#davrel

“I find myself in refuge among the development that is the whorehouse in possession of a Madame Susan Gampre. Stormwind feels like another realm entirely, it’s gilded walls and white halls feel like a prison, collapsing around me-- the scornful, frightened gaze of the inhabitants at my form seal this feeling deep within’ the bells of my conscience. It grows tiring. The Lich, Tanelorn brought me back to this plane, this mind and this body for a purpose, that was to seek a poetic vengeance upon she who would make him a slave-- but in freedom, I find new irons clasped on -my- hands. The world, is not the same as I remember it-- it is cold, forlorn. One master, to another-- such is the nature of my being. A prison.

I am told by some individuals that once knew me, that I was a person of warmth. One who was no stranger to happiness, perhaps love-- once. As evidenced by the ringed tattoo of unknown origins on my left hand. I digress. My purpose is no longer clear, no longer determined, I have no guide. But the days of warmth are gone. The sword and ring-- once acted as one who would declare purpose for me. But the questions remain unanswered. I cannot go back-- and there is no foreseeable path forward. Is this the uncertainty that lies in destiny? When you are given the power to forge your own path, but naught a clue what to do with it? Is it so wrong to feel longing for the things since gone? The things you knew you once had, but taken? The warmth of a child? The love of a wife? Perhaps these are musings upon the shadow of ashes-- but there is little else in the light that one wades through rivers of blood and gold at the whims and wishes of those would would deem their own selves masters of others. Masters of kingdoms and soldiers. And to seek no other purpose but to drink his share of both blood and gold to feed the void of voices.” 

Davrel Richards

Commission for @swordsandliars

Thank you for allowing me to take my time with this. It’s not often I draw armor and this was a challenge that I enjoyed.

A lone man, stood at the edge of a forest– night had befallen the golden kingdom of Stormwind. This was a day of many oddities. Davrel had ventured to the white walls, to gather supplies in order to sustain his bodily condition. He had not wished to tarry there long, but he did anyway. As was matters often were for Davrel– nothing was ever executed according to plan, and nothing came across as it should.

Vile distrust of everything, surroundings, words, and more specifically the people that spoke those words. It filled him with the cool– silver sting that was the emotion of hatred. These things–these emotions often gave him purpose, power and the gift of will. But this hatred was different, it had no origin, nothing he could focus it on. He closed his eyes, letting out a hollow- resigned breath.

And then he felt something, hands wrapped around his shoulders, and the tender embrace of a kiss on his cold lips. Davrel’s eyes opened, wide. The strange, and inhuman eyes he bore stared down into the short, blonde figure that had caught him off guard. Instinctively he lifted a gauntlet to press into her chest, and shove her away. Withdrawing the runeblade Ail’ema from it’s prison. Holding it low and aloft, he spoke bitterly.

“Who are you?”

2nd WIP of Davrel Richards

Davrel about his job in the Household of Lady Sydor.

You know, I’ve thought about it before. The big question. Why? I’ve been wondering that for awhile myself. Before I met Lady Sydor, and after…well, her– I thought all the purpose I would ever amount to was making money to pay for drink. Just like my old man. Shit. You ever look at someone, and see the answer to that question? No, you fuck. Not Lady Sydor. Not LORD Sydor neither. Stop looking at me like that, it’s offensive. No. Met a little girl at an Orphanage. While her Ladyship was on a quest to save eighteen orphans, I met little Amelia Ford in the process.

Who is that? A girl of seven, blonde haired little hellion. It’s not official, but I’m supposed to take care of her. I’ve learned that if I try and ignore her too long, Lady Sydor and Andritte yell at me, and boy– does that double trouble hurt. So. For the past few days I’ve been taking care of her, feeding her. And what do I get in return? She steals my knife, my mask, this journal I’m writing in right now, my Port and most importantly– my sleep. At first, I was angry. Yeah. But, you know what I’ve realized? I can empathize with her. This little girl who’s had the deck stacked against her from the start, her parents more than likely killed or too poor to afford raising her. Lucky her, she got one of the wealthiest houses out there. What’d I get? A job at a bakery, and a night-job breaking into houses.

Well. Here I am, on my way back to the Barrowfield Estate to take care of her. Here goes nothing.

–

Davrel strolled in to the hallway in which his room was at the end of, he looked around, cautious. As if he were in danger. Always a hand to the rear of his belt, where his knife was. He looked down every doorway, every room. Hell, he had even checked the ceiling. He heard loud giggling, from…two parties. This wasn’t right. One was obviously younger, and the other was much more matured. His eyes shifted, he took his hand off his knife and made his way down the hallway.

He poked ahead just beyond the doorway and to his shock and horror– he saw Andritte…and Amelia, playing together. Amelia was by all meanings of the word, annihilating Andritte in pillow to pillow combat. Davrel’s expression was just about priceless, as it often was around here.

“Alright.”

They stopped as soon as they noticed him in the room, clad in his usual blacksteel abode.

“Ah. Mister-erm…Richards.”, Andritte pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I was just looking after your child.”

Davrel quickly rose a hand in defense. “Look, sister. Kid ain’t mine, but the pillows are. I’d like em’ back.”

“No!”, exclaimed a little voice in a low-born Stormwindian accent.

“No?”, Davrel repeated, in-credulousness in his voice.

“No!”

Amelia glared at him, right through Davrel. Cut into his soul. Davrel was impressed. And it showed. He didn’t meet many women–not to mention children that could cut right through his demeanor like a hot knife through butter.

“Alright! Alright. Keep the pillows…sheesh. Don’t need to look at me like that, like a stole somethin’.”, Davrel chuckled.

Amelia sternly spoke. “You’re a brigand, brigands steal all the time!”

“Well, I’m not one anymore.” Davrel folded his arms.

Amelia’s face twisted with confusion. “That’s not what they say.”

“They who?”

“The other girls…”

Davrel approached. He would reach out to pat her on the shoulder. “Never take what anyone says as all true. You make this world for you, others can go fuck themselves.”

Andritte covered her mouth. “My word, Mister Richards!”

Amelia giggled ferociously. “Yeah! They can go fuck themselves!”

Davrel grinned wide. “Yeah-hah! That’s the spirit. Now go run along, go hit the Baroness with your pillow.”, he would tilt his head and wink as Amelia charged out of the room, Andritte in hot persuit.

–

You know. I think I just found the reason why.

It was far past midnight. That Davrel could tell. Usually about now, when he were younger, he’d be asleep in tent. Or below decks on a ship. He was never in one place for too long. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he strolled about the gallery they had in their hallway. Beautiful stained glass, the kind you see in cathedrals.

The moonlight broke through the stained glass windows. There was something about these hallways that made it easier. Made things easier. Davrel had spent weeks, months even, memorizing every stone, every passageway, every room– of the Barrowfield Estate. He looked up to the moon, out of the stained glass window. The one that depicted a blind woman. That held up three cards, underneath the sun. And his mind was spirited away to the streets of Old Town.

–

“Davvy! I’m hungry…”, Davrel turned down to look at Aerilith. 

“Shsh…Aerrie. Soon, the shops will open, and I’ll be able to work for Master Cunningham down th’ street, and we’ll have more bread than you can possibly imagine!”

Aerilith clung close to her ratty, worn stuffed lion. Snuggling it close. Davrel had spotted a robed figure looking down their alleyway. Knives’ Alley, as it was called. Hooded and cloaked, the figure turned to look down their alleyway. Davrel grit his teeth. “Unless y’ got coin, or food! Bugger off!”

The cloaked figure tilted his head, and walked down the alleyway. Taking long strides, as the man was tall. He moved with a certain grace. And Davrel noticed, tall, sharp ears poking out of the hood. The cloaked figure knelt, and under the hood– Davrel saw bright eyes of blue. 

The figure removed his hood. A high elf. Davrel suddenly regretted his entire existence. High Elves were nobles, the nobles that the nobles bowed down to. Davrel quickly bowed but the elf reached out fast as a blink and gripped his chin. Making him look up. And spoke in elegant monotone.

“I look in your eyes…and see more eyes. Green eyes. Blue eyes. Eyes of white. Eyes you’ll close forever. And your eyes…your eyes will never close.”

He turned to Aerilith. He shoved Davrel aside, and Davrel barked out. “Get -away- from her!”, but was quickly chained to the wall by Arcane energies.

He reached out and looked into Aerilith’s eyes. “And in you. I see untapped magic. One of immense power. The Kirin Tor will know of you soon enough. You will not live this life anymore.”, he spoke and turned away. Walking out of the alley as quick as he had entered. Davrel turned to Aerilith and she began to cry.

“I don’t wanna’ leave, Dav…I don’t wanna’ leave you!”, the child rushed forward to embrace her brother. The arcane bindings releasing.

“No…no, Aerrie. Together. Forever.”, he held her tight. Tighter than he had held on to anything in his whole life. He felt as if he would never let go.

–

“Fucked in the ass.”, Davrel spoke through grit teeth. He was in but his shirt and his common clothes. All he had was his swordbelt. The Barrowfield Estate was set ablaze in the night. An attack no one knew was coming. The unknown forces had already broken through the gates.

They were flying no banners. Davrel had considered his options. Cut and run, like he did from situations like these. He held his sword at his side, drawn. Andrinette was sprinting down the hallway as Davrel contemplated retreat. He grabbed her by the collar. “Where’s Lord and Lady Sydor?”

“I-I…”

Davrel shook his head. “Get them safe. Every damn house has secret passageways that servants know about, right?”

“I don’t–”

Davrel hushed her. “Get them to safety.”

“And where are you–”

Davrel spoke loud as he sprinted out of the keep door way into the courtyard. “Somewhere else.”

Steel singing, buildings burning. Man slaying man, man slaying innocent, man slaying soldier. Davrel knew this sight all too well. One of the men in dark armor sprinted at him, interrupting his contemplation. Davrel ducked under his horizontal cut and ran him through the gut with vicious emphasis. He would proceed to engage the dead man’s friend who approached him with sword on high. Davrel swung up at the soldier’s sword, but aiming a little low. He cut his arm off at the forearm. And then proceeded to behead him.

The fires lit up the damp, cold, Arathi night. And the scent of blood and death filled the air as Barrowfield keep was getting ready to fall. Soon enough, after ten minutes of hard fighting, and seven men falling to Davrel’s blade. He found himself surrounded. He looked around him. Fallen Sydor soldiers all around, their faces all frozen in terror. He let out a sigh. Looking up to the hills. He saw silhouettes, four. Elaianna, Andrinette, Haleth…and most importantly, Nerina. He let out a sigh and chuckled as he shook his head. He turned back to look at the fifteen men surrounding him. Most of them had crossbows.

A single man rode on a horse, he looked old, stern. Hard as the iron he wore. He spoke in a husky and a voice that was indicative of a southerner. “Where are the traitors of Sydor?”

“Well. Shit, they were just here.” Davrel spoke in a apologetic tone. “Maybe you should try knocking. Next time you might catch them.”

“I have no time for games, tell me where the bastard traitors are, or you’ll hang.”

“Heh. Really? Well. I got all night. So, come on!” Davrel spoke to no one in particular, looking at the sky. Holding his sword aloft.