#izzial

The Worgen gave one last, long look at daylight before taking the stairs leading into Dalaran’s underbelly. “See you soon, kiddo.”  He hadn’t informed Rekkis directly about this; a warm chuckle escaped his lips as he thought of the hypothetical reaction.  No, that conversation would’ve been too…. painful? Furred brows creased.  It wouldn’t of been painful, at least in a conventional sense, but Stahldrauf could not have the Arakkoa venture with him into the Dreadscar.  Keeping himself and Izzial alive would be hard enough, let alone saving Callathum.  

Rounding a corner into the hallway, a growl escaped his throat. It didn’t matter what it’d take, but he’d get the warlock home. Fear of death didn’t even occur to him; the icy tendrils of bone-chilling terror hadn’t graced the Death Knights thoughts since his original return to life.  Instead, his worry lay on Callathum’s condition. He’s been over there fer a bit. …I hope he’s alright.  

While no stranger to long, worried looks, the Worgen found himself folding his ears back just a bit.  Normally, a two-handed sword suited his needs. Today, though, Stahldrauf came loaded for metaphorical bear. Another one-handed sword was strapped to his lower back, it’s handle in easy reach. Plates of armor clanked together as he walked through the underbelly—and for the first time in a *long* while, a helmet obscured his vision.  Fitting the contours of his snout, only his luminous blue eyes shown from the eye sockets.

Beginning his final decent, the Worgen took a long breath of air. I’m comin’, Cal. Hang in there fer just a bit longer—your stubborn ass can do that, right?

…

Izzial stared at nothing, his thoughts swimming darkly within his head.  The Arakkoa had forced himself to sleep prior to this; a prepared draught got him the sleep that the Worgen… insisted on him getting. Fel Green eyes focused on that single, random point.  Not only would they need to get to the Dreadscar, they would need to find Callathum and get him back. Calydus had proved to be… strangely helpful. The situation demanded he trust the Wyrmtongue for the moment, but Izzial found himself more and more willing to entertain the arrangement after the rescue as well.

A soft, quiet chuckle passed through his beak.  He looked forward to having more time to figure out what happened to him. At this point, he would’ve heard a voice telling him not to, advising him against it. But now… those thoughts were his. Still alien, but now a part of him. Different, but more same than before.  The portal had done -something- to him, but with all the time he had going to figure out how to save Callathum, that wasn’t a priority.

Taking a deep breath, he stood up.  Bright-red plumage had gone duller, no doubt to the weeks of exhaustion and effort.  Looking almost gaunt, Izzial looked up as the Death knight stepped down the path.  It’s time. Standing up, Izzial reached into his satchel, digits grasping one of several shards.  Each one contained a fragment of a demon’s soul.  Izzial hadn’t seen Callathum use such yet, but to get them there and back without draining all his own essence…

Well, Izzial prided himself on keeping his people safe. At any cost.

…

“Alrigh’.  Anything we need ta take care of?” The Worgen stood tall and proudly, his gaze staring down at the Arakkoa. The canine’s eagerness to get the trek over and done with wasn’t exactly hidden; Izzial merely shook his head and prepared himself.  As he stood, Calydus seemed to materialize in the shadows, beckoning the two over eagerly. “Quick! Calydus is ready!”   Izzial took a deep breath, striding towards the shadows.  Stahldrauf led the way, his gaze studying the Wyrmtongue. “Well, let’s get on with it.”

Even the demon seemed filled with trepidation as he and Izzial worked in tandem, a sickly green portal flickering to life.  Without a single hint of hesitation, Stahldrauf drew his two-handed sword, stepping forward and back.  “You better be alive, you stubborn ass.”  It was then he reached the portal itself, disappearing into the twisting nether.

Izzial held the fabric up, his eyes scanning for any last residual stain or holes that would need patching.  Life in Duskwood had grown… comfortable; the day to day life had grown predictable. The Arakkoa still labored to flourish, but the difficulties weren’t lethal nor demonic. Duskwood proved somewhat hostile, but it had been nothing they couldn’t overcome.  Even Darkshire proved… hospitable; neighbors meant strength, after all.

Wringing the excess water from the fabric, Izzial looked over the stream’s expanse before looking to the sky above it.  Was it really only a few years ago when the sight of the sky would instill fear in his kind?  Draenor felt like a life time ago. 

It was a life time ago.

With each personality combined into a single, gestalt entity, Izzial’s state of mind remained… remarkably more stable than before.  Not that it came without some… issues.  Memories proved difficult to sort through; remembering his life as both a crazed leader of a dwindling tribe and an Outcast, living beneath the boughs of the Spires and eking out an existence meant his memories were fuzzy, at best.  Izzial took moments to collect himself, but his mind remained sharp when it came to focusing problems. A journal, kept close at hand, helped him keep track of things that came up.

Even with that… life was good. With Callathum’s help, he built himself a small abode, and quickly tackled the task of adjusting his skills to Azeroth’s flora and fauna.  Being able to regularly eat, without the stresses of being hunted down, meant Izzial’s frame became hale and hearty. Naturally, he remained somewhat spindly, but there was a strength and agility he didn’t have before. Remaining focused on the sky, Izzial’s pleasant demeanor faltered for just a moment, the vestigial voice growing uneasy. 

The Arakkoa looked exhausted—and that’s saying something, given how hard it was to get Izzial to admit to such things. The suddenness of the responsibility thrust onto him still shook him in his quieter moments; it all seemed so much. He barely had gotten comfortable wielding the energies.Well, the former half of him had, anyways.

Even with everything going on, Izzial stepped away twice every day, checking on Callathum back in Dalaran. Even now, he could hear the Worgen’s protests in the next room.  Maintaining a tight hold on the parcel he carried, he stepped silently into Callathum’s room, blinking once as he saw the human sitting upright.  If anything, the words caused a brief flash of relief across his features. “…I’m glad to hear I’m not crazy.” His steps slowed, taking a few steps more to place the wrapped parcel on the bedside table. 

“…I’m not sure. I haven’t had time to think about happened to me. …Or us, I guess might be the better word.” His tone grew quieter, unsure of himself. “After you were taken, I knew something happened, but I haven’t had time to think about it.  I worked on finding every advantage I could to make sure we got you back safely.” 

Admittedly, the habit had a begrudging beginning, with Izzial staring outside of the forest’s fringes in distrust.  For the longest, outside of the forest’s edge meant you were dead. Discovered by the Adherents, picked off by one of the beasts that roamed the forests, kidnapped by the Shattered Hand…. The Outcasts, in short, avoided going beyond the protective canopy of the forests.

But, they no longer lived on Draenor. They no longer lived under the threat of religious zealots or crazed orcs. And there were beasts, but… so far, they proved manageable.  It was this realization that led Izzial to take his first, almost panic-stricken run into the sunny fields of Westfall.

Being ousted by the Ebon Blade left Stahldrauf with a surprising amount of agency; without their commendation, he technically didn’t benefit from the agreement that allowed Death Knights to operate in Horde and Alliance lands.  Conversely, without being associated with them, he also avoided association with their current… agenda.  Of course, his new armor helped; dreadplate leant him an intimidating air, and clad in more traditional full plate had folks less… edgy.  

Waving to the outgoing patrolman, his ears perked up.  Revelry proved to be an uncommon occurrence, but something certainly had the camp abuzz by the sounds of it.

…

Under normal circumstances, the Arakkoa would’ve been ecstatic at the reception. However, with recent events that transpired, Izzial considered receiving the attention of Voorus’ platoon the very last thing he wanted.  Not only did he not possess the time for this, if the keenly attentive Paladin noticed recent changes… That could be problematic.

Izzial couldn’t deny the warmth that such an open reception filled him with. Recent experiences left him needing the positive encouragement.  Calydus proved to be surprisingly helpful, but even then, rescuing Callathum seemed to be an overly lofty objective.  For the moment, he allowed himself some reprieve.

…

Stahldrauf’s nose twitched as he entered the camp.  Scruffy ears went fully upwards, luminous blue eyes scanning the crowd. A brief sniff turned into full-on snuffling, the Worgen’s gaze hopping from person to person.  No. No. No. No. Brows furrowed, the ivory whites of the skeletal markings temporarily accenting their skull-like appearance. Canine senses smelled his long-absent friend, but Callathum himself wasn’t here.  Weaving through people, Stahl’s gaze landed on the smaller, slight Arrakkoa.  Who looked absolutely ragged; the plumage was obviously dulled through a lack of care. And while the avian’s frame was slight, it appeared even more… gaunt. It took Stahl a moment, but both of his ears perked. “Alrigh’, alrigh’. Y’all talkin’ his ear off, and he doesn’t even ‘ave them. C’mon, kid, let’s get you some food.”

…

Izzial’s eyes went wide as the Worgen parted through the crowd, looking up. Fel green eyes widened, but the worgen’s appearance couldn’t be mistaken. ”You’re Stahldrauf, aren’t you?”  A long, furry arm draped itself across the Arakkoa’s shoulders as the Worgen half-escorted, half-prompted the warlock towards the mess tent.

“Uh-huh, and yer gonna tell me where Cal is.” The Worgen’s tone carried with it a hint of protective sternness as they entered the mess tent.  

…

“…Of course he did.” Stahldrauf sighed, rubbing his snout with one hand.  Izzial, as he introduced himself, seemed relieved to finally have a sympathetic ear. Despite his concern, the Worgen couldn’t help but grin slightly. “That’s jus’ like him. Alright, so how do we get ‘im back?”

“You’re… willing to help?”  Izzial’s eyes widened, before feathered brows furrowed in disbelief.  It would be dangerous, and their chances of coming back were slim. Finding another who’d so willingly engage in a rescue? He refused to believe it. “You know both of us are likely to die.”

“Third time may be the charm, then.” The Worgen quipped, arms crossing across his chest. “Yeah, I’m aware. It ain’t some thug’s hideout we’re rushin’ into.  He’d do the same fer me, an’ I ain’t about ta let one of my best friend’s die in a demon stronghold.”  Leaning across the table, luminous blue eyes bore into the Arakkoa.

10- Issuicide ever the right choice?

“N—“  The Worgen’s gut reaction becomes evident ashe practically lurches forward, eyes hardening. Suddenly, though, his muzzlehangs forward as a single thought rolled about his head.

What if heregained control?

“….No.”Both of his ears, scruffier than usual with the cold wind he’d been out in,folded back. “Is it an attractive choice? Yeah, it can be—I’d be thinkin’ aboutit if I ever ‘eard the Lich King like other Death Knights are reportin’. But…that ensures nothin’ ever gets better. If we can get freed from the grip of evil, then anythin’ good canhappen. Even if yer sure it won’t…”  Nearthe end his voice trailed off a little.

Aren’t theyserving him again?

11- Iseuthanasia ever the right choice?

“I…. I’mnot a ‘ealer, you know that, right?” The Worgen scoffed, his heavilyfurred brows furrowing. “That ain’t ever gonna be my choice, an’ if itis?  No, no it ain’t.”  Immediately, his mind began turning over hisflight through Tanaan, clutching onto the broken Arakkoa’s body. “If a healergives up hope, they ain’t any right kind of healer.  I..” Head hanging low, his voice drops to arumble. “I mean… maybe if yer makin’ that choice yourself…”

Ireul

14- Haveyou ever doubted your own beliefs?

“Beyond thecrisis of faith that comes with a tragedy?” The Priest’s warm baritone remains pleasantly conversational, with Ireulsliding the reading glasses off the bridge of his snout. “Yes. Especially whenwe reached Draenor and learned of the Naaru. Many conversations are stilltaking place on that, both within and outside of the Omnia.  Where do the Celestials fit in? Are thereother sources of the Light?”  Ireul’ssmile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he spoke; jade green eyes looked upward ashe gave a sigh. “Truthfully?  I stillbelieve in the Light, but I find myself questioning its source more and more.”

19- Couldyou ever forgive your worst enemy?

Members ofthe Order knew immediately when Ireul’s will solidified into a metaphoricalcore of iron.  The warmth in his eyeswent dead; his gaze fixated on the asker as his stature eased… and somehow,grew more dangerous at once.  When hespoke, his rich voice came out in a shorter, direct tone. “No. Not ever. Anyonewho speaks of peace with the Sha only risk the rest of Pandaria. Period.”

Skar’thresh

7- Have youever done anything to be very morally wrong?

9- If youwillingly commited a crime, would you accept punishment willingly?

(Rollingthese into one because his response would be the same!)

The Naga bristled,pale blue eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Grasping his spear, Skar’thresh rose up to his full height, lookingdown. “What would you assume I’ve done, landwalker?” Even as his crestsfurled out, the Naga loomed forward… with the trident point remaining away fromthe individual.  A close eye could see aslight tremble to his clenched fist, refusing to meet the askers gaze.

He mostcertainly had, and he had no idea how to handle it.

Izzial

1- Do youthink you’re a good person?

“Hmm.” Thefeathers atop of his head half-fluffed up, giving his crest a slightly tallerappearance.  The question surprised andconfused him in equal measure; skepticism filled him as he thought. “…I’m not abad one. Bad ones would torch other’s home and livelihood over adifference. Finally, the feathers atop of his had fall. “For a few people—theright people—I’m a good person.”

7- Have youever done anything to be very morally wrong?

A sense of… accomplishment filled the Arakkoa. Accomplishment, andsatisfaction. Izzial proved himself to be an adept student; Callathum found theoutcast Arakkoa bucking the usual trend of fledgling warlocks drasticallyoverreaching. Instead of a reckless disregard for powers beyond his ken, Izzialdisplayed a respectful caution.  Hisapproach seemed… surprisingly measured, only electing to move on to newerlessons once he’d mastered a previous one.

It’s almost like he had learned this once before.

Still, seeing the warlock off had been bittersweet. Over their timetogether, Izzial’s respect for the human had only grown. With his trainingover, Callathum understandably moved on to other tasks and errands—it wasn’thard to pick up on the love he had for the land not far to the west. Enteringhis small shack, his eyes traced over the dwelling—before finding the smallpackage atop of his makeshift workstation. Amid it’s controlled chaos, it stoodout; with precise movements, the Arakkoa peeked into the package.

It felt odd, having someone… vested in him. Someone who he looked up to.  And equally, someone who considered himcompetent.  Upon digging out the packedsandwhich, the bird let loose a quiet, happy squawk.

...

The afternoon found him at the base of a tree. Before him lay abright, sunny clearing; one of the few in Duskwood.  Perched under the tree, none of the rays hithim.  But as he slowly savored everysmall crumb of the sandwhich, Izzial let loose a single chirrup ofsatisfaction.

Which meant that when the Legion portals opened up in the west, the Outcasts felt compelled to act. The land had been more than a hovel; it grew to be home. If Westfall fell, nothing stopped them from sweeping eastward.

I don’t want to do this. Izzial’s fearful orange eyes cast up to the darkened sky. The fel-green vortex filled him with terror, the scent of the Fel pervading the air. Taking a single, slow breath, he joined the rest of the Outcasts, creeping out from the forest and towards the soldiers. The Legion tied them there, a wicked display of their barbarism.

 Breaking free of the group, Izzial swung around towards one of the fence posts, watching as the rest of the group circled around in the other direction. Keeping low to the ground, Izzial pulled a single flask from his satchel. Along with it came a small vial; upending the contents into the flask, he set it to the ground. Three minutes.

You’re getting good at this. 

Izzial paused mid-stride as the voice of the other reverberated in his thoughts. Years here had given him practice in ignoring it; he resumed moving swiftly. Two minutes.  As the lithe Avian rejoined the Outcasts, they looked to the swarm of fel hounds and demon, watching and waiting….

KABOOM

An earsplitting explosion filled the air as the flask detonated spectacularly, flames billowing into the air. That got the demon’s attentions; readily, they began to sweep the area, backs facing towards the outcasts…

That’s when they moved.  Striding out, they’d quickly reach the posts. Blades and daggers made quick work of the ropes binding the soldiers. Two outcasts each helped them back towards the forest.  It was all going well until a loud roar filled the air.  

It seems like their luck didn’t hold out. “Go!” Stepping forward, Izzial’s hand came back. “Get back to the forest!”  Izzial’s orange eyes took in the sight of the scrambling outcasts before sweeping back forward. Taking a deep breath, he focused on the training he received. Training he took too unnaturally well.

Training he would use to save his people.

Thick gouts of violet shadow flame burst from the ground in front of the demons, giving the Outcasts precious seconds.  A short retreat, then another violent torrent of flame. Over and over, until Izzial too escaped into the forest’s fringe. There, he ran, following the trail the Arakkoa had set before him. Breath ragged in his throat, he sprinted, hearing the braying of the fel hounds getting closer.

The Outcasts burst into a clearing, the tired soldiers half-dragged. About halfway through it, the Demons soon followed. It was then a clear, clarion call sounded—the signal they all waited for. “GET DOWN!”  Every Arakkoa dropped to the ground as swarms of arrows buzzed through the air. A brief moment, and then another volley; even the most steadfast of demons fell to the Night Watch’s arrows. The two groups worked exceptionally well together.