#izraid

The fallen vindicator took a fairly serious gut wound from a spear, the strike so forceful it pierced the Light-blessed armor and crumpled the metal inwards into the Sha'tari man's stomach. Or it had. Underneath the drying blood, the wound is almost entirely knit back together, the skin bright blue and fresh.

Izraid pulls a roll of windwool out of a satchel at his hip and uses it - not to bind the wound, but to cushion the sharp edges of the armor before he moves to the vindicator's shoulders to lift him up. It's an odd bit of fieldwork for a man who generally just puts his fist into things…

"Well, there was a fight starting up at the Dark Portal..." He pauses as he hefts the vindicator, carrying most of the weight himself anyway. His gaze meets Blau's eerily icy one over the unconscious man. "They needed people, and I...needed to do something. So I re-joined the Alliance army. Went through with the vanguard."

He wants to ask so much, to pepper Blau with questions, to drop to his knees and beg him to stay. But all he says is "You?" It's pathetic how proud of himself he feels as his voice doesn't quaver on the question.

Although becoming a death knight certainly hasn't made Blautel feel any healthier, quite the opposite, he has found that he doesn't tire under normal circumstances. Carrying the vindicator's legs doesn't take as much effort as he feels it should.

This was only a passing thought, as his mind reeled with the thought of discovering Izra again. Now that he's found him, what should he do? Should he not slip away? He has since become a fel creature... Taken so many lives. He had been aware of what he had been doing, but somehow, he had just not had the strength to overcome it. To Blautel, it felt like a personal failure, even if the minds of every fallen champion had been similarly dominated. "I was looking for you," Blautel replies, his strange, lichfire eyes settling on Izra. An expression like relief passes over his features. "Thank the Naaru you are whole."

Izraid looks away only long enough to check the first few yards of the path for where to place his hooves, then he looks at Blautel over the man they carry between them. "Now I am," he says with all seriousness.

Idiot. Great way to guilt him. Stop. Izra clears his throat and continues, his voice a soft-spoken and gentle bass, "Who directed you this way? The Argent Crusade still keeping a tendril on me after all?"

Izra's statement doesn't appear to cause Blautel guilt. Rather, his face softens with longing.

The death knight nods. "Yes... And I had a hunch that you might come to a place like this." A place where help was sorely needed.

His brow furrowed faintly. "But I did not expect to find you. It was..." It had been something Blautel had taken upon himself to help keep himself sane. "...The chance of finding you seemed very remote."

"I tried looking for you." A field of charnel, piles of corpses higher than he was tall, the stench of Light-seared rot, up to his elbows in bodies as he tore through the dead, frantic and heedless of his vows to protect the sanctity of the deceased... He shoves the memory aside and is silent a few moments, meditation through motion bringing him back to a calm center.

"I should have...stayed in Northrend. Kept looking. But I knew. I saw you-" He breaks off. I saw you die... But he can't speak it. "The Sha'tar have a triage area set up at the end of this block." He tips his head towards a heavily-barricaded house in the residential district.

Blautel shakes his head. "For both of our sakes, it is good that you did not find me. I was not myself." He cringes. His steps don't flag however, and with Izra's assistance, they are able to arrive at the triage house.

"I..." Izraid sighs. "In time, we all change. I'm not trying to erase what you must've endured. Just that... I would have... I would give anything..." Stumbling over his words, the monk eventually just squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.

Anchorites in full robes that have been tied up to stay out of the way rush over and direct them towards an empty cot among four that have been lined up against the wall of what used to be a draenei sitting room. One of the priestesses pats Izra's shoulder as he passes. "Drixos came back about twenty minutes ago, but he's already left for the Sanctum to take that little girl to safety. With Metu here down for healing, take a day off, Izra."

The big monk nods gratefully. "Aye, I will. My friend and I will go clean up the courtyard."

"That is not a day off!"

"It is not fighting, so yes it is." He smiles apologetically at Blautel as they set the vindicator down. "Healers here are wild elekks of worry," he says conspiratorially.

"I heard that!"

Blautel's lichfire-tainted eyes widen when Izraid begins to speak, and at the way he stumbles over his words. Maybe he has been mistaken in his judgement, and perhaps he should spend more time with Izraid. Surely, he could manage his own self-control enough to prevent harm from coming to his beloved?

The death knight helps the fallen vindicator into one of the makeshift cots, then turns to Izra. "Yes," he murmurs, nodding. "Let us talk for a while." He isn't certain if he dares hope for anything like a brighter future... but he desperately wants to spend time with Izra.

Leading the way through the makeshift infirmary in what had once been a home in Shattrath, Izra takes Blautel with him to a courtyard in the center of what was a fairly wealthy house. There's debris strewn everywhere, evidence of the Legion attacks - fallen stone, broken tree limbs, shattered crystals…

"Sorry about the mess," Izraid mutters with a wry smile. "The small Alliance force I was with took over this house - after healing up the previous occupants. Drixos, the vindicator who had been with me, was one. He took a child off to safety."

Eventually, he finds a bench under a large branch and grabs it to haul it off. "Sit with me?" He looks uncertain for a moment, like he's afraid Blau won't want to now.

Blautel notices Izraid's uncertain look. He is humbled by the monk's clear desire for his company and presence, and nods. "I would... but where are you taking the bench?" Where are they headed?

Izra sweeps leaf debris off the bench and sits down. "Just the branch. I generally prefer things a little less splintery against my butt, you know," he jokes gently. It's so easy to find the little jests, the way he was before...before Northrend with Blau here again. Not even the undead echo in his voice or the clear haggardness of his face makes him any less Blau in Izra's eyes. He pats the bench next to him.

Blautel seems to have overcome his desire to go running. He slowly, creakily sinks down onto the bench, looking up at Izra. He's quiet for a moment. "...I don't want to talk about my condition," he murmurs, "And cause you worry. Tell me. How have you been? What has transpired since... since I last saw you?"

"Like I wasn't worried enough?" Izra shakes his head but drops it with no further prying. "I... Ah..." He lifts a hand - wrapped in strips of linen to protect his knuckles - and rubs the back of his neck under his long braid. "I changed. Everything changed, Blau. Let my hair grow out..." Chuckling, he flicks the end of the braid at Blau's arm. "I threw myself into healing. Figured if I'd...if I'd been able to do more than wrap a bandage, maybe I could've- well, what's done is done, right?"

Blautel's lichfire blue eyes flicker as he considers Izraid's words, and his brows draw together in distress. He asks meaningfully, "Everything? Did you... Pick up this thing, because..." Because Izra wasn't able to save him? He swallows. "How did it go for you? This training."

Izraid drops the end of his long braid and folds his hands on his thigh. "Well, you could ask the fellow we carried back here. He took a felguard's spear to the gut - pierced right through his armor." Already, his folded hands won't stay that way - they can't when Blau is right here - and he reaches out as if to take Blau's hand in his own, stopping an inch away for permission. "I healed him."

"You always were a caring person," the undead draenei considers, with a small nod. Izraid seems to have taken to a caretaker's role well. Perhaps this was something that would have happened in either event. The fate of the Commandry might have accelerated the transition.

Then Izraid moves to touch Blautel's hand. The death knight stiffens, his eyes becoming unnaturally still. He seems to be fighting to keep himself in place so that he can be touched. "My skin isn't what it used to be." Blautel keeps his own hands, which are wrapped in tattered rags with the fingers free, upon his leather and metal Scourge kilt where he is seated. He doesn't flinch away from Izraid's hand, however.

"It's not caring, Blau. It's atonement." After only the hesitation to be sure it was okay, he lets his fingers - his own hands bound in linen to protect his knuckles - thread between the death knight's. "I don't feel a difference. It's yours." His thumb strokes against the outside of Blau's; of course there's a difference, how can there not be? But it's irrelevant. It's all irrelevant with Blau right- "Here. You're here, my heart. Am I dreaming? Did I die to those demon dogs and this is my reward in the Light? To see you again?"

"You've done nothing wrong," Blautel replies. Atonement? "Nothing to atone for..." Their Commandry had been doomed; it was miraculous that Izraid had survived. When Izra threads his fingers together with his own cold, clammy ones, the death knight starts to shake. "I was certain you had perished," the undead draenei croaks, his voice cracking. "It feels unreal..."

Being animated the way he was gave Blautel a painful awareness of his undead state, and that awareness had not subsided. He was therefore still grounded in reality. "No, this is not a dream." His quaking eases, and he clasps his fingers around Izraid's, then starts to move to embrace the other man. He makes this gesture slowly, as if it's done with caution.

"If I'd paid more attention, been a better healer, a stronger fighter... If I hadn't distracted Mot with bullshit. If I-" A thousand what-ifs, and all of them meaningless. What happened is done. Compared to Blau's hand, the monk's fingers are warm, pulsing steadily with life, scarred and calloused but not stiff. As Blau leans in to hug him, Izra moves quicker, one hand remaining tangled and the other coming up to wrap around the death knight's back and pull him in for a one-armed bear hug. The man is warmth and fur and fire, his breath uneven like he's fighting back tears as even his tail comes up to twine around Blau's - as close as he can get seated beside him on the stone bench.

The embrace feels like deja vu -- A distant memory being relived, only it's even brighter and warmer now, with Blautel's own body now being so cold and so reactive towards the living. His own tail automatically reciprocates the entwining, curling somewhat stiffly around Izra's, while he hugs the beloved monk into his chest. Something feels different -- The blood hunger, the life force hunger. It's making Blautel want to do strange things, things he knew he never considered while living. Licking Izra's blood from his neck... Blautel shudders at the thought with revulsion, even as his undead body desires it.

Still, it's not enough to cause him to pull away from this blessing of warmth and sweetness, and for the moment Blautel is still and relaxed, relishing it.

"I missed you so much," Izra whispers. "My heart...my heart was gone. I had nothing left after Northrend, Blau." He tucks his chin against Blau's pauldron, rubbing his bearded jaw against the death knight's cheek. "I threw myself into learning to heal. I traveled, made pilgrimage to any teacher who would teach me anything. I tried to fill that hole with...anything - but nothing could replace you." Tightening his arms around Blau, his voice wavers as he outright begs, "Stay?"

Although Blautel no longer shivers from the cold, Izraid’s declarations from the heart cause his skin to shudder finely. After a beat, the death knight nods. “I will stay.”

He remains locked together with Izraid for minutes on end, before it occurs to him that the still-living monk may be growing cold like this, sitting on a stone bench outside in the snow. “Perhaps we should…” Blautel pauses, uncertain. “...Is there someplace we may go inside?”

A blush rises to color Izraid’s cheeks above the pleasantly hearty beard he’s grown. “This place is the ruins of a fairly well-off trader’s house. I’m sure we can find a quiet room or at least a nook somewhere.” Izra tugs on the death knight’s hand as he stands, that warm, lively smile coming back as he looks at - yes, even undead - the visage of his beloved come back to him. “Blau… Please, I know things are different, I know there’s been changes - in both of us - but… Can I pretend a few minutes? Maybe an hour or two? Can I kiss you? Can I take that hideous armor off and run my hands over your clothes, or your skin if you’ll let me, and just know that...Light preserve me...you are here. You are you.” With his free hand, he reaches for Blautel’s jaw, aiming to cup that adored face in wonder.

Of course he knows that Blau is a death knight now and that means many complications, but it is enough just to have his heart whole once more, to have his dusha back.

( * from душа or “soul/heart” in Russian - it felt fitting because ‘sha’ is ‘Light’ in Draenei)

Blautel returns a look of astonishment, as his face is held in his beloved's hands. The death knight is nothing short of stunned, to hear Izraid say these blessed words, falling from his tongue as freely as gifts.

Pretend? Is that what things between them will be like, now? Is that what they must do? Blautel isn't certain of the wisdom of pretending. But Izraid's smile, which seems to him as warm and life-giving as the Sun itself, is shattering his normal restraints.

It had been a day of doom and ill fate, though it was plain to see the attack could have been even worse. Sha'tari draenei scrambled to put out fires and save the lives of the citizenry they could. Although Blautel had not been present for the siege of Shattrath in his own time, the attack on this world's version of the capital brought back harrowing reflections of the original event.

He wondered if this Draenor was fated to complete the same horrific circle his own Draenor had. It was depressing to be here, but the Legion was no less odious than it ever had been, and to cut the demons down brought some ghost of satisfaction if for just a moment. Besides, he had reason to believe Izraid might be here, somewhere.

Izraid. Now there were some mixed emotions. On one hand, Blautel desperately wanted to see his beloved friend again. On the other, he was certain he couldn't handle Izra seeing him as he now was. He could find him. Verify that he had survived, after all these years. And then quietly leave him behind.

Such was the death knight's plan, as he scoured up and down the streets, rooting out and slaying any fel beasts that came between himself and his endless search. Somewhere up the decimated roadway from Izraid, there approached the figure of a lone draenei dressed in an armored kilt.

So intent on saving the vindicator lying in the street from a lifetime of digestive problems, Izraid made a stupid, rookie mistake that he would curse himself for almost immediately afterwards - he got tunnel vision and focused only on his work. There was no one there to back him up; this fallen man with a gut wound had been one of two with him and the other had taken the crying child back to safety. An attack quelled did not mean the streets were safe.

A pair of felhounds flushed out of hiding by the impending death walking up the road were creeping towards the medic whose intensity kept him from noticing their approach.

Since becoming a death knight, Blautel was aware of the presence of living bodies in a way he had never before been. They radiated an aura that he was capable of sensing even with his eyes closed. It was a prey aura, and he despised it like so many other things about himself, but it was often useful, and long before he could clearly make out the figures on the road, he was aware of them.

Blautel cursed to himself when he sighted the felhounds and broke into a heavy run. One of them he seized in an exertion of necromantic energy, ensnaring the beast and dragging it backwards so hard he dislocated one of its legs in the process. But the other he could not reach at once, so he did the first thing that came to his mind, and shouted his challenge. The hope was that the demon would choose to attack himself instead.

Yelping, the first felhound falls in a tangle of unholy magic and dysfunctional limbs. But the yelp doesn't grab Izraid's attention. The second felhound continues forward until the knight shouts a challenge at it, and pauses for a moment - hesitating between the thing making noise or the thing already on the ground and bleeding.

But while the felhound makes up its mind in that split-second, the shout is so...familiar to Izraid that he does react - spinning in his crouch and bringing his gore-caked hands up in fists as his tail lashes across the legs of the fallen man he was tending. His instinct is to drop into a state of protection, keeping his charge from harm.

And that instinct came from a lifetime of reacting to that shout. He isn't processing it yet, isn't wondering why he knows the sound or who made it - protect the fallen first, a vindicator who will mend and live if he keeps the man safe.

The felhound chooses the scent of blood and easy prey, charging towards the monk crouched over the Sha'tari vindicator.

The felhound that had been dragged into Blautel's reach is savagely dispatched, the blade slipping through the demon's flesh with ease. Too much ease, in Blautel's opinion as he is sprayed with acrid gore, but again, it was one of those things that was monstrous, but at the same time had its moments of convenience.

As soon as the creature had fallen, he broke into a dash to close the distance between himself and the second felhound, but to his great dismay he saw that the demon had opted to attack the medic instead.

Unlike many medics, the crouched monk neither cowers nor casts. Solid on his hooves, he waits as the demon closes in on him and his charge. When the creature springs, he finally moves, his left hand coming out to catch the felhound midleap at the ribs and redirect it towards the ground to his right with a twist of his large body. The move is quickly followed by his right fist and the full weight of his body as he rolls with the demon and sandwiches its skull between the stone pavers and his wrapped knuckles.

More viscera, bloody and hot, sprays his arm and leg, but he's been fighting here for so long, it's just another stain among many. Izraid doesn't gloat over the dead thing, doesn't pause for breath; his eyes are already rising to scan for more enemies. A draenei? In plate? O'ros' chiming head, let that not be Sargerei. Weary to his core, he shoves the dead felhound farther from the unconscious vindicator he was tending and rises into a defensive stance at the approach of an unknown man.

The medic dispatches the felhound gracefully, like a monk of Auchindoun would, Blautel thinks to himself distantly. Even almost like Izraid.

The death knight's clopping steps slow when he sees that the demon has been killed. Blautel then finally catches a look at the face of the monk. He comes to an abrupt, awkward halt as if he has just walked into an invisible pane. This draenei has Izra's face. He looks so much like him... Is it him? It seemed too much to ask for. For a moment, the death knight just stands there quivering, torn in his indecision whether to get a closer look or just run away, his face a picture of shock.

Between the draenei from his time, the draenei from this time, and the draenei here who chose to side with the Legion, he's seen so many strange people and eerie things. Echoes of places he knew, everything a half turn off center. The draenei who just halted before him seems almost…

Izraid rumbles, "That was stupid of me, to let my guard down," and watches the face of the man who stopped some distance away. That can't be Blautel. Blau died. Blau was under a pile of Scourge he took down with hi- Scourge. Izra's gaze locks with those eyes a shade too icy for a natural draenei glow, forgetting - again - his surroundings. At least, this time it is to no danger. Amid a smear of greenish black ichor and cobalt blood, his mouth hangs open. A long braid of hair - far longer than he ever kept it to Blau's knowledge - is thrown forward over his shoulder.

Where a proud Auchenai vindicator once stood, there is now a dirty, tattered ex-Scourge dressed in dark armor and rags. His braided hair is unkempt and dark circles rim his coldly shining eyes. He looks like hell, but it's undoubtedly Blautel's face and body.

An overcast, rainy day met Florin and Svartur as the pair journeyed towards the Exodar. Titan’s heavy hooves plodded against the road, wisps of ghostly blue fire left in their wake. The deathcharger’s barding clinked and jingled as they went.

Florin sat in front, watching the procession. As they traveled, more draenei joined them from across Azuremyst, creating a solemn military parade. Magnificent elekks, decked out in full regalia, strode through the fog, towering above it like hills among mist. Armored vindicators and berobed anchorites riding talbuks swelled their ranks. Carts full of supplies pulled by elekks and talbuks trundled past. It seemed to Florin that every able-bodied person from the Isles was journeying with them.

Florin looked behind himself at Svartur. The death knight seemed unmoved, a pillar of stolid duty. Florin was still very worried about him. They had not yet found a mentalist to act as his guiding star, should his bloodlust take hold again. Florin reassured himself that Svartur was aware of the danger, and would take what measures were necessary… but he would be so far away, and in such an evil place.

The Exodar looked more otherworldly than ever, its pinkish lights blurred by mist. As they approached, the ship that had been constructed with the purpose of going to Argus came into view: The Vindicaar.

Now, so close to the capital, the champions of other races could be seen: Humans and night elves, dwarves, gnomes… The Horde races were here too, for the war to protect Azeroth affected them as well. There were trolls, tauren, and even a handful of the infamous orcs, unbeloved by the draenei race, yet present in a rare display of solidarity. Everyone was here, in every cultural appearance of war imaginable.

In the shadow of the Vindicaar, families could be seen saying goodbye to their loved ones, exchanging hugs and kisses and heartfelt farewells.

From the high vantage point of Svartur’s deathcharger, Florin scanned the crowd. He pointed, “There!”

Approaching them were four draenei, the remnant of Svartur’s Commandry while he had been alive. Vindicator Motaanos rode atop his one-tusked elekk, Calamity. His expression was as annoyed as ever, as if the Legion had caused them all a great inconvenience.

At Calamity’s side, soulpriest Grigore rode serenely on his talbuk. Next to Grigore rode Blautel and Izraid, the death knight and monk, mounted upon a tamed warg and a horse, respectively. They talked animatedly between each other, comparing rumors of the horrors in store for them on Argus.

The four draenei paused before Svartur’s deathcharger, and bowed their heads in respect as a greeting.

“All have come. Good.” Svartur looked on approvingly at his small, but loyal band. Companions since time immemorable, they would follow their Commander even after he had become a death knight.

Svartur turned to Florin. “This is where we must part.”

Florin frowned worriedly, and climbed down from Titan’s back. He had to crane his neck to look up at Svartur’s face. His brows pinched together. “Please, be careful.”

The death knight acknowledged him with a small nod.

Florin looked on as his guardian continued onward with his small Commandry, climbing the steps to board the Vindicaar. He watched as the remainder of the war procession followed, and the doors of the ship slowly slid closed.

The ship began to hum, stirring the grass beneath it as it lifted. In a brilliant clap of light and sound, the Vindicaar disappeared. Svartur’s mental presence likewise could no longer be felt in Florin’s mind.

He was gone. Florin slowly stumbled away from the spot, moving around the crowds of families. Gone…