s shoulder and together they studied Velharil, searching and calculating and intense. “And how d-does that make you feel?” Chry asked finally, somewhere between curious and sympathetic.
The answer was a strained little laugh. “... Happy, really,” the Darkfallen murmured, glancing up again, expression now turning almost wistful. “Happy to be delivered such a sweet gift, to be able to have those things again.” And the hand holding his glass of tea suddenly released it, the unhappiness evaporating from Velharil’s face and leaving only joyful excitement as he lunged forward, talon-like fingernails shooting towards Chryseth’s throat.
They hardly got anywhere near it. Almost as soon as he started to move, he jerked back, crying out with frustration and surprise. He threw off the coils of necromantic energy just in time to leap away from the point of the spell-breaker’s sword coming down at him. The San’layn continued to dart back, eyes wide, fearful and angry, as he hissed in the jagged language of the Scourge, “Ebon dog!”
Sooty lifted off his master’s shoulder, growing and throwing off a wave of sudden tremendous heat. Wings beating, he hovered between Chryseth and the Darkfallen, screaming a warning. The he darted off to keep the Darkfallen pinned, unable to flee from the Blade without inviting a toasting.
“I am not yours,” Chry growled in the same tongue. Soulspark in his hand he edged forward, fingers of his other hand wreathed in flame. “You forget your place.”
Velharil’s eyes widened at the sight of the full-grown phoenix, but he barely paused for a second; the sight of a giant, angry Sooty seemed only to cement his already firm decision to flee. He held out a hand, a powerful blast of cold air and biting ice flying into his enemies’ faces as he worked backwards. The spell did nearly nothing to stop the death knight bearing down on him, though; a twirl of his blade devoured it, as he continued to barrel forward, his footing as solid on the ice that had formed on the stairs as it would be on packed earth.
The phoenix kept behind the Darkfallen, trying to herd him toward the death knight -- or at least hinder his escape -- a darting dive at his back, a furious trill. A blast of fire shot from Chry’s hand to Velharil’s feet, a surprisingly gentle tickle of flame meant more to make the ice slippery than to do any serious damage to its target, the Darkfallen leaping away with a feral howl.
He would not be able to retreat with the phoenix harrying him, and so he turned his attention to him, tossing a wide swath of frostfire into the air that bore down hungrily upon its target. But the moment it took to cast the spell allowed the death knight, face twisted into a mad snarl, to catch up, runeblade slicing open the magical shield around the mage in one strike. The San’layn was barely able to draw his own blade in time to save himself from the second strike, parrying it and blowing a puff of flame into the Blade’s face. Mornherald stumbled and his quarry turned and fled.
Sooty lunged toward the frostfire, trying to devour it but finding the combination not remotely to his taste. The phoenix choked and screamed again more in anger than pain. A gout of flame to cleanse his palate and he twisted to follow the san’layn, hurt but not entirely deterred.
In the confusion, somehow Chryseth had vanished entirely. A slight ozone-y whiff was the only possible clue to his actions; perhaps he’d also decided to flee? But the air in front of Velharil erupted suddenly in flames and the mage stood before him, sword going for the dead elf’s throat. Surprised and unable to dodge, the Darkfallen shielded his face with his sword arm -- Soulspark cutting through his cloth-wrapped forearm, nearly to the bone. He shrieked, but, without a pause, thrust his other hand out against Chryseth’s chest, blasting him with a burst of frost magic. Chry grunted and stumbled back a bit but quickly tried to regain his ground.
Velharil pushed past, the wound spraying ichor from his arm barely slowing him -- but he hardly needed to be slowed for the other three to close in. He did have one advantage, though; weeks upon weeks, hours upon countless hours, he had studied these ruins and their winding passages in great detail. He changed direction suddenly, darting away, the death knight only a few steps behind, just enough ground for the wounded blood mage to make it to the edge of the platform first and, without hesitating, launch off it into the darkness that stretched on indefinitely below. Mornherald’s tunnel vision opened up just in time for him to see the edge in front of him, and with a panicked shout, he tried to brake -- but the momentum of the heavily saronite-clad elf was too much, and he, too, tumbled over the edge.
Sooty dove over the edge after him, catching the Blade with surprising tenderness and carrying him back to deposit as a prize and offering to his master. Jiel landed on his butt with a clank, eyes wide and burning bright with surprise, before he shook his head to clear it and unsteadily returned to his feet. “My error, Champion,” he murmured, turning back to the edge and peering down... cautiously, from a safe distance away. “Shit... can’t see anything down there.”
“M’ sure that was his intention,” Chry said, walking up to lean against him. Sooty took the Blade’s other side, stretching to offer some hair-grooming. “And n-not your fault at all. Attacking someone in his home turf’s always dicey, and in h-h-his place I’d have had a few dozen escape plans in place. At least.”
Jiel nodded, gazing down into the darkness a moment longer before growling and tightening his grip on his runeblade; it hadn’t even gotten a taste of blood, unlike Soulspark. “Let’s go straight to the Shadow Vault. They’ve gotta hear there are still San’layn lurking about south of Icecrown. Maybe I can talk Deadkeeper into sendin’ me down with a hunting party...” He spat off the edge of the platform, glowering.
“After we -- you. After you’ve reported, we could go hunting ourselves. Still cultists I bet. Lingering Sourge. Somethin’.” Chry’s gaze slipped to Jiel’s runesword even as his hand went back to Soulspark’s hilt. “And f’ you can use a mage with your squad, let me know? I live to serve, Champion.”
“No other mage I’d rather have with me for either of those,” Jiel replied, gently bumping against Chryseth’s shoulder (gently! minding his pauldron’s many spikes). “Guess I owe you another life-debt now,” he joked, “or maybe just an every-bone-in-my-lower-body-debt.”
Chry laughed, bumping back just as carefully. “Owe it to Sooty if you want. Though he’d prefer payment in grasshoppers and scritchies. C’mon, let me make us a portal. Not goin’ to Dalaran, not worth maybe setting him loose there if he follows us. But the Vault should be good. He can go there f’ he wants.”
Jiel gestured Scourgeish assent. “Vault, then south, for the Cult of the Damned. Then back to the Tundra for me, I suppose, if they don’t need me for anything by then. Or do you think a grasshopper hunt’s gonna get me in trouble with D.E.H.T.A.?”
“I don’t think they’re a protected species. We should be safe. I c-can get us some nets and we can catch butterflies even!” Already cheerful again -- the prospect of a hunt, several hunts, always left him that way. Chry gestured to Sooty, a quasi-Scourge fingerflick, and the phoenix obediently diminished in size. Once he was small enough to comfortably fit, he reclaimed his place on the mage’s shoulder.
The portal opened before them, cold and yet inviting. Icecrown awaited their return home.