#ithanar

Ileonore follows soon enough, falling back on her rear. Her breathing is shallow, and her eyes flutter with tiredness. She isn’t dying, no, but she’s on the last of her energies and-

A rune sparks to life across her forehead, patterns swirling and filling with colors. It moves and shifts, pushing out the power stored into the rest of her lanky frame and offering vigour, strength, renewal.

Her breathing becomes less shallow, and her aches and pains lessen in intensity. Soon enough, she’s just laying there in the snow, her bob cut a little bit askew but still looking rather good nonetheless.

As she should be. Appearances are important.

She really shouldn’t care about this right now. No, she’s miles from the nearest encampment by her estimation and the snowfall isn’t getting any-

Sounds in the near distance.

Ileonore sits up, head suddenly on a swivel as she’s looking around. Left to right. Right to left.

Is that a hawkstrider? And a rider?

Who the fel-

They come closer. It’s rather obvious where the rider hails from, given his long tapered ears and the pale-white mane of hair, but she’s cautious nonetheless, readying the next-

“Damn it.”

No, that’s definitely Thalassian. That’s definitely a Sin’dorei.

As he comes closer, Ileonore notes his hawkish features and his rather almost imperial-looking armor in its shades of white and red. Military? Most likely. The handle of a long blade can be seen peaking over his left shoulder. His hawkstrider is snow-white in color and seems rather well cared for, a majestic creature.

The tall pale-haired elf just stares at the scene as he hops off his mount, at what’s left. His hawkstrider trots off to observe something unseen.

“Oh,” he says in a gravelly tone, looking somewhat shocked. His pale green eyes are wide, and his sharp features bob up and down in a nod. “Are you alright?”

Ileonore doesn’t answer at first. It’s a dumb question. Is she alright? Really? She just had to-

But she just puts on a smile and laughs it off in her baritone voice, waving a hand in almost nonchalant fashion. “Tall, pale, handsome. You’re late, my knight in shining armor, and not at all my type, but-”

Then this mystery elf does something she absolutely despises.

He cuts her off. Who the fel does he think he is?

“Listen. Witty banter is my forte, but not here. My name is Ithanar Islesun, and I’m-”

A name to put to a face.

“Here to show up late and not help at all, Ithanar,” she retorts, cutting him off now. Her gaze is pointed and direct, snow-white brows furrowing.

The elf just stares back and then reaches up to press a hand to his brow, fingers massaging his temple. He looks positively annoyed, and possibly understandably. After a few beats, he sighs and then lets his hand drop back to his side.

“You must be Ileonore, right?” Ithanar inquires, head tilted to the side.

“Why yes. I am the one and only Ileonore I-” she answers, her annoyance only showing slightly through her pained smile.

He cuts her off AGAIN.

“Great. Then you’re exactly who I’m looking for,” the pale-haired elf answers, offering out a hand to help her up.

That’s a little better.

Some recognition. She isn’t surprised though. Doing what she does makes her in demand. But nonetheless, the Nightborne feigns some surprise as she takes his hand and rises back to her feet, looking around at her handiwork.

“Oh?” She asks, an eyebrow arching.

At that, Ithanar reaches into a satchel at his side and produces an old tome. It looks weathered, dusty, but the insignia of a curved hammer surrounding a moon printed on the cover is unmistakable.

It is hers.

“I think this book belongs to you,” the pale-haired elf says, offering it to her. “And has made me… a fan. I guess. I need your expertise.”

Ileonore looks at the book.

And then Ithanar.

A smile spreads across her features.

“Do you mind if I do something first though?”

With a wave of her hands and a few choice words, Ileonore conjures a quill from thin air. It looks like it was just plucked yesterday. A small vial of ink, shining in colors of black and purple, comes along with it.

Ithanar looks at the quill, and then vial, and finally the book. His eyes widen, no doubt the direct cause of him understanding just what she wants.

“You’re a fucking handful already.”

Ileonore just laughs.

“Then we’ll work together just fine.”

Perhaps coming to Quel’thalas wasn’t too much of a mistake.

Life in the Sunguard’s war camp over the first few days proves interesting, a nice break from being on the run from various Alliance forces.

Ileonore drinks it all in.

She passes through crowds of soldiers, of civilians seeking and finding refuge, and speaks with all sorts, from orcs to elves and even the occasional troll. Now this is what she was looking for.

Unfortunately, her newfound companion has proven… no, Ithanar’s interesting too. He does his best to hide it, but their various conversations around the campfire outside their tents prove otherwise.

He has secrets to hide. A family to seemingly protect, even if they aren’t all here. She understands this, but unfortunately her curiosity is a natural thing. It’s what led her to her craft in the first place, and the overall idea of being a mage.

So she prods.

She pokes.

And about a week in, Ileonore eventually asks the question:

“So… what exactly were you looking for me to do, Ithanar?”

His response is just to wordlessly wave her inside his tent, and to take a look at his armor. It is the same set of white-and-red she had met him in a week earlier, but in this light it appears a bit old, dingy almost, and quite battered.

With a cup of coffee in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, Ithanar doesn’t really move. He just stares. His penchant for silence in situations like this is-

“You’re annoying, you know that? Use your words-” Ileonore can’t resist the moment to break the silence, her eyes rolling as she starts off with another sharp retort.

“The runes I’m crafting are shit,” the old elf cuts her off with an admission, looking to her as he sips from his coffee. “And yours aren’t. I need something a bit more nuanced, something-”

“Your runes are fine work,” she says, lending to the back-and-forth. “I mean, they’re fine as far as being a little bit above primitive but…”

“Primitive? Really?” The Sin’dorei drawls, lips a little agape in some form of shock and annoyance.

“I said a little above, so not exactly,” she corrects herself with a wave of her hand, stepping up to look over the armor a bit better. With her other hand, she reaches out and taps the breastplate with a finger, pressing some arcane energies into it.

Cause and effect.

Runes spring to life along the length and width of the armor. There are so many of them that… well, no, she knows where to start but it’s all so-

“Crude. Blocky.”

“I can’t tell if this is you criticizing my runework or just my writing style in general.”

“Both. You’re lacking eloquence, my new friend, and some style.”

Here she goes.

“Style?”

“Style. You’ve heard of it, yes?”

Here he goes.

“Yes. Yes, I have, and I think mine-”

“Perhaps your personal style, but when it comes to runes… Ithanar, you’re lacking panache. Some fire, some flair, some ways to scare your enemies.”

“Hard to scare enemies like-”

“Everyone is afraid of something. What are you afraid of?”

The question draws that furrowed stare from Ithanar, but then he sighs and looks away for just a moment.

“Used to be scared… of what I could do.”

Understandable.

Completely.

She-

Her eyes widen, gaze flickering to the armor.

Then to Ithanar.

An idea.

“Give me three days.”

“Hrm?”

“Three days, Ithanar. I know exactly what we can do.”

“Really?”

“Don’t question it. I’m Ileonore Isenaril. I know what I’m doing.”

Three days pass.

Ileonore spends them in solitude for the most part.

Maybe she emerges from the tent to eat and drink, but otherwise?

Not a word. Not a peep.

Ithanar almost gets a little worried, but her hurried glances and casual grunts give enough of a picture of concentration that decides not to ask. No, instead, he goes about his business, his training.

The days grow a little shorter and a little less cold, but things are still the same. The dome still stands high above and-

“Well.”

The Nightborne emerges from the tent, hands on her hips. A pair of goggles graces the crown of her white hair, and she looks positively pleased.

“Come with me. Time to test this out.”

To the training grounds they go.

Fortunately, there aren’t many here today. Maybe it’s a weekend, maybe not. Ithanar has lost track of the days at this point, and perhaps even months. He leaves that to others. They trudge through the snow and find themselves in one of the more eastern rings that borders on the edge of a large forest.

When they arrive, the old elf puts on his armor. There’s already something different about it, as though it feels a bit lighter, but he can’t put his finger on it exactly. Nonetheless, he straps in as Ileonore watches, bouncing on her heels.

Eventually, he’s ready. A bit of a breeze whips through the training grounds and the clouds barely shift overhead. Some of the training dummies stand tall, but a few are in a state of disrepair, straw sticking out of severed joints and limbs.

“So?” The old elf begins to ask.

“We ask a question,” she says, wiggling a finger in excitement.

Oh, here she goes.

Ithanar just groans, arms crossing over his chest. He gives the dummies a side-eyed glance, but then looks back to Ileonore.

“You wanted better runes. Better weapons. Something else to add to your arsenal. By all accounts, you’ve martial skill plus years of tactical and battlefield experience. You use runes, but in a-” She begins to say,

“If you say primitive, I swear-” Ithanar cuts in again.

“Let me finish, Ithanar,” the older elf whines, hand settling on her hip. “A not-so-eloquent or easy fashion. Everything takes effort. Make it effortless, help yourself out here. But it appears you’re quite awful at the latter so… I’m going to force you to do it.”

This draws a cautious glance from the old elf.

“What does that-”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish the sentence.

No, instead, Ileonore disappears into thin air with a flash and then reappears right in front of Ithanar. She raises what appears to be a rather simple dagger high and the brings it down. It’s a rather simple attack, but it’s still a surprise.

“Ileonore, what-”

“Dodge, dumbass!”

The dagger in her hand is inches away from a pauldron.

Ithanar’s quick thinking saves him, but not in the way he thinks. He looks to where he wants to go, a patch of grass to the right of the Nightborne, and then begins to make his move.

Then he’s gone, a brilliant flash of Arcane.

Then he’s there again. Ileonore is behind him and she stumbles forward, but with a laugh.

Almost immediately, the elf stands and looks around almost frantically. This is- is his- no, he seems okay. He immediately turns around to look at the Nightborne with a shocked glance.

“Did you-”

“You’re quite welcome,” Ileonore says proudly, her hands on her hips. “Teleportation runes enchanted to work off proximity of a harmful action. I set up layers, a lot of them complex, to take certain things into account… momentum of the weapon, swing speed, all of that. No corners left uncovered. It’s-”

“Fucking brilliant,” the old elf breathes, eyes still wide. “You… does it always work?”

“I’d say your chances are rather good, but runes do need energy to draw upon and sometimes that needs to recharge,” she continues on. “I’d put it at… a fifty percent activation route. Could layer your armor with some other enchantments to help the chances, but overkill. Right? Right? Oh, there’s one other thing too. This is my favorite.”

Another way.

Another weapon.

Ithanar can’t help but stare at his armor, noting the runes out of the corner of his eye. They seem newer, more eloquent, like poetry on parchment with the way they curve and move. When the Nightborne mentions one other thing, his gaze picks up.

Ileonore points to one of the more whole training dummies.

“Draw your sword,” she directs with a little laugh.

The old elf does just that, bringing forth the curved blade of Ravensteel from its sheath. In its more inert form, the color of the blade is still black as night but still dangerous looking. “Alright,” he says, fingers wrapping bit more tightly around the blade.

“Attack the dummy, but as you charge… there’s a command phrase!” Ileonore explains. “It’s…”

Shalassian.

Ithanar is unsure of the words, but he repeats them under his breath.

Once.

Twice.

Then he nods.

“You-”

Here he goes.

“Yes. I’m sure. Do it.”

There she goes.

With that, he charges forward to the dummy. His footsteps are heavy but silent, and there’s a frown on his lips only born from having to direct all senses to the fight, to battle. As he moves to the dummy, he repeats the phrase aloud; not too loud, but not too quiet.

Three steps from the dummy.

Runes spring to life along the lengths of his arms and swirl at the backs of his palms.

Two steps from the dummy.

The blade of Ravensteel changes from black to a deep purple, the color of the Arcane.

In another form, it would grind and whine.

In this form, it just hums. Beautiful and bold.

One step from the dummy.

Ithanar strikes, bringing the blade from low to high with both hands.

His blade hits the mark.

Then there’s another Ithanar, lunging in from the right.

And another, coming down from above with a well-placed overhand strike.

And finally, a fourth copy comes from the left with a vicious stroke.

The original steps through, spinning on his heels, watching all the other forms with their pale outlines smile and disappear into thin air.

And the dummy absolutely explodes from the contact, straw going everywhere.

The old elf just turns and stares, shocked.

Ileonore cries out with laughter, raising her hands up in the air in victory.

Silence.

“What. The. Fuck.”

Ithanar can’t believe it. He just- but he can.

“MARVELOUS!” The Nightborne chirps up, running over and jumping up high in the air before pointing to the exploded remains of the dummy. “You did it! It worked!”

“What the fuck was that?” The old elf asks still incredulous, nearly dropping his blade. “What the-”

“It’s… a mix of runes. Some time magics, some teleportation tossed in, but the idea was to… well, what did you tell me? What are you scared of?” Ileonore begins to say before rolling into a question, and a slightly personal one at that.

Ithanar looks at her, and then back at the dummy. “I… I said I was scared of what I could do, what I did, how I didn’t want to repeat that shit again, how I wouldn’t-” He says again, letting out a sigh.

“Right. So… why not put the fear of you into your enemies? Multiple yous…” She explains. “Two heads are better than one, and four are most definitely better than two. It’s… the ‘phantom blade’ concept, something utilized by battle-mages, both ours and yours. But with you, it worked spectacularly- I mean, my runes are the reason why but-”

If Ithanar is listening, he sure doesn’t do a good job of it.

No, he’s lost in his own thoughts, in the possibilities of what can be achieved. Kateriel had mentioned it, had she not? That having another weapon in the arsenal was always a good idea.

Fel, it had been one of the tomes she sent that had led him to Ileonore in the first place.

He…

This is it. Another way. Another weapon. The realization of the runecrafting he had delved into during his years away, after the-

It was all here.

Another weapon. Another way.

“Though I don’t know if it’ll work each time, and the runes will need reacharging after two uses but-”

“Ileonore.”

“Ithanar, you are so bad about-”

“Ileonore.”

“What?”

“That phrase. The one in Shalassian. What does it mean? In my tongue?”

“Oh? That? Uhm… it’s…”

A moment of thought.

An over exaggerated "BRRRRRR”, cuts through the ambient sound of snow compressed underneath boot, and the steady inhale-and-exhale of smoke. And with this, Thanidiel’s ears do not perk with her common thrill, they stiffen, rather, at the sound of the other.

Her brow had already been bitten with Burden's axetooth, and at this, the gash only grows more severe. As though it were a strike of happenstance than purpose, the forgotten-other seemingly materialises from an alleyway beats after the Phoenix Guard’s passing. In an instant, she is walking beside Thanidiel, chokes on the acrid cloud billowing from the fighter, and then Bricini switches to the other side of Thanidiel.

Her partner glances to the side, then the other side, and then over their shoulders. Still, the pad of her feet slows from its heavy trod to something light, then to a pause entirely. Obligingly, she offers the Dawnmender her adjacent hand.

"You're walking like you're trying to get away from someone. Who's following you?"

"You, for one," comes out easily in riposte. Its tone snares on a growl, a hostility, unheard since the younger months of their relationship. Her next words assert a dismissal in their nature, incongruent with the tender manifest of them, “I thought you'd want to rest now that we're in a city.”

Bricini shakes her head, puffing out a visible bit of air. "I don't rest," she half-lies. "Besides, did you really think I wouldn't want to follow you to see what your quiet ass has been up to?"

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

Thanidiel looks around them, cutting the hot bitter of her cigar with sharp air. Eventually, she envelops Bricini's hand entirely in her's to drag them both to the City's wall nearby, and press her own shoulders against the frigid stone. "Walking. Is there something special about that?”

Behaving as though she had always had a choice (she didn’t) in the matter, the other follows right along with a raised eyebrow accenting her features. "When you're acting the way you are, yes. You haven't talked to me since you got back."

“I did, didn't I?”

"No."

“No?”

"You haven't. You've said words. You haven't talked."

“I wasn't aware there was a difference 'tween those two. Did I not nail it right where you wanted it?” Thanidiel drawls that sarcastically off of her tongue.

Unimpressed, Bricini stares squarely into the soldier’s face. "Telling me shit about stars doesn't count. Usually you like boasting about yourself after a battle, win or lose. You crush skulls, and want to talk about it. You haven't said shit, Thanidiel."

The Commander’s impulse is to meet Bricini’s gaze ounce-for-ounce. Her hand releases from her partner’s to grasp, and tug, onto one side of her belt. The other takes its time from where it had perched the arched heel of its palm against her own hip, to raise up her cigar and take a ‘luxurious’ drag, "I don't need to say shit. You can do math. Less than two-hundred walked away with me. We went in with over two-thousand.”

"What else."

“What else do you want?” An explosion of smoke fills in the space between their faces.

(“Not so fast.”)

The Dawnmender reaches out to grab Thanidiel's shoulders, pressing her weight into it and locking the fighter against the wall. Bricini is uncaring to the reaction it spurs within the Commander: her deadened muscles twisting and quivering in a want to snarl back to the other.

The City around them remains frozen and silent, all the while, and, somehow, it is unclear on whether this is due to the winter that falls over their heads, or the Winter raging here.

"Talk to me. What the fuck happened?"

At this, Thanidiel is slow in her response once more. She tosses her head to the side, directing her gaze away from Bricini's eyes and into the bright streets. In spite of this, this is no marker of her hesitation to conflict against her partner. Her voice is unwavering, and still harsh in its flashing bite. Still— she looks away, as red (blood) blooms, and pricks, and splotches, at her vision from the rolling tresses of black hair.

"Nothing happened when we needed it to, no matter how many lives we threw at it. So they all died. And I pulled out what was left of the armies.”

Bricini remains focused entirely upon Thanidiel, and squints hard; listening, and listening strong. She tilts her head to the side. "They all died. Your armies or everyone?" She glances to the side and around, as though the answers would suddenly appear within the fog and smoke around them, "....where are the other commanders?"

“Dead. Gone. Surrounded.”

"All of them?"

“They all went down before I vacated the field.”

The Doctor’s grip on Thanidiel's shoulders loosen slightly. And in spite of this little ‘mercy’, it only serves to fix an aspect of suspicion, and guardedness, onto the Phoenix Guard’s features - even when it is merely jaw and tattoo presented to the other.

Bricini’s brows furrow, and she slowly offers one nod. "That makes sense, then. You were close to some of them up there, weren't you?" And instead of answering the question posed by her, the soldier eventually pushes out: "I can't do it without them," in an echo of last night's sentiment.

This garners genuine surprise. The medic’s brows raise and she pulls back an inch or so. "You're admitting that out loud?"

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

“I'm admitting it to you.”

"Names. Who specifically died? Who were the others on the field with you?"

“Why are you playing so fucking ignorant, Bri? You know who's been with me this whole ass time, since before the Archon even called us to arms. Just get off of me.”

"I'm not playing ignorant, Thanidiel. You don't fucking talk to me. I know you've been bothered, but I don't know who's been traveling completely in packs. I've been focusing on my fucking work.”

(“Not so fast.”)

Bricini 's grip tightens into Thanidiel’s body where it had been pushing forward, expecting the other to accept her demand, and she slams her back against the wall. Snapping, “Now get your head out of your ass and talk to me. I'm asking you a legitimate question, because I give a fucking shit. What were their names?"

Reflective to the ways of anger and violence like water and oil, the fighter surges right back, like quickfire, to loom breast-to-breast over the Dawnmender. Where she had been cold (so cold), suddenly, rage gouts out from between the furnace hatches in a scalding lash,

"Lirelle, and Sederis, are fucking dead."

In response, the Doctor does not hesitate to push, yet again, and thrash the ex-Knight hard against the stone behind them. It becomes apparent, then, that Bricini was very, keenly, honest when she spoke about having served before. And Thanidiel 's face flushes with heat, the frustration that has welled up apparent, even through the gold of her skin. The cigar rolls into the snow underneath their feet.

“So you lost two of your friends? Your comrades? And you decide to shut down and be a brat? Don't you dare shove me in any way, you are going to deal with this."

The soldier's hands go to curl deep into belt and woolen coat, gripping and rolling the material harshly between her fingers, while there is nothing to do with her energy. For, truly, Thanidiel’s anger never came without retribution towards its source-matter. Or, almost never. There is something sacred, and instinctive, here, that prevents the slightest consideration of acting towards Bricini from flaring within her mind. And that is paradoxical to the soldier’s rhythm.

"It's not that they died. You don't know what I'm feeling.”

“Then. Talk. To. Me. Explain what you're feeling. Fucking scream it, I don't give a shit.”

“Why does this matter to you? I can't have a few days to my own fucking feelings? I'm fucking upset, Bri. I'm grieving, for them, and everyone else before them. I walked away from everyone and let them die. Again. Like I always do when shit goes south. I always do. This isn't the first massacre I've been something of a sole survivour from, and it's not the first time I've let people who were supposed to be my friends, or more than that, die as I did it. I'm pissed at myself, and I'm pissed that I'm not in the ground and the others in my place right now. And to top it all off: there's no one else to lean on besides you and Ithanar. And you two aren't enough for us to win this.”

"You're not grieving, you're shutting down. If you were grieving, you'd be hitting something, screaming. I'm not asking you to go to the church on your knees and cry to the Light, but I know you, and I know you're not grieving. Not really. Deal with it and talk. Don't just bottle it up inside. You're not a fucking Blood Knight anymore. It won't fly."

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”) Thanidiel squints at Bricini and lets a crisp, "Fuck you," roll out of her mouth. "I am talking. I am fucking talking, and I'm explaining how I'm feeling. Don't street-diagnose what this is."

"Fuck me? Fuck you. You're talking after I'm making you talk."

“I wasn't ready to talk to you. I told you—  I'm telling you, this isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened to me. You can't expect me to digest it all so easily and sit down with you over it. I'm so pissed I've done this again, Bri.

This is my legacy; all of my merit.

The going gets tough, and I walk away so everyone else can be speared like pigs. You want to know what I'm thinking about and feeling? I'm thinking that I watched my father die like one of your shitty goblin 'movie' projections, then I turned around and I walked away. And that I did the same thing with someone who should, by all means, be my fucking spouse today. I'm thinking about all of the other instances of this.

I'm thinking that everyone's looking up to me and expecting better of me now and here, and all I did was watch Lirelle die, watch Sederis march off to die, and then I turned right around - and walked away.”

(“Not so fast.”)

The action is spontaneous, and sudden, and prickling with all of the Doctor’s own frustrations: Bricini slaps Thanidiel across the face and it lands soundly with impact.

"You're being fucking stupid. You retreated. That is also a strategy. You didn't 'walk away', you retreated because there was no other option. Stop with the pity and start with the grieving. You did what you had to do. And so did they."

Here, there would normally be an instantaneous reaction; an escalation of aggression. Instead, stunned and startled, the warrior pauses. Then, as the other finishes, a growl rips from Thanidiel's throat and the soldier's hand swings out. Grasping, no, wrenching onto Bricini's wrist, the motion is made to reverse their positions with a swing of the other’s body into the wall. With so little activity in the wind, the impact rings so much more severe than it was through the quiet.

"Don't hit me, you fucking cunt. You don't know, and you don't understand. I know I did the strategic thing. I don't care; I just don't care. Let me be stupid, okay? Let me be fucking stupid. You know I can't allow myself that anywhere else but here, and you're not even giving me that.

Bricini takes the grapple, as though expecting this roughness with no indicator of pain delivered, and raises her chin. She doesn't look bothered. She looks just as annoyed as she had been before. Leaning forward, getting in Thanidiel's face, she snorts. "I'm getting you to act instead of walking quietly around Silvermoon, thinking about Light knows what. You wanna hit me? Hit me. Do it. Yell. Let it out. But don't shut down. We can't afford that. Not now."

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

Thanidiel doesn't hit Bricini. She doesn't yell— in fact, her voice has not risen in a true shout this entire time, yes, it had been loud in her way, but it had not boomed, nor split, or strained her voice in volume nor energy— either. She rises to the occasion, however; and lets it out. As she had been ever since the Dawnmender had begun her insistent prodding.

Butting into Bricini's face, just as brazen, and annoyed, and frustrated: "This. Doesn't. Help. Bri." A moment, for that to seep in, then: "You yelling at me doesn't make me any better at my job, when we need to get back to it. It doesn't make any of this go away. You're such a bitch. You can't fucking deal with me not fucking you for a single gods damned day, and so you follow me to scold me like some waycast whore.”

"I can't deal with you being a limp fucking noodle. You bottle yourself up, shut down, explode? Is that it? I don't care about you fucking me, so stop trying to claim it's about that. You know me better by this point. You're deflecting. I may be a bitch, but at least I'm not a cold bitch.

“It's been one whole day, Bri— less than a day, even. You're fucking impossible.”

"We don't have longer than a day, Thanidiel. Not for you to have your breakthrough. Fucking deal with what happened. Grieve. And do so quickly."

Thanidiel just... breathes. After that. A harsh, distinct, noise pushed out from her chest. She looks exhausted. Truly worn of body and spirit. Normally, such strain is ever-present on the ex-Knight, but it is carried well in her primal form of regality; the way queens carry crow’s feet and jaguars carry scarmarks. Now— she looks wounded, in a way.

"What the fuck do you want to me do after you supposedly help me get my fucking act together, Bri? What are you expecting from me? That I'll march us all out and be back under Archon's Command by the next dawn? We're going to be here for awhile. It takes time to rebuild an army. And I have three.”

(“Not so fast.”)

In the midst of these words, she can feel the way that the other’s hands unclench from her shoulders. Bricini grabs hold of Thanidiel's face, her hands surprisingly soft as she cradles the Phoenix Guard's face, bringing her close and dear. There is urgency in her motions, an irritation, but an affection. It could, perhaps, be explained as a sort of love; this willingness to engage with the closing-off fighter, and rip her out of the rabbit’s hole. 

It is not something misunderstood or breezed over by her partner. Thanidiel pauses at this; this softness expressed from the other at the end of it all. Her brows furrow. The rigidity to her ears die. She listens closer than she had done in the moments before. Even in the midst of her emotions, she had always been listening. After this touch given to her, however, she listens better; less obstinate for the sake of obstinance.

"I expect you to get your shit together, understand that retreats happen, that death happens, and move on, so that you can truly grieve however you want to after we win this fucking war, or leave."

The soldier breathes out a bit of the weight on her shoulders once again. "I asked Elleynah about you," she begins— or, tries to.

There's an awkward silence that fills in the crevices after that, like ice trickling into, and breaking through, rock.

Then she wills herself to push on.

"I was worried about you getting hurt by being with me, and her magicks said the exact opposite. You were the only person I was worried about going in.

So I let down my guard. And I trusted them. And I didn't sound for the retreat when I knew it was unwinnable, because I figured it'd all turn out fine and we'd figure it out as we go. Because me and them have always beat the odds. And that didn't happen, and they died. So I'm blindsided and I feel like a fucking idiot, because I wasn't strategic. Not like usual.

And I need you to give me a fucking break because I know everything you're telling me.”

The other's hands slide down from Thanidiel's face, running them to her shoulders. Leaning forward, Bricini brings her lips to the woman's cheek. And with that, the Phoenix Guard relinquishes the tense grip around the medic’s wrist.

"Then listen to it." With another kiss, she releases her. "Finish your walk if you want. Think. I'm heading back for now. I won't follow you, if you want the time."

In return, Thanidiel raises that same hand, bracketing the side of Bricini's jaw. A muted exhale pushes out from her at the feeling of the Dawnmender’s own placed over her palm.

"You think I don't listen to you just because you piss me off? You're mine." She doesn't finish the sentiment, but she doesn’t have to, either. It was there, in the choice.

"I think you don't listen to me because you're a stubborn bitch."

“...I want to finish my walk.”

"Go. Walk. You know where I'll be."

(“You get this. You don’t lose it.”)

(“You chose this.”)

It takes time for the Commander to wear out herself - to where her insides no longer twist and she no longer fears the etch of old memories, over the present stonework. She doesn’t return to the building of Bricini’s their apartment until the hours have cut through the tenacity of her mountainblood, and the chill finally gnaws at her bones through wool and blood as the sun dies. But, still, she returns.

The hallway echoes in its setting darkness.

(“This was what you picked, when all else was ash.”)

There is a comfort, beyond comfort, that settles onto her shoulders and relaxes the tension in her breath. This is home, afterall. Or sanctuary. Somewhere in which to perch. She didn’t realise how weary of a miasma had been suffused in her with recent days. Ready to rest, she picks up her stride.

(“When you know your history.”)

Every step is a proclamation. Of choice, and return. A reminder of what is circular. Where walks purpose; there is a dearth - or, once, was a dearth. She no longer feels that familiar, old, Eye. There is only the new wheat, here. Like so many times, and so many walks, before - she grasps onto the knob.

(“And it chose you in return.”)

The door is unlocked and, seemingly, has been for some time. Of course. The other had always done so when she expected Thanidiel - trusting in the eventual presence. Uncaring of the possibility of otherwise. Answering this faith, she twists.

(“Even when you doubted.”)

The way is opened. From this World to something isolated from it. Already, what they had left months ago, ‘cleaned’ and delegated to a lesser home, contains flurried evidence of the pair. There is no need to confirm Bricini’s presence, nor permission. So she steps through; through this barrier.

(“Even when you could not trust.”)

She knows where to find her, like a limb. All it takes, always, is a sweep of her eyes to the right; where the streetlight of the Exchange filters in from the windows. And, ah, there is the other. The blanket had been pulled from the bed, wrapped around her. There’s another text in her hand and splayed over herself, with a pen and notepaper sprawling in formulas in the other. There is no need to mince words, so she doesn’t.

“Hey.”

(“You were given it.”)

“Hey,” echoes right back.

Bricini doesn’t turn her chin up; she only gives the ex-Knight a cursory glance from under her brow, in a flashing glint of her glow. Then it’s right back to her work. Comfortable, and plainly so. Thanidiel observes the way her legs shift underneath fabric, making space to be occupied. She glances over her shoulder.

(“You do not wish to follow the patterns that are laid behind you, a legacy of such.”)

She’s done this too many times. Bottle up. Shut down. Explode. Walk it out. Swing right back down this hallway. It’s… oh-so fucking old, and boring. How many times had she wished to run away from her history, and fall into the same, ancient, rhythm; a dull rodent that didn’t want to think outside of the Wheel.

The hallway echoes in its setting darkness.

The windowlight opposite of that blares.

She grips onto that circular, old, thing.

(“Then listen.”)

Thanidiel closes that door right behind her.

relationships——

SPOUSE: 

Tanrae Tal’shiel (wife, deceased) Qeren Bloodmantle (former partner, alive)

CHILDREN: 

Iltheria Islesun (daughter, deceased).

PARENTS:

Idaena Islesun (mother, alive)

SIBLINGS: 

Ildrielen Islesun (sister, alive) Ithaerin Islesun (brother, alive) Vynthius Vilesun (brother, alive)

OTHER RELATIVES: 

I’demalei Irrinthe Islesun (cousin, whereabouts unknown) Trissenoral’ereia Ithanar Lazlo Ingolte (second cousin, alive)

traits——

• extroverted / introverted / in between.

• disorganized / organized / in between.

• close minded / open-minded / in between.

• calm / anxious / in between.

• disagreeable / agreeable / in between.

• cautious / reckless / in between.

• patient / impatient / in between.

• outspoken / reserved / in between.

• leader / follower / in between.

• empathetic / indifferent / in between.

• optimistic / pessimistic / in between.

• traditional / modern / in between.

• hard-working / lazy / in between.

• cultured / uncultured / in between.

• loyal / disloyal / in between.

• assertive / timid / in between

additional information—— —

SMOKING:  never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

extra——

FACIAL REFERENCE(S): A strange mix of Geralt of Rivia (The Witcher series) and Timothy Olyphant (Justified). 

ALIGNMENT: Neutral. 

TAGGED BY: @thanidiel (thanks fam)

She returned now to Silvermoon, passing under the same gilded gates as she had the last time, only now she headed back in to the city. It had never been the same after the Fall. Half the city lay in ruins, a cruel reminder of the scar that lay upon their past. In all her near four hundred years she had never suffered a tragedy like it. The reminder made her scrunch up her nose and frown, dark brows knitting together briefly. Quel’thalas was still in recovery and it would take centuries to see her people rise to their former heights, if they ever did at all.

The state of the Capital was hardly the most pressing thing on her mind right now, though. She was upon the once familiar apartment building much sooner than she had anticipated. Had the walk always been that short? She must’ve made quick time. Up the stairs she went, hesitating only when she came to a stop outside the door she was looking for. She stared at it long and hard, deciding if she would be angry at him when he answered. If he answered. Ciha tucked a strand of raven-black hair behind her ear and took a calming breath. He had enough on his plate without her dredging up old wounds; her hurt could wait until more immediately pressing concerns had been dealt with.

So, she raised a pale hand to the door and knocked. And then she waited, long ears twitching with the faint rumblings of anxiety that coming here had been a mistake.

It wasn’t.

She let him stumble over his words as he stood in the doorway, surprised and ashamed and glad all at once. Part of her wanted to be petty and refuse his stuttered apology, but she just didn’t have it in her.

“Hello, Ithanar.”