Phaelia Janette Whiteblade

"Look what we ‘ave ‘ere, lads."  The commoner tone of the bandit leader aggrivated Valynoryan, irritated him, causing a scowl to dominate his beard-covered lips.  "A big dumb wanderer all by ‘is lonesome."  The man spit, and sneered, gesturing to his accomplices - three other humans and a dwarf.  "Best be guttin’ ‘im before he makes trouble for us, eh?"

Valynoryan, hands in chains, stared blankly down at the bandit leader, towering even while dressed in rags.  “I would advise you to rethink that course of action, ruffian.”

The man laughed, leering at the Stromgardian warrior with a mix of loathing and amusement.  “‘e got some guts in ‘im, boys.  Innit sad we gotta remove ‘em?”  Gesturing, the leather-clad leader nodded to one of the younger human men, one with a longsword of common steel at his side.  “Gut ‘im, Shanks.”

Blinking less-than-intelligent eyes, the cronie complied, grunting behind his mask and drawing his sword.  “Now y’don’t do nuffin’ weird, y’hear?”  He said to Valynoryan, angling the sword with a squint.  “Sorry, fella.”  Then he stabbed forwards, and stumbled.

The sword hit nothing but air.

Valynoryan moved rapidly, wrapping the chains around the blade and twisting, flicking it up and out of the other man’s grip, catching it by the hilt and deftly opening the young man’s throat.  “My apologies,” he said to the gurgling, dying bandit, shock in those stupid eyes.  “I’m afraid you picked the wrong side.”

“Kill ‘im!" The bandit leader roared, pointing at Valynoryan, drawing his daggers as the others converged.  Levelling the blade, the Stromgardian veteran waited until the group drew closer, then surged fowards into their guards, disparaging of the high guards they’d chosen.  The first assailant, the Dwarf, attempted to slam a hammer into his side and Valynoryan kicked him in the face, staggering him before he could finish the swing and sending him stumbling away.

The second, a middle-aged Human man, brought an axe towards his neck, at which point the warrior smoothly stepped to the left and shouldered the other Human wielding the scythe, sending him stumbling and sending the axe-wielder forwards in an uncontrolled swing.  A smart pivot and two deft slices of his blade opened the unfortunate gentleman’s spine and the back of his neck, the axe clattering to the ground.

Reversing the blade in his grip, he backstabbed towards the running scythe-wielder and dropped to a knee, missing the last-effort scythe swing and releasing his grip on the blade.  A forwards roll saw him dodge the heavy thud of the impacting warhammer, and grip the axe in his hands, spinning and hewing the dwarf’s head in twain with an upwards swing of the weapon, sending him staggering back to fall onto his rear, dead, gurgling.

As the scythe-wielder lay on the ground weeping at his inevitable death, Valynoryan levelled eyes on the bandit leader, who was cursing.  “Useless fucks!  I’ll kill ‘im meself.  C’mere, y’weasel.”  The dagger-wielding foe leaped forwards, sneering, jabbing at Val rapidly.  Military training.  Probably an SI:7 washout.  Pity.

The Stromgardian ditched the axe, and waited until the bandit did the expected, vanishing into the shadows and stepping towards the warrior’s back.  Then, Valynoryan spun, chains extended via parted arms, and wrapped the stabbing wrists of the bandit within them, curling the manacles around the hands until the daggers dropped from them.

"Wh-what!?"  Shrieked the bandit leader, before the warrior drew him close, smiling.  "Good try."  He murmured, "but I’m afraid I find your skills wanting."  Without further adieu, he kneed the man in the stomach and, as he doubled over, released his arms and stepped around him, gripping his neck with the chains.

"Shh," he said idly as the man gurgled and screeched, kicking at the air as the 6’10" Arathi lifted him off the ground, gaze distant.  "It’ll over be over soon.  Relax."

The bandit’s throat crushed with a wet sound, and Valynoryan dropped him to the dirt.

Calmly, the veteran commander inspected the weapons, settling on the daggers and sword, and using the hammer to smash his manacles, rubbing his wrists once he was free.  “How crude,” he muttered, glancing at the bleeding corpses, “but I thank you for the aid, gentlemen.”

Smoothing out his hair, Valynoryan fixed up his ragged clothing, and tightened his newfound swordbelt, ensuring the daggers were hidden in his new wolf-fur cloak.  “Excellent,” he murmured in appreciation, peering around.  “Now, where is… ah.”  Tracks leading towards the treeline.  He followed them for some few minutes, and emerged in a clearing with a horse, and a full campsite, laden with food and coinpurses, as well as two bandits.

They were dispatched rapidly, and soon the warrior had a hearty stew brewing in a cauldron over the already-burning fire.  Seating himself on a haphazard wooden chair, he pulled out his new sword, examining it idly.

"What a terribly forged weapon," he murmured to himself, fishing along his new pouch for a whetstone, "I simply must find my old one."

Nearby, someone whimpered.  Prisoners?

He turned and moved towards a large chest, kicking it open.  Two men lay inside, staring at him in terror.  They had the look of simple farmers.  “My good fellows!”  He greeted with a smile, “today is your lucky day.”

Hauling them out, he left them there, leaving and returning some time later with two sets of clothing.  “Congratulations.”  He said simply.

"Welcome to my army."

"Army?"  Asked one of the men cautiously, pulling on his clothes.  "What army is that?"

"Why, the only army worth being in, of course."  Valynoryan replied with a flash of teeth, "the army of Her Grace, Laeima Whiteblade."

"An’ who’re you, then?"  Asked the other man, picking up the sword he’d been given.

"To you?  Lord Whiteblade will do."

The two men glanced at eachother, down at the weapons, then to the two dead bandits.  Barely a heartbeat passed, before they saluted.  “Yes, Lord Whiteblade.”

Valynoryan smiled to himself.  “It’s a start.”

So, not too long ago did I meet Zack, A.K.A Zack from those amazing RP posts girlfriend OOCly, but I did. Now.. Okay. I don’t know how to put this, but here.»»>

Problem - Ariana Grande.. 

With the implementation of zeppelin transport, shipping became so much more convenient. Fresh fruits and vegetables from Kalimdor simply could not arrive by boat. But zeppelin travel made it wonderfully easy for one to get their hands on some excellent and otherwise exotic produce. Of course, that became yes another thing the citizens of Silvermoon city seemed to take for granted, but Kelovas Dawnthief deeply enjoyed the privilege.

  He moved in his kitchen with ease, whisking from icebox to wood stove to counter without thought. The meal was very nearly prepared by then, fragrant and colourful. On a bed of winter vegetables roasted slowly in fine oils sat thinly sliced pork roast stuffed with herbs and garlic, a tiny elegant tower of potato gratin topped with fresh parsley to accompany. He collected up his plate and moved it to the large rectangular table where he settled it at the head, in the middle of an arrangement of cutlery, a wine glass and an open bottle of Merlot.

Kelovas took his seat, smoothing a napkin over his thighs. His eyes drifted to the other end of the table, that looming empty chair staring back at him.

  “You won’t even entertain the idea that it might not be wise?” Taureth’s gauntlets were unkind to the soft cherrywood they dug into, the man’s weight leaned into the grooves they were carving into the table. Kelovas knew better than to chastise him for it when he was already fuming – the grooves would only dig deeper, and he was in no mood to fix his table. He smoothed his hands down the front of his robes before moving, taking his time collecting up their plates and cutlery.

“If you are frightened, Taureth, then that is what you are. Do not look to me to belay an action you yourself are uncomfortable with. Have the fortitude to refuse the job yourself for once in your life, would you? I will not take the blame for everything you opt out of.” The words sounded far nastier in his ears than he intended, but he meant them. The act of collecting their dishes and taking them to the washbasin to be cleaned meant he didn’t need to see Taureth’s handsome face fall at the realization that Kelovas would not be saving him. Not this time.

“Are you so eager to be rid of me that you would send me to my death?” he was already demanding. The scrape of his gauntlets leaving the table brought up just a touch of relief in the pit of Kelovas’ stomach – at least his table was now safe. The shorter elf was rounding the table, fists clenched, eyes fiery. “Your loyalty will get us both killed if you don’t start thinking practically, Kelovas. The Horde and Alliance both are coming for Kael’thas. They intend to take his head. If I go with him, I will die. Are you listening to me? Your zealotry will kill us both.”A solid hand found Kelovas’ shoulder and wheeled him about forcibly. The plate he’d been scrubbing fell from his soapy hands and shattered on the floor. His stern glare met Taureth’s and neither appeared as though he intended to let up.

“I would see you die loyal to your lord before you lived a traitor.”

  The sound of cutlery on ceramics echoed around the dining room. Despite all the furniture and art he’d piled in elegantly over the last month, there was still an echo in every room of the house where Taureth’s voice chimed. Perhaps his armour, which he often left strewn about – a habit that drove Kelovas nearly mad – took up just enough space to dampen the echo. Or it could be that his lonely mind fabricated empty spaces for the man that was no longer there.

He cut into his meal. The meat was moist and the herbs fragrant, warm scents curling upward for their architect’s nose only.

  “What is this? It smells heavenly.”Taureth was laughing. It was the same line every time Kelovas put a new plate in front of him, dishcloth over his shoulder and wine glass in hand, but he said it each time and it came with a warm, rumbling laugh. It made Kelovas smile up until the last year. It was the same line over and over again, and even after it stopped being genuinely flattering, Kelovas smiled. He smiled because it was Taureth, and once upon a time he had been lucky enough to wake up every morning to someone who meant something.

“Oh, would you just eat it? It’s going to get cold.”

Kelovas peered across to the other chair at the opposite end of the table, and staring back at him was Taureth’s smiling face right where it belonged. His strawberry hair was long and smooth, warm features nuzzled by the sun and made bright. What the dark-haired cook would have given to remember him only as he was then, smiling and every bit as in love as they were fifteen years ago.

Instead, the man remembered more clearly the look on Taureth’s face following those finalizing words: I would see you die loyal to your lord before you lived a traitor.Kelovas told himself as his partner left and slammed the door so hard it toppled off his hinges that when Taureth came back, he would apologize. Even if it meant swallowing a bit of pride, he was going to fix it.