#inthius

Ithanar’s interruption draws a glance from Ildrielen and Ithaerin, who just stare at him with inquisitive glances.

“You… you will?” The youngest Islesun sibling asks, an eyebrow arched.

“Yes. You two will deal with getting-” Ithanar begins to relay the orders he’s thought out in his mind a dozen times already.

“Why don’t we just take him on all together?” Ildrielen stops him short with her statement, shrugging. “Would be easier.”

“She’s not wrong, you know!”

Silence again, but it’s a sharp and twisting thing.

“The whoooooooole family comes together! Finally!”

All three heads turn, almost in unison, as one of those platforms sinks down to their floor from high above. There’s a slight hiss that sounds throughout the lower chamber as it lands and fits neatly into place, revealing that sallow faced figure with his cropped silver hair and a frown that stretches across his face to reveal teeth.

Hantheron.

Celinth,

I’m going to be out for a week or two.

Ran a personal op. Had a bad run-in with some demons in Suramar.

Tell whoever the newest acting Ranger-Captain is. If he hasn’t kicked the proverbial goblin trash can, then great, that works too.

Ildrielen

Ildrielen doesn’t wait too long, drawing an arrow from her quiver with blinding speed, aiming, and firing a shot off that nears the mark, but doesn’t hit. No, instead of striking Hantheron, a glaive comes down out of nowhere and cuts it right at the shaft, stopping the momentum.

Something, or someone, rises from the ground, from a puddle of dark liquid. Ithanar knows what it is immediately, or at least has a clue as he watches a figure coalesce from the stuff.

It’s…

It’s ink.

“What the-!” Ildrielen barks, drawing another arrow and getting ready to unleash it. She doesn’t get the chance however as something streaks toward her, drawing cries from her siblings, but she steps back, keeping her bow raised.

The figure finally comes into being, a not-so-tall elf with a mane of off-white hair and a blindfold wrapped around his eyes, or where they would be. Tattoos shift up and down ruddy-red colored skin, obviously the trademarks of an Illidari.

The one they’ve been searching for.

Inthius.

“What a save, my apprentice!” The older magister responds with a gleeful laugh, almost manic. He claps his hands together slowly, smiling wide enough to not hide a fact that runs under the skin of the Islesun siblings who’ve come to oppose him. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, Ildrielen? Ithanar? Ithaerin?”

They know it. He knows it.

This is a trap.

All of this has been.

But what kind of a trap is it? 

“Go fuck yourself, Highwing!” Ildrielen shouts at the magister who just sways from side to side, hands clasping behind his back.

“Now, now, why don’t we use more proper language here? I set the damn rules!” Hantheron replies with a cheeky smile, head tilted, waving a finger. “No, no, I’m the master now… finally, as your brother-”

“What did you do to him?” Ithanar growls, fingers tightening around his sword and shield.

“The thing I probably should have done years ago, to be quite honest! He would not learn from me then, not listen, but now… well, now he follows his orders rather well…” The magister replies, turning his gaze to the Illidari at his side.

Vynthius hasn’t said a word yet, instead staring at something… the floor perhaps?

He hasn’t moved much either, almost lifeless in his neutral stance, his skin still ruddy and red, veins showing almost with some of that Fel green energy.

“We won’t ask again, Hantheron… what did you do to him?” Ithaerin asks the question now, his own tone tinged with annoyance and some sense of anger.

“I mean, I could have him kill you but…” Hantheron states, ignoring the question, trailing off for a few moments. He reaches up to tap the side of his chin with a hand, gaze no longer set on the Islesun siblings but on what is around them…

Demons lurking in the darkness, moving in now.

This is the trip they had been waiting for, one they’ve walked right into.

“Well, I’d much rather watch than be involved in the fray. We don’t want to forget what happened the last two times you manhandled me, Ithanar!” The magister chirps up with a wink. “Perhaps I’ll come down to finish the job, or send Vynthius to grab the scraps of you, mementos he can keep.”

“You wouldn’t even give us the-” Ildrielen tries to argue, turning her gaze in a half-circle to see what threats near them.

“Last I checked none of our houses have much honor, so no, I won’t!” Hantheron almost laughs in reply, peering over at Vynthius, who stands still in the back-and-forth of this argument.

“Ithanar…” Ithaerin murmurs, gaze shifting to his brother. He doesn’t need to say anymore.

This is the trap, and they’ve walked right into it.

The demons around them begin to close the gap, or already have, coming closer…

And closer…

“I won’t go down without a fight, Hantheron! None of us will, and you know that!” Ildrielen retorts again, raising her bow and trying to aim as best she can.

“Then you’ll enjoy that gauntlet of demons then!” Hantheron almost sings in a victorious tone, turning on a heel with Vynthius in tow. They move toward the platform and as they do, the space they occupied is filled by demons, a whole host of them now surrounding Ithanar, Ildrielen, and Ithaerin…

Closer…

And closer…

A felstalker snaps its jaws at Ildrielen, and a doomguard brandishes its axe in Ithaerin’s direction.

Ithanar is the first to make his move, somethin almost out of character, but he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t have the damn time, so he takes his blade and plants it right in the head of the nearest demon, a felguard, swinging wildly and moving rapidly. His gaze centers on the platform, which slowly rises, barely catching the glance of Hantheron waving goodbye.

Fury builds.

“Kill them, and then we move!”

His words and actions are enough to break the standoff.

Chaos erupts.

Overseer,

I do apologize for my absence as of late. A personal issue took up my attention and I had to be away, some of it not exactly by own my choice.

I will return to the Doom Glaive as soon as I can, and with some interesting information I’ve gleaned from the enemy.

Vynthius

This is no cave. 

The lift rises, and Vynthius Vilesun watches the chaos below.

His siblings are putting up one fel of a fight, and it all makes sense. There’s over a thousand years of combat experience between them, a dozen human lifetimes’ worth. 

It all tugs at him, shifts with him, does not settle with his mood... 

“Well, Vynthius, what do you think of this whole affair?” 

Hantheron’s words break the Illidari from his reverie, and his body almost sways a bit with mad glee. His gaze is directed at Vynthius, but not for long as he surveys what he hopes is a victory below. 

“Shall we head back up? Our Master does await us.”

Vynthius’s gaze, or lack thereof, sweeps across his three siblings and then the demons, watching the fray with teeth bared in a feral snarl that doesn’t seem his own… almost.

Almost is indeed the operative word, because the words that leave his mouth are shocking, at least to Hantheron.

“No.”

The ruse is up, his charade comes to an end. 

No cave ever swallowed Vynthius Vilesun whole. 

“E-e-excuse me?!” Hantheron stammers, and then stops, shaking his head. His eyes go wide as he watches the Illidari turn his gaze on him, and he takes a step back… and then another… but he doesn’t get too far as a tendril of ink wraps around his right ankle and holds on.

“I said… no…” Vynthius repeats in a deadly tone, brows furrowing. He raises one of his hands and squeezes it, making a fist; the tendril of ink seems to react accordingly.

Even as the platform shifts, Ithanar hears his brother’s words, turning his gaze up as he takes down a felstalker. He isn’t the only one as Ithaerin and Ildrielen both shoot glances up at the scene above, surprise and shock in their eyes.

“You… no, no, this isn’t supposed to-” The magister stumbles over his own words, and then looks down at the ink around his leg, and then back up at Vynthius.

“Perhaps you have gone deaf in your old age, Magister…” The Illidari repeats, reaching out to grab Hantheron by the wrist and succeeding, chuckling in a manner that could be best described as delightful and devious.

His hold only lasts for a few moments as Hantheron wrenches himself away, but stumbles and falls the floor, his face seized with a shock he had never anticipated.

“I… I…” Hantheron stammers or tries to, walking backwards and getting his robes in a mess. He’s stopped short though by the inky hold around his ankle.

“Broke me? You deal with an Illidari, magister, need I remind you? I BARELY cracked, as I warned you!” Vynthius almost roars, one of his hands tightening into a fist. He takes a few steps forward, summoning one of his glaives to a hand and brandishing it.

“I… I… no, no, no…”

“INTHIUS!”

Who said-

It’s Ithaerin who calls that name from below, which almost distracts the Illidari as he begins to take on the kill. Vynthius’s head snaps to his brother below, almost reacting in a way that someone might when a whip is snapped close enough to them.

Hantheron, still stammer, takes advantage of the opportunity. The old magister’s stammering turns into something fearful, and then he stops, unleashing a fury of fel-green fire which rushes for Vynthius in conjunction with his screams of rage.

“KILL THEM! KILL ALL OF THEM!”

Vynthius is blasted off of the platform, fel fire engulfing him and chaos erupts further as he falls.

No cave ever swallowed Vynthius Vilesun, ever kept him, ever stopped him.

The cave only contained him. 

No cave constructed by a mortal man, a dwarf, or a traitorous elf could stop eons of destruction captured within a century’s worth of fury. 

“Hylaen!”

“Ithaerin. What’s your status?”

“We... it’s not good exactly. We made it out but...”

“What the fel does that- where are you?”

“Do you have supplies on hand? Medical supplies?”

“Yes, yes, but who’s hurt?”

“...”

“Ithaerin, who the bloody-”

“It’s-”

Up goes Hantheron on the lift, floating away to the upper level, which draws a cry from below.

But Ithanar is on it, moving through the fray of demons and Islesuns as best he can, to the edge of the platform or lack thereof. His gaze shifts left and then right, and then right and left.

Where? Where is a-

A console.

There!

He surveys his surroundings. Ildrielen continues to provide cover for Vynthius, who did not meet his death by falling to the fel iron floor below and instead reformed using his Illidari powers, or what he assumes to be. He’s injured, Fel flame having assaulted his skin, but he’s awake and conscious.

Meanwhile Ithaerin deals with a pair of felstalkers intent on ripping his head off, but he seems capable enough.

Always has, always will be.

“Ithanar! Where are you-”

He hears Ildrielen’s yells, watching her taking aim and firing at an incoming Felstalker. Her arrow strikes true, killing the demon, as she cranes her gaze to him.

“Take care of Vynthius! I will take care of-” The oldest Islesun sibling replies, slamming the console with a hand once, and then twice, and then a third time before something hums and there’s a grinding sound. He peers up, watching as the same platform Hantheron occupied returns and quickly.

“Ithanar! Vynthius is-!” Ithaerin protests, still dealing with a pair of felstalkers while keeping an eye on his back, more importantly Ildrielen and the downed Illidari.

“Watch him then! I’ll be back! Someone needs to get Hantheron!” He barks back at them, letting out a sigh as the platform hisses as it fits into place.

Ithanar steps aboard and then watches as the thing rises. His siblings continue to take care of the carnage below, enough so that he trusts them to join him, but there’s just no time.

So many choices run through the old elf’s mind, a hundred directions, a dozen ways this could all go, but in all of them one truth remains constant. 

They need to get Hantheron now.

He knows it.

Ildrielen knows it.

Ithaerin knows it.

As the lift goes higher, and higher, Ithanar catches a glimpse of Inthius, who just watches from his nearly prone position. The look on his face is one of contemplative fury, an ironic thing if there ever was one. 

The… whatever his brother has become, Illidari, monster, demon, whatever he is… well, Vynthius just merely nods.

He knows it too, knows that Hantheron needs to taken down. 

That’s enough for Ithanar.

That’s worth it, even if it’s the last time he ever sees Inthius.

Or Ithaerin.

Or Ildrielen.

“You’re... you’re an idiot.” 

“We’ve both been awful to each other, haven’t we? After all these years?”

“We have.”

“I’m... I’m sorry, Ildrielen.”

“I’m... I’m sorry, Ithanar. I’m sorry we couldn’t figure this all out earlier.”

“Well, we still have time, don’t we? To some damn degree...”

“We’ll figure this out someday, won’t we?”

“One day. One damn day.” 

Here you are.

At a precipice once again.

Couldn’t just wait until I was asleep again?

No, no, I wanted to… to… hrm, what are the words again?

Go on a whole rambling explanation about power yet again, and how I’ve failed to grasp at it?

How did you knooooow?

I keep hearing it over and over.

So will you do it?

No.

But you are going to kill him?

Yes.

You won’t be able to do it.

Then you don’t know me very well.

You do know well how well I know you.

I don’t have time for this.

This lift is moving rather slowly… you may not have time for me…

But here I am anyway.

Lurking in the front, the back, the side, the around of your skull.

You.

Won’t.

Kill.

Him.

You.

Can’t.

I’ll try then.

Then you will fail.

You think I’m afraid of that?

You should be.

I’m not.

You.

Could’ve.

Avoided.

This.

You.

Still.

Can.

No.

ALL YOU NEED-

I do not need power.

You just will not listen, will you?

Stubborn until the very end.

“Inthius!” 

“Do not call me that!’

“Fine then, IDIOT.”

“Not now, you two. We need to catch up with Ithanar.”

“Hantheron is not to be toyed with.”

“I thought you called him an ‘old fool’...”

“Some old fools still have tricks at their disposal, don’t they... Ildrielen?”

“I am going to let that one go. I am so going to let that one-”

“Enough. I cannot believe I am telling my- ah, there we are!” 

“Let’s go.”

“We do have a lift to catch, don’t we?” 

“My lord, my lord… please…”

“Highwing. You bother me now?”

“A-a-a situation… has…”

“You would bother me with yet another failure?”

“My lord… I did not… I d-d-d-d did not foresee-”

“The last time we spoke you delivered failures unto me. I gave you ONE LAST CHANCE, worm.”

“I DID NOT THINK THIS WOULD HAPPEN. I D-D-D-D-” “SILENCE.”

“My lord… Vel’domis… please… p-p-p-please…”

“I ask again… did I say you could say that name?”

A sigh.

The hunger is somber.

“My lord… I need… I need your help with these intruders…”

“Intruders.”

“They would threaten your work… OUR WORK!”

The hunger finds humor in this.

“OUR work? You would supplement my work, fool. Nothing more than just an additional piece of the puzzle for which I have no need any further given your utter uselessness.”

“E-e-excuse me?”

“Our contract is finished.”

“No… please… no Vel’domis… don’t YOU DARE! YOU PROMISED-”

“I promised a reward for successes, not for… failures.”

“I HAVE SERVED YOU WELL! I… I…”

“YOU WOULD GROVEL AT MY FEET AND ASK FOR REWARDS?”

The sobs, the begging… they mean nothing to Vel’domis.

“We are finished, Highwing. Die… well, if you even have the fortitude to do so.”

“My lord… my looooooooord… please… PLEASE! PLEASE!”

The hunger is gone.

The elf reaches down with a hand for the magister’s long mane of silver hair, fingers grabbing and then wrenching to try and pull him up to his feet, to get a better look at his face. Hantheron lets out a cry of pain, howling, eyes wrenched shut and holding back tears, or at least attempting to as he struggles to his knees.

“I-I-I-I-Ithanar… p-p-p-puh-please!” The magister finally gets out a stutter, barely able to talk through the flow of blood.

“Shut up… just shut the fuck up...” Ithanar growls in return, wrenching that gauntlet in Hantheron’s hair even more tightly, enough that he draws another cry of pain and then sobbing. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Fucking pathetic, Hantheron.”

“KILL ME THEN! FOR I AM ALREADY DEAD” Hantheron screams, blood trickling from between his lips, gaze lifted and glaring daggers at the armored elf. “My… my… fate was SEALED! MUCH LIKE YOUR BROTHER-”

What is he talking about?

No, wait…

Ithanar doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn.

“Inthius owed you NOTHING!” The oldest Islesun roars, wrenching the magister by the hair still and then tossing him to the floor. “I OWE YOU NO PROMISES! HE ESCAPED FROM YOU!”

The magister laughs and sobs, an unusual mix as he continues to wallow in his misery, knees and hands resting on the floor. His face is a damn bloody mess, nose still askew, mouth agape, and breathing shallow.

“I… you should’ve have tried to find him… you left him on his own…” Hantheron murmurs through blood and spit, gaze lifting. Laughter has begun to replace the sobs in full albeit uncontrollably, almost unhinged in a way. “You left him to suffer, worse than any fate I would’ve given HIM!”

As soon as he says the word, the magister flicks his hand and lets of a roaring fireball in Ithanar’s direction but the warrior sidesteps it and charges, drawing his blade. Hantheron scrambles up to his feet, hands slinging and swinging wildly as he unleashes more fire upon his foe.

Something screams in the back of Ithanar’s skull, familiar senses and instructions but he bashes them away for he does not have the tools at his disposal. No, instead, he ducks and then dodges as best he can, narrowly evading the spells and closing the gap before swinging his blade down upon the magister’s head.

Hantheron however has other plans in mind, raising a hand and conjuring a shield of fel green to parry the strike away. It’s a successful attempt, but it doesn't deter Ithanar who immediately raises his shield and bashes the mage in his already vulnerable ribs, connecting and sending him skidding then rolling across the fel iron floor.

“I’m going to kill you, Hantheron, I’m going to fucking-” He growls dangerously, angrily, as he continues stomping forward.

“IF I’M GOING TO TO DIE, THEN I WILL TAKE YOU ALL WITH ME!” The magister roars in response, dragging himself to his feet and moving his hands wildly, rapidly, fingers dangling as though attempting to conjure something yet again. “YOU HAD THE CHANCE YEARS AGO, ITHANAR!”

He isn’t wrong, no, not at all…

But Ithanar plans to make up for it here and now, damn it.

The magister finishes his conjurations, hands still swirling and moving, as he twists another raging fire into existence… but it’s fel green, dangerous and dark, a twisting cloud of brimstone that he launches at Ithanar with great force. As the thing moves, the matter unravels to create a twisting cloud that threatens to engulf the area the armored elf occupies.

But what part of the area? Above? Below? All of the spaces in between?

Ithanar tries to calculate, but finds that he doesn’t have the time and decides to make that split decision, twisting under the twisting felfire and brimstone. He sees Hantheron’s expression from the periphery of his gaze, a twisted and bloody smile that widens as his spell takes effect and then explodes.

Above then. If he had been standing during that…

No, now isn’t the time.

That bloody smile on Hantheron’s lips changes to something of fear and then he shouts incomprehensibly.

Whatever words he has do not matter to Ithanar. No, only actions do in this moment.

The off-white haired elf reaches the mage and is able to deliver a swift kick, boot connecting with Hantheron’s gut and then sending him backward but not before Ithanar brings his blade up and around, aimed at his foe’s right arm and connecting to bloody effect.   

Hantheron collides with the wall behind, but he’s already unleashing a bloodcurdling scream of pain and terror, his remaining hand shaking to try and reach the bloody stump that was once his right arm. He screams and screams, huddled against the wall, teeth gritted… but that doesn’t stop Ithanar who continues to charge.

No, what stops Ithanar instead is another sound… laughter, chilling to the bone, the smokiness of brimstone…

It’s Hantheron.

<“I… I won’t die… no, no, not like this… NO, I WILL LIVE… I WILL…”>

His form shifts and shakes, rumbling forth as he begins to escape the bond of his robes. Bulk and brawn are drawn forth under the skin, and his features begin to take on something brutish, large, hulking…

None of it is good, no, no, not for Ithanar.

The oldest Islesun backs away with a growl, grip tightening on blade and then shield as he watches Hantheron become something monstrous, horns growing from his head, skin wrecked and ravaged by cracks of Fel energy… a monster, power only the Legion could ever give.

He’s seen it before in some of the Illidari, but this…

<“You should’ve killed me… when you had the chance, Ithanar…”> This new version of Hantheron growls, peering at a regrown arm, twisted and demonic, nails sharp like claws.

<“You had the chance, but no, no, I know you wanted… you wanted me to suffer.”>

Again, the magister-turned-traitor isn’t wrong.

Ithanar still wants to make him suffer, but in this moment such a task doesn’t seem entirely feasible.

<“I will make YOU suffer… I will make your FAMILY suffer… I will make ALL OF YOU SUFFER!”> The demon roars, gaze now upon the elf.

Hantheron lunges forward and grabs Ithanar, who fails at rolling out of the way. He feels himself picked up and then thrown into the air, tumbling and crashing toward a nearby wall. There’s a thud as armor meets fel iron, and then he collapses but isn’t out of it, no, not just yet.

But soon.

In this moment, Ithanar realizes his mistake. He had all the time in the world to put Hantheron in the ground.

Now he has none of it.

Perhaps his other self was right.

THEN YOU WILL FAIL.

So be it.

“Can this go faster?”

“I’m afraid it’s set at a-”

“Fuck your certain speed!”

“Ildrielen…”

“We’re here. Let us make some haste.”

“We need to-”

“Where is it? Where is-”

“Oh.”

“What the fuck? Is that-!”

“Hantheron.”

“What happened to him?”

“His master must’ve given him one last gasp of energy, one last thing to fight with.”

“We will need to take this-”

“No time, Ithaerin. We need to do this fast. Get Ithan-”

“No more talking. I’m going.”

“Inth- wait, no!”

“INTHIUS!”

“After him, Ildrielen! Move!”

“We need to get him! We need to-”

“SHIT, HE SEES US!”

“ILDRIELEN! MOVE!”

“ITHAERIN!”

Ithanar sees it all in slow motion, the world coming to a near stop before his eyes.

He can barely move to stop it, but it’s close enough, a great sphere of fel fire streaks toward him, toward Vynthius, towards Ithaerin and Ildrielen. They’ve arrived at both the right and wrong time.

A great and terrible thing, the green of fel fire glowing with each passing millisecond, moves toward Vynthius, Ithaerin, and Ildrielen. Summoning as much energy as he can muster, the old elf moves as fast as he can in plate, sprinting toward them and then staggering as he is able to gain some sort of better vantage point.

He feels his bruises, his cracks, his joints, his aches, feels all of it and then feels none of it. The battle with the mutated and fel-infused Hantheron has left him battered and nearly broken, but now in this moment it feels like nothing.

Because he knows what it’s like to break, both as the recipient and the one doing the breaking.

He still sees it all in slow motion, a moment in time standing as still as he has to, as strong as he does, spreading his feet shoulder-width apart and raises a hand.

He hears a shout behind him, a voice that can only belong to Ildrielen. She already knows what he plans to do, already understands what he’s going to attempt… and how it is probably going to kill him.

Probably being the operative word. He’s willing to take a chance for family, yes, even her. Forget their rivalry, forget their hatred, forget… all of it.

In this moment, he forgets. He casts himself into a void he only knows so well.

But it isn’t just him who’s here.

No, he feels a voice from beyond, the feeling of scorched grass and twigs on his toes, a crackling fire. 

You really are stubborn, you know that?

The other Ithanar.

He’s here.

It’s here.

Not now.

You could take all of this, couldn’t you? All of this energy? This…

Power. I’m sure I could.

The void is a hell of a place to have a conversation like this.

Ithanar focuses as best he can, trying to keep out distractions, trying to keep it all out… but the Nightmare wriggles and worms its way into his mind, whispering as it always does.

You can have it all.

I’m well aware. How many more times will you tell me this?

I will continue to do so until you see my point.

Which is?

You have nothing.

That is true.

Yet you grasp at nothing.

That isn’t true.

Then what do you have?

Ildrielen.

She hates you.

Ithaerin.

He has no care for you.

Inthius.

They ALL despise you.

So be it.

SO BE IT?

I am going to give my family one last thing to cling to. I don’t care if they hate me or love me.

My mistakes have been my own.

THEN CORRECT THE COURSE.

THIS PATHETIC ELF FASHIONS HIMSELF A MONSTROSITY…

… WHEN HE IS NOTHING MORE THAN A MESS.

TAKE.

IT.

TAKE.

IT.

ALL.

No.

WHY NOT?

Because I don’t need it.

YOU LIE.

You want to believe that, don’t you? But if you know me so damn well then why don’t you tell me how we both truly feel?

YOU.

ARE.

PATHETIC.

A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A WARRIOR.

A PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A SPELLBREAKER.

A PATHETIC EXCUSE AS YOU ARE NOW.

And I told you…

I accept who I am now.

Besides… I am no spellbreaker.

Ithanar isn’t wrong. He isn’t a spellbreaker, no, not anymore.

He hasn’t been one for a long time.

He may be able to speak of the methods, of the ways in which one does what they need to put the fear of death into a mage but…

He does not carry the powers of a spellbreaker. He doesn’t need to. 

However, he is something else, isn’t he?

He’s a warrior, a fighter, a protector of something greater than himself.

Ithanar realizes that he’s forgotten that to some degree.

For a moment, even with his eyes closed, he swears he can see Inthius’s bright shining face, remembers the last words he had told his younger brother before he had left…

You break.

We all break.

But Inthius is here, isn’t he? He’s back in their arms yet again.

There is no more breaking to be done.  

Only protecting.

“ITHANAR! WHAT THE FUCK-”

Ildrielen isn’t able to finish her shouting, watching her twin brother step in front of that gout of green fel-fire and reach out with a hand. She attempts to step out of the way and barely makes it, diving down across the fel-iron platform and coming up to a knee, gaze wheeling around to see what fate has befallen Ithanar.

He lowers his hand and reaches for his shield to bring it up, shouting something hard to hear amongst the din of fire and rage. The rune on the front of the shield glows crimson, and then unleashes a concussive blast just as the gout of flame reaches the old elf. It’s a mix of Fel and Arcane, each clashing against one another before combining into the only possible form of energy Ildrielen truly knows.

An explosion.

She’s thrown off her feet and farther down the ramp, eventually coming to rest on her belly. Quiet settles in the next few moments and Ildrielen is back on her feet shortly after that, reaching for her bow from the ground and sprinting as fast as she can in her leathers, tenacious as always.

“Where the-?” The Farstrider begins to ask, waving aside the aftermath of dark smoke and fel embers to try and get a better picture.

Her answer lies before her in the form of Ithanar’s body slumped against the wall, seemingly lifeless, limbs askew and shield nowhere near his person.

“No, no, no, no-” She begins to stammer, hurrying as best she can, leaping over displaced rubble to get to her brother. Her gaze turns and twists, disoriented and sick, but she swears she can see Inthius and Ithaerin from her the corner of periphery.

But they don’t matter at the moment. No, Ithanar does… for the first time in a long time.

She crouches as soon as she can, coming to rest beside him and dropping her bow to place her hands around his face, trying to see. He seems limp in her grasp, lifeless, eyes closed, obviously having impacted the wall given how he lays there.

“Ithanar! Ithanar! Don’t you fucking dare, I swear!” Ildrielen nearly screams in his face. “Please… ITHANAAAAR!”

He doesn’t respond, at least in the moment, but something else does… an insidious growl of a laugh that shifts from across the room.

The Farstrider’s gaze twists and turns, and she can feel color drain from her face as she watches Hantheron rise from rubble caused by the impact of his large demonic form across the room, which he seems to have brushed off for the most part. 

His chest appears caved in and there’s an arm missing, but other than that… 

The magister-turned-traitor seems terrifyingly ready for another confrontation.

<“Shame, isn’t it?”> The half-elf, half-demon states with a wide smirk. <“He gave so much… for so little. Seems a rather solid summary of his life, doesn’t it?”>

Ildrielen reaches for her bow almost immediately and nocks an arrow as quickly as she can, drawing and firing, tears streaming down her eyes. Her aim is off, for the first time she can remember, so her shot moves high and wide right. She’s reaching again for an arrow, but Hantheron begins his slow but lumbering march toward her.

It’s obvious he’s injured more than he lets on, but she doesn’t have a lot of time. Where the fel are Inthius and Ithaerin? Where-

<“I guess you’ll meet the same fate as he did, my dear Ildrielen...”> Hantheron gloats as he rumbles toward her, picking up speed. <“So much for so-”>

He doesn’t finish whatever taunt he has in mind.

The lumbering monstrosity doesn’t even make it across the room as something inky black and dark wraps around its neck, and then its remaining arm, and then its legs, tying him down to the floor. He goes completely immobile, eyes wide in shock as something begins to materialize on that broad shoulder, the form of an elf…  

Vynthius. 

He may have no eyes to see behind that blindfold, but the fury is palpable through the red cloth, an appropriate color.

“What was that you were saying… Magister?” The young Illidari sneers and taunts now, having stopped the mutated elf in his tracks.

Whatever Hantheron tries to say… doesn’t come out. 

No, he’s caught at a loss for words given the tightening band of ink around his neck.

“So much…” Vynthius repeats, raising a hand and making a fist, ink forming around it. “... for so little.”

The ink moves and shifts, forming a some sort of blade or spike, and then the Illidari punches it through the side of Hantheron’s head, right through his brain, clean as can be.

There’s no roar, no yell, no screeching, no, none of that.

Just a gasp.

Hantheron Highwing dies as he never wanted.

(The hunger doesn’t mourn its losses. No, it moves onto bigger things.)

“I… Inth!”

“I’m coming… I’m here… move now.”

“He’s not dead, he can’t-”

“He isn’t. His pulse is week. Perhaps cracked ribs, a broken arm… but…”

“But what?”

“His body is out of alignment. There’s a deadly concentration of arcane energies…”

“Hantheron’s doing?”

“No, no, it’s-”

“An old wound. From long ago.”

“What?”

“When he tried to save Tandrae and Iltheria. He failed… burnt himself out…”

“And took on a large amount of arcane energy in the process. He’s been internalizing it for-”

“Ithaerin, why the fuck didn’t you say anything? Why DIDN’T YOU-”

“It wasn’t my place, Ildre.”

“FUCK YOU.”

“Enough. The both of you.”

“This may be-”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Inth?”

“I can save him.”

“No… I have to save him.”

“Even after everything?”

“Even after everything, after all the things I’ve seen… if he hadn’t cared, if you all didn’t care…”

“We wouldn’t be here.”

“There’s some humanity-”

“It’s a balancing act, Ildrielen.” 

“Ith, call Hylaen. Let him know we’re on our way. Inth… can-”

The bedridden elf reaches out with a shaky right hand and sees it now, something new coiled around his wrist and spiraling up his arm; circular patterns of fel green and arcanic purple, a curious mix but… it appears a necessary one.

“What did you do…?”

Vynthius reaches out with his own hand to take Ithanar’s, but it’s more to look upon the tattoos, to see his own handiwork. However, after a few moments, he does give a small but reassuring squeeze of the older elf’s hand but returns rather swiftly to looking over those runes.

“You had a gargantuan amount of arcane magics centered in your right forearm… enough that it was killing you. I was able to quickly design a series of counter runes and channel Fel magics into them…”

Of course.

“And by doing so you-”

“Yes, I negated and neutralized an overwhelming majority of the arcane magics that were destroying you.”

“And the arcane layer you added on top of the Fel runes… stops those negative effects.”

“Indeed, and I learned that on my own… my choice.”

That’s how this all started, didn’t it?

Perhaps not all of their misfortunes, but Inthius? The ancient pact? Hantheron?

Silence, at least for a few long minutes.

“You know I tried, right?”

The youngest Islesun cranes his gaze away and then down. He doesn’t do or say anything, not at first, but eventually and slowly nods after a few moments.

“I know.”

A sigh of relief.

“I know you did, Ithanar.”

“I am truly sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for what our father did. You never had to.”

“I know, but I felt like I should say… something.”

“And so you have. What’s done is done.”

Silence.

It wasn’t like this… not years ago, no, not when they could talk for hours, when Ithanar could listen to Inthius give a lecture on some new artistic technique he had learned.

What to do? What to use to shift away from the topic...

“Hantheron?”

“Dead.”

“The… Legion’s…”

“I have informed my superiors.”

“The Illidari?”

“... Yes.”

“You chose that?”

“Are you angry with me for it?”

“No.”

“Then you understand.”

“I’ve met a few…”

“Of my kind? You can say it that-”

“I may not ever… truly understand, but I can see why.”

“Ildrielen wasn’t too pleased.”

“She doesn’t have much of a choice.”

“No, she doesn’t. I made the decision, and I did what I did.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

There’s a chuckle, low and gravelly…

It isn’t Ithanar though. It’s Vynthius.

A sound he missed. A sound he wanted to hear after all of these years. 

The two talk for a few more hours.

Perhaps it isn’t as direct as it was years ago, but things do open up a bit further.

“Remember when Iltheria saw my first attempt to Blink across the courtyard?”

“Yes, but now you can fly… so that may be a tad bit moot.”

“Glide, not fly. It’s a bit different, but it was damn horrible. I resolved to never try again after.”

“She thought your form was so bad. Couldn’t stop talking about it for hours afterward.”

“... And that is why I don’t even try anymore.”

“Well, why would you? You can glide.”

“There you go. Now you get it.”

The back and forth, the gentle tugs and pushes, the little quips…

This is what it was like, right?

Ithanar tries to remember the feeling, the idea of having a positive conversation with of his siblings.

It’s a feeling that’s evaded him for a decade now, fel, longer than that.

No Scourge could ever tear the Islesun family apart.

No, they did that to themselves.

“I should probably leave at some point.”

“And leave me here with Hylaen? Oh, how could you?”

“He’ll take better care of you than I can.”

“You saved my life, Vynthius.”

“Normally I would not have even attempted to heal a non-Illidari…”

“But you made an exception.”

“Do not tell a soul, Ithanar.”

“Oh, of course not.”

“At least you still have some of your cheekiness.”

“If I’ve kept anything through all of this bullshit…”

“It’s a damn good thing to hold onto.”

“... Be safe out there, Vynthius.”

“That’s not true.”

“Do not lie, Inthius... my old apprentice.” 

“I am no student of yours.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

“Fuck off.”

A laugh.

Low, morose, brooding…

Familiar.

“Insolent still. You picked up that from Ithanar.”

“Don’t say his name.”

“Or was it Ildrielen?”

“Don’t.”

“Did I touch a sore spot? That’s a foolish question.”

More laughter.

“Of course I did.”

There are too many sore spots.

Vynthius doesn’t talk about them.

He’s taken on the last name Vilesun for a damn reason.

For many damn reasons.

“The Islesun family hasn’t been united in a decade, fel, longer than that.”

“Don’t say that name.”

“So angry. Makes sense that you joined the Illidari. You had to direct all of that somewhere.”

A silence.

“We can all only take so many betrayals before we break.”

“I’ve barely begun to… crack.”

“We will see.”

Scribbled upon a piece of parchment that has been torn at some edges, this note from Ildrielen seems rushed, hurried, written with a scratchy script.

To my youngest brother who somehow gets himself in trouble all of the damn time,

Caught a lead after some assassins tried assaulting the estate. Told us that the Highwing family was behind their appearance.

Ithanar is hurt. Something wrong with his arm. Not sure exactly what’s going on. He won’t say but there’s no surprise there. Fucker.

Nonetheless we have a lead. Our old friend Hantheron has been making deals with the Legion. Found some documents stating so. We will bring those when we rendezvous for you to look over.

Also, we have your bauble.

Where are we meeting you?

Ildrielen

The reply addressed to Ildrielen and Ithanar is rather plain, but still appears formal enough, stamped with a seal belonging to House Islesun. 

To the two hooligans who decided to break into a house,

It is rather hilarious you mention Hantheron’s name as I was able to decode whatever my former associate screamed as I fled:

STOP THIS HANTHERON.

Seems we have a second piece of evidence to corroborate what you found at the magister’s estate. Hantheron is indeed our man to find, if that is even possible given that most have thought him dead for a number of years.

I am currently on my way to the Isle given that recent events are now out of my hair.

Take caution however, as I am sure Hantheron is probably intent on sending someone else to try and kill you. He always fashioned himself someone who was undeterred by anything.

Ithaerin

The hunger is coming.

There’s an undeniability about it, a taste on the tongue that never exactly goes away but it doesn’t linger either.

No, the hunger is born of starvation, of anger and rage at unnecessary order laid down by long dead titans. It rakes at the soul, your very being, and drives you forward in an endless march toward a goal that should one day be accepted as universal truth.

Chaos.

The hunger descends, and then spreads.

The Eredar lord Vel’domis hungers for more, but he cannot have it without… knowledge, results, experimentation.

An image appears, an elf… Hantheron Highwing, the magister-turned-traitor.

Their source. He kneels as they all should, head bent low, expectant, obedient…

Good, very good.

“My lord.”

“Highwing.”

“You probably are wondering-”

“Just speak, and then leave me be as I do not have time for your-”

“Then I will be quick. Our research goes well.”

A strong tone. Pride.

Good, very good…

Excellent.

“How many have you cracked?”

“A fair amount, my lord.”

A quivering tone. Fear.

He can feel it. Why? 

“And those broken to our will?”

“A few, but-”

How disappointing. 

“Not enough. We need more. The greater the numbers, the more-”

“I understand, Lord Vel’do-”

“Did I say you could speak that name?”

“No, my lord, I… ach…”

The sounds of choking, gasping, lungs wracked without air. 

Vel’domis revels in it. 

“You are not fit to speak that name. Do you understand loud and clear, maggot?”

“Yes, yes, my lord, I…”

“Leave me be. Continue to crack them, to break them. Bring me your results.”

A pause.

“And do it quickly.”

“Yes, my lord, yes, of course…”

The elf leaves, and only the quiet, the void of nether-tossed stars remain.

The figure stands broad, stands tall, but his head is ducked, slouched, resting against his chest, eyes closed in thought. He ruminates, wonders, sees what could be and what could not though there is no foresight here, no.

Only assumptions. He cannot abide by such things. He will not abide by such things.

WE HAVE FAILED TWO TIMES NOW!

Harsh words.

WE HAVE NEVER FAILED BEFORE AGAINST GNATS YET HERE WE ARE…

Harsh truths.

BURNED BOTH DAMN TIMES! 

It all has been burned into his brain much like their horde has burned and ignited the stars.

The hunger hates.

But the Eredar smiles nonetheless, head rising to look out amongst those stars once again. Breaking these Illidari is just the first step, but a second variation. The experiments continue.

The knowledge is coming.

Some beings just want to watch the universe burn, but why?

So they can remake it in their image, and this is just the first step in Vel’domis’s contributions.

He watches a comrade cut down by whirling blades, and then another torn apart by ferocious claws. Vynthius is barely able to conjure his own defenses, brush of blood and ink frantically bolstering a shield of runes that doesn’t last for long.

The young Illidari still has no answers. The front line of Illidari, of large glaives and destructive powers, has been cut down and now their support, their back line, is about to suffer the same fate.

Or so he thinks.

There’s still blood, his own, which flows from a wound he cannot seal. No, because it’s his own wounds that he cannot seal, not now at least. He’s under too much pressure, waylaid by what feels like a thousand demons; his mind, the demon within, tells him differently but he cannot deny the sensations felt by flesh, blood, and bone.

They overpower him, and he hates that so.

Vynthius Vilesun falls, but he hasn’t backed down from a fight. No, not now. Not ever.

He lays in blood, the same he knows so well, the same he mixes with ink to gain power unlike any… but now he’s powerless, broken, bruised, and battered.

He hears voices from above him, guttural and assaulting to mortal senses.

<We take them with us.>

<Why do we not just kill them here?>

<They do not like mortals do. They are like us.>

<Like us, you fool... they reform in the Nether, in the place beyond.>

<Enough of your quarrel. Grab the ones who still breathe this foul air, and let us be off.>

No.

They wish to take him and he tries to resist, but his body will not listen to the mind, for there is no synchronicity now. His inner demon screams, an assaulting voice that turns off his senses completely. There is nothing, just a void again, but Vynthius remembers something as all goes quiet, a thing from the past.

It is not the voice of the Wildfire, or Felsunder, or even the Dread Commander.

No, it is from a past he would like to forget but won’t for it drove him to do what he did, to imbibe blood from creatures of the Nether and become something far greater than any mortal being.

In this moment though, he feels more mortal than at any time in his life.

You break.

There it is, that voice again.

“And that’s what… uh… what happened to your demon hunter friends!” 

Ildrielen Islesun is rather unconvinced, which only lends to her already rather heightened annoyance and anger.

Her younger brother’s suggestion to search Faronaar, ancient ruins off the coast of Aszuna, has led them to a cave tucked quietly in the northwest, a thing of close quarters and sharp rocky angles. Of course, it hadn’t been easy but when was anything?

That wasn’t her issue with the whole affair, but where it had led to…

A single imp, small and green now is a source they apparently are going to trust or so Ithaerin says. Part of her can’t fault him for at least seeing what the infernal thing has to say, but a larger part of her wants to put an arrow through the demon’s heart.

It’s too bad Ithanar’s already stopped her from doing so yet again. Why can’t he just agree with her on this for once? Too many times now… he has stayed her hand.

“An ambush?” She tries out, peering over at the silver-haired sibling, who stands a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest (as always).

“Yes, yes, that’s what happened!” The little imp pipes up from below, jumping up and down in something resembling excitement. “An ambush! A rather glorious-”

“I didn’t ask you!” Ildrielen cuts through the demon’s display with something almost resembling a yell, reaching up with a hand to catch the bridge of her nose. She directs a look to Ithanar, and then Ithaerin but can see the imp’s snarl and glare from the corner of her sight.

“Perhaps we should not piss off the thing that is helping us?” Ithaerin retorts, rolling his eyes before looking back at his Ildrielen.

“Don’t be a damn demon lover,” Ildrielen snaps back at him, snarling as fierce as any demon could. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the imp recoil just a bit in fear and a large bit of her feels some satisfaction.

Ithaerin just huffs in response, one hand sliding down to rest against his hip, and then looks away from Ildrielen and back to the imp. Meanwhile, Ithanar is quiet as usual, taking in everything as best he can or so it seems with his focused stare and furrowed brows.

“Where did they take them? Do you know?” The oldest Islesun sibling asks after a few beats of silence, head tilted to the right in curiosity.

The imp shakes its head, eyebrows perking up, and then decides to just spit on the floor. How rude. Ildrielen glares daggers at the creature, but sees Ithanar doing the same in her direction which causes her to sigh in response.

“No, and honestly I wouldn’t tell you because… well, you know… Legion hates you, you hate us, and I still am rather bound to them, right? I’m only here because you can probably put a blade in my gut faster than I can run, and it hurts to die!” The imp explains, hands gesturing wildly to make a motion as though it stabs itself in the gut with an invisible sword.

“Then I guess we are at a dead end then,” Ildrielen almost immediately says, huffing just a bit before looking over at Ithaerin. “Well, that was a good lead, now wasn’t-”

“Don’t be so quick to give up on this. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve, Ildre!” Ithaerin stops her short now, waving a hand in her direction. “Besides, you were so gung-damn-ho to find him, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but now we don’t even know where he is or if it’s really him!” She says, tossing her hands up in the air in frustration. “I am the best damn tracker in the Farstriders, but we all know I can’t track across dimensions or through portals.”

Ithaerin smirks wide, giving Ithanar a knowing glance. “You may not able to, but I have… contacts who can,” he corrects her. “So perhaps, let’s relax on that boast just a bit, hrm?” 

The imp just continues to stare at them, gaze on a swivel. It nervously takes a small step back, and then another, and then another as though-

“Excuse me!” Ithaerin almost yelps, catching it in the act of trying to disappear. The imp jumps up in some sort of fright, frozen with its hands up in the air and a leg dangling.

“Uh…” The thing says, its tone wrought with fear. “A-a-a-am I done now?”

Ildrielen looks at Ithanar, who then looks at Ithaerin. He was the one conducting this whole… “interrogation”.

The youngest sibling in the cave smiles, though it’s a bit mischievous, almost devilish in nature.

“Yes, but don’t blame us if we do find and have to kill you in the future,” Ithaerin says, offering a small nod. “You do work with the Legion, and… well, you know how things work.”

“All too well!” The miniscule demon says before scampering off deeper into the cave. After a few moments, it’s gone, leaving the three Islesun siblings alone to themselves.

“And you wanted to kill it almost immediately,” Ithaerin says, breaking the silence after a moment or two. His gaze turns to Ildrielen. “Look at what we got out of that.”

“Yes, a whole lot of carnage and brutality to our brother… how wonderful!” Ildrielen responds with a sarcastic tone, which draws a stare from Ithanar. She looks right back at him, brows furrowed. “Don’t you give me that right now. Just don’t.”

“We have a lot to do, and little time,” Ithanar simply responds, turning his gaze away to Ithaerin. “What exactly were you thinking?”

The youngest Islesun sibling draws a finger up to his lips in thought, a small humming escaping for just a few seconds before he nods. “If they left through portals, I could probably scrounge up something that would allow me to trace where they went. Perhaps I could enlist the help of a mage or two, but… well, no, no, I can find the resources.”

“And waste more time? Vyn- Inthius could be dead already!” Ildrielen snaps, letting out yet another frustrated sigh. “We need to find him yesterday.”

“He isn’t.” Ithanar’s single statement is a growl punctuated by a penetrating glare in Ildrielen’s direction, brows furrowed so close to his eyes that they almost seem like one. “I’ve worked with Illidari. They are tough and they do not die or break easily.”

A pause.

“They cannot,” he adds on before falling silent, though Ildrielen doubts that use of “they”. Does Ithanar mean they do not break easily due to what runs in their veins, or…

Could he not handle their brother dying? He’s seen so much, knows all too well what it is to break, what it is to broken, to- No, no, they all know.

(But he knows better than any of them.)

Ildrielen lets a hand rest against her hip, fingers sliding against leather and cloth. She resists the temptation to huff or sigh again, instead pursing her lips. “Okay, okay, fine…” She states after a few moments, pausing for just a second. “What’s our plan here?”

“I will see to it that we track down where those portals went,” Ithaerin responds almost immediately, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers to produce what appears to be a small book, or a diary, which he opens. “Secure a trace, a location, coordinates, so on and so forth and then we can move from there.”

“Fine, and what are we supposed to do?” The auburn-haired Farstrider asks, directing her gaze to Ithanar now.

“Wait, or at least that’s my understanding,” Ithanar answers, sounding annoyed with that prospect but accepting of it nonetheless. “How long will that take you, Ithaerin?”

“Forty-eight hours at the longest… or twelve hours for the minimum,” he answers, now having produced a pen and jotting something down there. “I’ll have to speak with my Illidari contact, but my mage contacts won’t be too far. They never are. Such is the benefits of being able to teleport.”

“A benefit we don’t have, so let us make some sort of haste,” the oldest Islesun sibling states with his own sigh, looking back at Ildrielen. “Perhaps we should wait at home?”

Now that’s a fair bit of a surprise. Ildrielen can’t remember the last time she’s been at the estate for longer than an hour or two, so her eyes widen a bit in surprise. She… she’s missed it all, to be honest, but to say as such would be giving in just a bit to the struggle between the twins.

“Fine. Best to have a single place we can all meet up,” she answers with an affirmative nod before turning on a heel to stride out of the cave, already dreading the idea of having to wait... of patience.