Raphaiel de Laurentis

The sword was no longer his wield.

His armor no longer his to wear.

The dark-haired noble stared down at the oak desk before him. It was a desk he'd looked at often, truly he'd stared at it for his whole life but always from the other side. He never stood in this place with his fingers tracing over the parchment that rested before him crisp and clean, waiting to be written upon.

Raphaiel's eyes closed as he drew in a sharp breath and sat down in the leather chair heavily, those bright blue eyes still remaining locked on the parchment. He knew the words he'd have to pen but it didn't mean he wanted to pen them.

Very slowly, as if he was in a fog, he reached for the elegant quill pen he'd seen his father twirl between his fingers often. With a sad smile, the man mimicked the gesture he'd seen throughout his youth before dipping the tip in the open inkwell and beginning to write.

The scratch of quill on parchment filled the large study for several moments. It paused often as Raphaiel frequently found himself incapable of penning the words. He'd fought battles upon battles, seen the very face of death itself, yet this? This was the hardest thing he'd found himself doing.

As the movement of his quill came to it's final rest, the man's gaze didn't even bother sweeping over the words before he sprinkled sand over the ink to dry it before folding it thrice over and pouring the heated crimson wax over the seal.

Raphaiel reached for the signet of his house next, his jaw clenching as he pressed it into the wax. It was finished.

Slowly he stood and left the the study. He passed through the large halls of his family's estate as if in a haze. He barely remembered handing off the letter to a runner for it to be delivered swiftly.

The path he walked was one that he had never thought to walk, not this early, not with so little time. It was with a strained smiled that the man gently rapped his knuckles on one of the doors before peaking inside.

His father glanced at him from his bed, a worn and tired smile on his lips. Where there had always been a vigorous and lively man, even in his waning years, there now just laid one that was grayed and sickened. There was still the glow of life in his eyes, but even that seemed to be fading.

"Father," Raphaiel murmured as he crossed the room to sit at his father's bedside. "It's done. All the letters are sent."

Quietly the old man chuckled. "I'm glad." His words were quiet, lacking the strength to be much beyond a whisper. "I'm proud."

Field-Marshal Rosewood

I trust this letter will get to you quickly, I sent it with our best runner in hopes of him being able to find you where ever you find yourself

My father has fallen ill and we're not sure how long he'll be bedridden or if he'll truly ever rise from it. On this note? My duties have fallen first to my family and the continuation of my line. I will no longer find myself knowing battle, my friend.

Fight strong and well.

Signed,

(OOC: The following post will be the explanation for Raphaiel's absence while I go on a two week long vacation to visit Emmory. I might be about a little bit but it's unlikely to see me post more then a picture here and there and possibly a passage about his healing process.)

This day was not his day.

It began like all the rest of them. He got up and went about his daily training after he gorged himself on a breakfast of fish, bread, and sweet fruits. He bathed himself of the training grime before clothing himself and heading off into the city for errands.

The same old routine day in and day out as he waited to be called into active service now that the Vanguard was recommissioned. As much as he feared the wars that were being raged and  what it meant for his people, he was also excited to see a change from this day to day domestic monotony.

Possibly it was that wish and that welling desire that led to him staring at the Warboard in the Dwarven District of Stormwind that day. His brow lightly furrowed as his gaze slid along the various calls for warriors.

The fight had apparently picked up along the beaches of Dragonblight. He remembered when the battle was bloody along those beaches, when the very sand was discolored from the fights. As the memories flashed through his mind, impulse overtook him. Turning on his heel, the man swung up onto his destrier and made for Old Town and the Hall of Champions.

He fixed the recruitment officer with a smirk as he signed his name along the page. The mages would be summoning portals very soon he was told. It would only take a few moments.

Excitement mingled with battle lust the moment he stepped through the portal and found himself whipped by the cold wind of the north. Already soldiers fought along the beaches. The siege vehicles of old were ramming at the ancient gates that were erected only to fall once more.

It was the Horde that was laying siege this day.

Pulling his blade from his back, Raphaiel let out a battle cry before rushing into the fray. It was all a blur of clashing swords and spells flying. They fought viciously from terrace to terrace until they reached the top. The wind blew colder and the combatants more brutal as one side closed to victory and the defenders watched defeat rear it's disgusting head.

Raphaiel spoke by the edge of the terrace, his blade dripping from crimson as a leather-clad druid fell to his fury. There was a smirk on his lips and battle lust in his sapphire gaze.

There was a flash of black fur and the clatter of chain-mail near him. Raphaiel turned his head to find a large Tauren towering over him threatening. The creature snorted, a sound he heard above the fray right before a word spoken in it's native tongue and there's a sudden rush of wind and then the crack of lightning. Raphaiel felt his balance first falter and then suddenly his legs were pulled out from under him.

The world spun around him, the terrace flew past him, and there was nothing but air around him. Raphaiel heard a deafening scream as the wind rushed and whistled past him. It wasn't until he was seconds from the ground that he realized the scream had come from his very own lips. Then the world went black.

He awoke with his mother sitting on the edge of his bed and his sister hovering nervously nearby, wringing her hands. 

"What happ-- ah!" He yelped as he tried to move, pain shocking through his whole form. He grimaced and didn't fight the hands that pushed him back down onto the bed.

"You fell while in battle. You're lucky you didn't break your neck and only your arm."

"I feel like I was run over by a horse." He mumbled as his gaze slid to Sinnarya who he offered a light smile. She returned it, worry in her gaze.

"You're one big bruise. The healer did what he could to set your arm but you're on bed rest for quite sometime. Now drink this."

Raphaiel scowled in displeasure as a cup was placed to his lips. With a glare of irritation at his perpetually smiling mother, he drank down the foul tasting liquid.

"I'll need to write a letter to the Field-Marshal."

"Once you wake up."

Some people just deserved to be punched in the face. Danaron was turning into one of those people.