Aeden Ashwind looked out the window of his rented room at the picturesque Snug Harbor Inn of the bustling port capital of Boralus. Rain pattering against the glass in a rhythm that promoted the desire to sleep. But sleep would not come to him on this night, much like the nights before. Looking out over the harbor he can still vividly recall what happened that first night, even though the outcome of that night has long since been cleaned from his being.

The premise is simple, friends. Using only four words, write the happiest story you can think of. It can be IC or OOC. Past, present, future. The world is your oyster, on this.

“He would be proud.”

Tagged by: @aranyaphoenix

((WARNING: This story contains death. Do not read if you are adverse to it))

The distinctive cry of a Highlands Eagle broke through the high altitude air over Stromgarde. Aeden looked up into the sky, dark clouds beginning to gather overhead, soldiers rushing to and fro around him. Another cry of an eagle broke out overhead, followed by the crack of thunder in the distance. The thunder was what brought Aeden out of his daze. Just as he brought his gaze back down he felt the first few drops of rain patter against his armor.

One by one a squad of footmen hustled out to stand at attention before him. And he watched as each brave soldier of the Alliance stood at attention and awaited his command. Slowly he brought his gaze back up to the darkened sky, feeling rain smack against his face. Closing his eyes and sighing deeply he looked out at the soldiers before him.

“Men. Give me back my home.”

With that he slipped his helmet out from under his arm and placed it upon his head, motioning for the soldiers to follow him out to the field.

The rain drove down hard upon the land. Heavy boots clomping against the worn stone road as the old soldier ran towards the rebuilt city of Stromgarde, specifically the sounds of battle coming from the lands spread out before it. Ulysses Ashwind breathed in rhythm with the double-time march he forced himself to take. More out of necessity than the efficiency of movement. He was getting old. He knew that. He had to save most of his strength for the battle ahead of him. The pattering of heavy rain against his battle-scarred armor rang in his ears. Seeping into the crevices between the metal plates and soaking the heavy cloth padding underneath.

He could see it now. The battle raging upon High Perch in the distance.

He just had to keep moving towards it.

“Hold steady!”

Aeden shouted out over the clamor of battle. Metal scraping against metal, the cracking of wood, the hum of magic, the whizz of arrows flying through the air, and the screams of death. A dreadful, chaotic cacophony to anyone’s ears. And every swing of their weapons only made it last longer and longer.

“Don’t let them pass this point! Hold steady!”

Alliance forces had been held at bay just below the summit of High Perch by the Horde occupiers. Reinforcements were needed to ensure they would take the hill. And badly. Steadily they were losing ground. Slowly being pushed back down the hill.

As they were losing ground Aeden saw a man dressed in a Stromgarde uniform charge up the hill. Screaming a battle cry as he cleaved through an orc with his blade. And he could feel something very wrong about this particular man. He had to put such thoughts aside immediately when he was forced to step out of the way of a tauren’s hammer. Countering the bull’s strike with one of his own.

But out of the corner of his eye, he could still see the soldier of Stromgarde slowly push his way up the hill, attacking what Horde soldiers weren’t paying attention, being slowed by those that were. Every minute chance Aeden got he searched for the man clad in red-trimmed steel. And it was not much longer afterward that he realized who it was; fear washing over him. He could tell just from the sword he carried.

“Push forward! Take the hill!”

Ulysses panted with each swing of his sword, huffed with every attack dodged or parried, and was quickly losing strength with each foe faced. But he was stubborn and would have none of that.

“Come at me you green barbarous beasts! Is that all you got?!”

The fact he stood yards ahead of the Alliance front line was a challenge of itself. His bolstering only worsened his situation and attracted more Horde soldiers to his position. The Alliance line was moving up now, with reinforcements trickling in from Stromgarde. But he was still alone and largely outnumbered.

Defiantly he countered and stood against the orcs, trolls, tauren, and others that stood against the old Stromic man. And slowly they whittled him down.

Aeden struggled to reach his father. The old fool had finally taken off more than he can chew. Had finally pushed himself past what he can physically do. And Aeden did not want to see him suffer because of it this day. Slowly the Alliance line pushed forward. Inch by inch, minute by minute, time was running out. At every moment he had he looked ahead of him to determine his father’s situation. Horde forces soon disregarded the old soldier to focus on holding back the Alliance. And that soon left a single troll standing against the man of Stromgarde.

Ulysses was worn out. His body protested his every movement. His pride stands against him, however, and he keeps fighting against the troll that stood before him. But it was one foe too much at last. The troll thrust forward against a poorly held guard, and finally pierces the neck of Ulysses Ashwind. Right within Aeden’s line of sight.

To Aeden, everything froze. The battle. The rain. Even the sounds around him. All he saw, all he could see, was a spear piercing his father’s neck. The family sword, Vignarshol, falling to the ground. And his father cruelly held in place by the troll who had finally dealt the mortal wound to the aging warrior.

Aeden’s heart stopped. His throat tightened. Shock washed over his face. He raised his hand threw it forward; a conjured hammer of pure Light rocketed through the air and crashed squarely upon the troll’s head. At the same time, wings of Light manifested themselves upon his back. And there was no ration behind Aeden’s actions afterward.

The younger Ashwind pushed himself past the line; past the line and towards his father’s killer. Breaking out into a sprint his shock turned to rage, his jaw clenched and his brows furrowed together. Anger radiated from his eyes as he picked up Vignarshol from the mud and swung it up into the troll.

Ulysses fell to his back upon the release of the spear’s hold on his neck. The rain now easing to a trickle before the clouds parted, letting the sun shine down upon the soaked battlefield in brief patches. The sky was always beautiful after a rainstorm in the Highlands. Slowly his senses failed him one by one as his lifeblood spilled out of him and onto his homeland. To his failing vision the clouds seemed to form images from his subconcious. Images of the horrors of his own wars. Of the serenity of his home life. Of the beauty of his wife on their wedding day. Of the love of his newborn son’s first breath of life. And he could swear he saw golden wings in a beam of sunlight before his vision turned to darkness.

And in the distance; the cry of a Highlands Eagle.

Aeden had been kneeling in the mud for what felt like hours. Soldiers rushed past him to keep Northfold Crossing secure and ready the final assault upon Ar’gorok.

He had not stopped holding the lifeless body of his beloved father.

Ulysses Ashwind, a strong man of Stromic stock, paced back and forth impatiently within his personal study. He looked to the wall parallel to him and his gaze first fell upon the suit of armor standing at attention. A simple suit of steel plate with red trim, the metal bearing the distinctive signs of wartime use. Scratches, scars, and dings that have been hammered out time and time again. Covering the chest of the suit was an equally old- and battered -tabard of the old Kingdom of Stromgarde, an upturned gauntleted fist painted red. His eyes then shifted to the space immediately above the armor. There a shadowbox hung horizontally, and within rested a much older blade. An ancient family heirloom.

The sword was of a full-tang construction, with the blade being made of a mythril and steel alloy. The hilt was of iron, with mythril layered over it for decoration. Overall it was of simple design, with the exception of the cross-guard. The image of an eagle with it’s wings outstretched formed the cross-guard, while it’s talons reached out before it to give the appearance of the eagle gripping the blade. Vignarshol- the name being both the blade’s and the old family name when the Empire of Arathor was the center of humanity -was resting, waiting, to be used against the enemies of Stromgarde once more. It was a cruel prison for a blade of such importance to the family.

In a way Ulysses felt the same way. Word had reached his ears that Danath Trollbane, now rightful King of Stromgarde, was leading a counteroffensive against the Horde within his homeland of Arathi. The same homeland he personally helped defend against the Horde during the Second War. The same homeland he wanted to have his ashes scattered over by the wind. He was in his twilight years so his thoughts often went to such things. His slicked back hair growing grayer by the day and white showing within the edges of his beard. He was getting older by the minute, and he did not want to have his last wish carried out in enemy territory.

Aeden Ashwind sat within his room within the Snug Harbor Inn sitting at a desk, a stationary parchment resting before him and a quill within his hand. This would be the first of many letters he’d be writing over this course of this new war. And each one he had to make count. Dear Mother, I write to you today to tell you that I’ve arrived safely in Kul Tiras. I’ve a room here at the Snug Harbor Inn in the capital of Boralus. Boralus is a wondrous sight to see. Layered over the eastern entrance to Tiragarde Sound I’ve only had a short time to get acquainted with a few of the key places before my duties took me elsewhere.

Aeden then stopped and touched the amulet that Magni had gifted to him, and many many others, on behalf of their ravaged world. The brilliance of the wounded Titan’s power glowing just a bit brighter before receding into a fainter glow as he returned to the letter. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve not encountered any Horde forces as of yet. And while I know you pray that it stays that way, you and I both know that will not last for long. Yes, I will avoid them if possible. You have my word on that. And yes, I will not slay another paladin if I can help it, as I have told you before I left.

I’ve not forgotten about father. If he asks what news I bring... tell him what he wants to hear. That I am fighting the Horde for the glory of Stromgarde, and the Alliance.

Know that I keep you both in my heart and my thoughts at all times.

Your Little Light,

Aeden

With that Aeden replaced the quill within it’s inkwell and carefully folded the letter. Slipping the stationary into an envelope he had already addressed he gathered it and his belongings and left his room. Making his way down the stairs and past the crackling fireplace warming it’s small number of patrons as they imbibe themselves with strong drink and out to the mailbox. Depositing the letter before he turned and continued on with his duties.

Aeden Ashwind stood before the open door to Light’s Hope Chapel, his brow furrowed and a determined look upon his face. All around him stood his knights and champions. All looking at him expectantly. All waiting, wanting, to hear something, anything, from him. And he could feel it like a looming shadow. Slowly he looked at each of them. Human, elf, dwarf, tauren, draenei. Each set of eyes he could see he met. And each set met his in turn. Without breaking his gaze he lifted a finger to the sky, pointing at the broken planet above them. “Look above you, O brothers and sisters. Do you see what is before us? Looking down on us with it’s malicious gaze. Ostracizing us for merely existing. That, O brothers and sisters, is Argus. The home of our bitter enemy. An enemy that would seek to snuff us out like the delicate flame upon a candle.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in; dropping his hand as he did so.

“Is that what you see up there? The hand of Doom coming to snuff us out? I say nay! I say that is hope! Hope to be rid of this Light-cursed Legion intent on claiming our world! Think back, my friends. Every time we fought the Burning Legion we have been on the defensive. Fighting on our world and on their terms. Now we’ve been granted the opportunity to flip the tables in our favor!”

“Now is not the time to raise our shields! Our wards or our walls! No! Now we must raise our swords! Our bows and our staves! Now is our time to strike! Our time to bring the fight to them! Our time to invade their world!”

As his voice rose to a crescendo he drew his blade, the Ashbringer, and held it aloft to emphasize his words. Even going as far as pointing it at Argus.