#ithranicus redarrow

“What do you think? Is he still breathin’?”

The whumpf of a kick is put into the elf’s side, causing him to cough and hack.   “Does that ans’er yer question?”

The door to his cell rattled open.

He’d been waiting for this.  Resigned himself to it.  He sat up, holding out his hands to be bound.  

“How disappointing; I was hoping they had shoved your direhorn in here with you. It would have made for great amusement.”

Wait.  

This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.  

He stepped up, following Thyssia to the cell door and looking out.  

They were...escaping?

What?

How?

How did-

Now was not the time to consider that; now was the time to move.  

Ith followed the others out, overwhelming the guards, taking back their things.  It had never felt so good to load his rifle, the bolt sliding into place with a satisfying metallic double clack.  There wasn’t much time to enjoy it; time was working against them.  How they had escaped, where they were going- There wasn’t time to consider such things.  Check the next corner, watch this alleyway, cover the right flank; hundreds of hours at the range and hundreds of hours drilling made the motions automatic, rote.  Mechanical.  

He’d leapt over a wall, sweeping the left flank with his rifle when Vaelrin held up a hand.  Pressing against the wall, eyes snapped to where the Captain was looking.  

Lazarus? Wearing the blue?

You are blindly following the path you have found, without questioning the rightness that you walk it, the worthiness you have that it is yours to claim.

Instinct said to draw the rifle to his shoulder, brace against something, draw in a half breath, and shoot.  Standing, looking over Vaelrin’s shoulder as he squatted in a half-crouch, the wall already steadied him, sight posts were lined up-

You must learn to question when you do not understand-- do not blindly press forward when you have the chance to think.

‘I lost my father at a young age too,’ he made to put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, but thought better of it.  If Lazarus had wanted to be touched, he would have made himself open to it, ‘If you ever want to talk, Lazarus, you only have to ask.’

The rifle was lowered, his finger relaxed off the trigger.  

Wearing the blue wasn’t enough to condemn the young man to die.

Other things were more important, like making sure they escaped and that no one was left behind who didn’t want to be.  

Preface: Read http://ocarina-of-what.tumblr.com/post/182736834669/whats-left-behind first, as this picks up almost immediately after the arrival of Frostblaze and Kipcha.

He knelt at the mouth of the cage, undoing the last clasps around the muzzles.  Dried blood flecked his fingertips, sticky in the cold and bright against the white fur and snow.  A voice was trying to talk to him, faint, maybe one of the stable hands pulling at his shoulder.  They’d said something about the wolves fighting like demons, but it didn’t really register.  Frostblaze and Kipcha were back.  Without her.  

They never left without her.  

Never.

Cold hands combed through white fur, voice soft as Ithranicus tried to be as soothing as possible.  Kipcha, freed from her muzzle, nipped at him, trying to tear those same fingers away from the man invading their space.  

Anger, and rage.  So much anger and rage.  

“Kipcha, it’s me.  It’s Ith.  See?”

The glove on his free hand was pulled off, the uncovered hand offered to the raging wolf.  If they were as intelligent as Veli implied, the wolf would understand.  

“I’m not here to hurt you.  I’m not here to hurt you.  I’m not here to hurt you, Kipcha.”  

A soothing hand roamed through Frostblaze’s fur, while his other hovered just out of reach from the snapping jaws and razor teeth.  It became something of a game; every attempt at touch was rewarded with an attempt at shredding his hand, mouth and fingers playing back and forth in their dance.

“Go ahead, Kipcha.  Sate your rage.  It’s okay.”  

The early rays of the sun settled against the snow, rising on another day.  Peeking through the stable doors and spilling over the animals kept therein, brilliantly lighting the cold white fur on Frostblaze’s flanks and muzzle.  Dusty gold fur settled next to him; Kipcha lay nuzzled against her mate in fitful slumber.  Pinned against the wall, crimson and gold resplendent in the morning light despite the dirt and fur besmirching the colors, Ithranicus stirred as the light spilled across his eyes.  Rising, ensuring the injured pair weren’t disturbed, he quietly slipped free of the cage.  

Velianor, his old apprentice, was missing and hurt.  He had to know what happened to her, wanted to go himself- but that wasn’t feasible.  He had people counting on him now, had a command of his own, had to make decisions with other people’s lives.  The days of dropping everything to run into the wilds were closing fast, it seemed.  Another would have to go in his place.  

“Kipcha.  Frostblaze.”  

One eye snapped open, narrowed and hungry.  A second rolled to attention, hurt and pained.  

“Ready to go find her?”

Clad in heavy furs against the cold, cradling a rifle half his own height, Anokirin Sunstalker left the Sunguard camp a few hours after dawn broke.  With him came a dusty gold wolf, reluctant to leave, but determined to go.  A hunting party.  

Together they trotted into the cold and the snow, trails dark with blood and chaos, Kipcha leading the way to the last known places that her master had been. Velianor was not going to be left behind.  

Darkness wasn’t the part of imprisonment that bothered him.

He’d known darkness all his life; Moonless nights under starry skies with his father and mother, nights alone with Hem where a small fire was all that kept the dark at bay, nights he’d waited, cloaked in silence, as a patrol walked closer and closer to the ambush he’d set.  Darkness was his friend, a companion he’d accepted long ago.  

The confinement wasn’t what bothered him either.  He’d been caged; in Stranglethorn, Pandaria, that one time with the twins overlooking the bluffs of Mulgore.  Cages didn’t bother him.  

The loneliness did.  

Tears stain the parchment in places, blurring and marring the otherwise perfect handwriting.  The letter itself is rolled unevenly, as if done by shaking hands.  

Archon,

News has reached us in Orgrimmar about what has happened.  I write this to you knowing full well that my brother is in his current predicament by his own fault.  I know you are angry about what he and the others did.  I would ask you to set that aside so that I may ask you a question close to my heart.  

My family from my life before is small now; I can count on one hand the few I have left.  Ithranicus is reckless and impulsive but he is also my brother and the only family I have left that is not my own progeny from before.  We were starting to get along and to understand each other, myself with his strange humour, he with my strange nature.  Our meetings are no longer ones of uncomfortable wariness, instead holding a warmth I have only felt with my daughter.  We have plans for the future, plans to rebuild our home.

I have heard of the letters dispersed by the Alliance, promising his execution if hostilities are not ceased.  

Please save my brother, Archon.  

Lord Firestorm,

Before I start this, I’ll have you know it feels weird using that name rather than “Captain.”  Anyways.

I have people in the south, holdouts from a time before my home burned.  They should be preparing for the Alliance in their own way, readying supplies for the coming winter and drumming up support for a resistance.  They are small in number, but the people of my homeland are a hardy, stubborn folk who don’t take kindly to intruders or usurpers.  When we go south, you can count them and myself among those who will be fighting to keep it free from the invaders.  I will not suffer their presence in my home, and yours as well if you wish.  

Two days ago

“The Alliance are mere miles to the north! They’re marching on Shallowbrook as we speak with three times the numbers and reinforcements to spare!”  

“And that isn’t our problem! We’re barely eeking out a living down here.  Winter preparations just finished, and you want to train an army and give them over half our food? Our people will starve before the new year comes around!”

“Need I remind you, Elder Varko, that Passidonia is the last real power down here? The Windrunner holdings have completely fallen, and the Sunder collective to the north doesn’t look much more secure.  If we do nothing, if we do not unite against these traitors, there will be no standing up to them.  We could very well be next!”

“There is no point for them to come here! What do we have that they would want? A few small farms, some river towns upstream from every region that actually has something interesting? They certainly wouldn’t want to go any further north.”

“Wouldn’t they? The old mines are still rich, and they run deep.  Who says they wouldn’t brave that damned forest in pursuit of iron, coal and gold? This all has to be made profitable somehow, doesn’t it?”

“If they’re that damned foolhardy, let them.  The flames and the dead can take them if they’re that stupid.”

“Are you seriously saying that we should just hand over our sovereignty to race traitors and subversives who abandoned us in our time of need and tried to poison the very well that sustains us? Is that what I am hearing from you, Elder Varko?”

“I have a duty to my people, Elder Zernas.  A duty to protect them, to ensure their survival.  A duty that you have as well, unless you have chosen to abandon it along with your senses.”

“How dare you-”

Anokirin pinched the bridge of his nose as the third fight today broke out among the assembled headmen and headwomen, his sigh long and irritated.  

‘Fucking politicians.’

From his place in the corner he had a front row seat to their “debates”, which often times devolved into open brawls like the one he was witnessing now.  One might have been the usual for meetings like this; six over the course of three days was not.

A door opened to his left; A boy no older than twenty walked along the edge of the room, keeping close to the wall to avoid any errant fists, to hand Anokirin a rolled up parchment.  Bearing the same tone of red wax the welp had been using, the old ranger nodded dismissively to the boy before tearing the seal open to read the letter.

“Anokirin,

I’m leaving soon, just need to find the right time.  I’m liable to lose my position here and a lot of the things I’ve worked for, so my insubordination needs to count for something.  If you aren’t mobilized by the time I get down there, I might have a few friends who can exert some pressure and speed the process along.  

See you soon, Welp”

The parchment was rolled back up, held against Anokirin’s lips as he pondered it’s contents.  

‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

Velianor, 

This is the last time I’m using this method of letter sending, do you know how hard it is to wrangle this many finches?

I’d like to meet before we get mired down in this war.  Tomorrow, sundown.  We need to talk, and Hemorrhagic needs to be spoiled.