#ladywindrunner

     One thing Mathias firmly believed was that you could never be too cautious.

     It does not matter what sort of master you are, what skills you have or what advantages are in your favor; you remain cautious, skeptical, and always have a backup plan.

     So there’s, of course, at least a spy or two within his general vicinity when he’s out, especially when potentially vulnerable as he finds himself now.

     He keeps his face carefully neutral, and dares to leave the safety of the shadows.

THE LAST OF US STARTER SENTENCES ↳ @ladywindrunner    ‹ accepting ›

          Sylvanas’ voice, perversely bemused, almost affectionately so, as if Valeera speaking in her sleep is somehow cute and not just auspiciously useful, jolts through her, the rogue waking to that first, vaguely otherworldly syllable as she had not the silent footfalls presaging the Banshee Queen’s arrival. Muscles clench as the shock spasms through limbs impulsively drawn in, Valeera’s head jerking from the cold, faintly wet stones she lays upon as her legs leverage her upright and hands scrabble for daggers that would ordinarily be within reach, her mind not yet comprehending the near certainty of their removal even as her body seizes upon the danger the abruptness of her wakening portends. That they are not there, that she has not even been left with a knife, that she sits in an icy, stale cell with Sylvanas leering expectantly down at her......

          The reality of her situation crystalises instantaneously, realisation burning through the bewilderment clouding her thoughts like sun through fog, widening her vision beyond the grimness of her immediate surrounds to recall the pandemonium that had led here. The ambush; fire, smoke, shouting, death stalkers everywhere...... How she had gotten here, in a cage she guesses to be somewhere within the Undercity is less clear. Is she the only prisoner, or are there others?

          Is Anduin all right?

          Sylvanas’ expression reveals nothing and attacking her with her bare hands will hardly uncover what she wants to know.

          Slowly, her heart thumping erratically in her chest and within her lower lip she judges split, Valeera sinks resignedly down the wall she had guarded her back against, feeling bruises unnoticed in her panic as she forces her breathing to slow, determinedly clawing back what composure she can before she finally grumbles her answer, “Lucky you. Maybe now you can let me go.”

feeling really unappreciated :c went through all that effort to get you that armor set and you dont even wanna wear it anymore.

RESTRAINT comes easily to the young prince, for if he had lost all good graces of himself, he would address the situation in which he now found himself to Anasterian, his father--the king. Images of barging up the scarlet stairs of the Sunfury Spire and infiltrating the throne room while his father ate or somesuch replayed in his mind. A gesture, harmless in the mind, really...

A PLOY.

OF COURSE. King or no, Anasterian had committed a disrespect on his person, perhaps the utmost disrespect in some time now. The young prince knows they had not seen eye-to-eye regarding loyalties with the Alliance, as torn apart as the ancient pact the elves made with Arathor long ago. Still, Kael'thas Sunstrider felt those loyalties more strongly, more clearly, than most of his isolation-loving people. Often did he feel DISCONNECTED from them, a foreigner in his own land; hesitant to the tendencies of neutrality, however innocent a notion. Only in recent times did the king ease up on his son staying in Dalaran, expressing only fatherly concern.

Or did he? he wonders as he strolls through the gardens of the court, the Royal Guard at his side. En route to meeting his... bride-to-be, the future princess (and queen) of Quel'Thalas. What a mouthful. He cringed to his very bones.

How unexpected a match.

No doubt did he find Sylvanas Windrunner a talented elf. Attractive quite, with power in the nock of her bow, authority in her voice, the makings of a leader--and who could expect such from the Ranger-General herself? Their rangers were top-notch, the defenders of the kingdom. BUT he did not know much past the obvious status of her legendary profession, save for one other thing he did know, and despised, surely...

Her unpleasantries. By the Sun, he would rather be somewhere else. In truth, he found her to be rather uncough and disrespectful, and whatever happened to her self-appointed Ranger-Lord? And let us not waste away with such a conversation. His mind tires from the long journey. He gazes at the flowers in passing and already does he ache for the gardens of Dalaran, for everything he left behind in Dalaran.

Leaving all behind for an arranged marriage. To a woman he did NOT love. How foul a tradition, as one is unable to court by his own heart. Only to APPEASE his father, the king. For political power between nobles. Every past, current, and future king experienced it, even the more laid-back elves when duty called for it. If all at ONCE he could cast off these expectations. Too little did the citizenry know the burdens of royalty beyond the "pampering." 

How dare he...

Kael’thas works to relax, and sighs. Cerulean blue eyes remain focused on the dirt, cobble path ahead, and sharp jaw tightens. He stands tall and proud, slender body no longer adorned in the lavish robes of the Council of Six, but in an exquisite red and gold robe fitting for the Crown Prince of Quel'Thalas. Embellishments gather along his shoulders, down the tips of his robe, which seem to hover above the surface, untouched, unblemished. Absent-minded, he brushes a finger along a golden band laced around, of steel material for which he bears a grudge and marvels at the same time. If he could light it aflame, it would surely melt.  Restraint. Small birds circle along the edges of the band. An engraving marks the interior of the band for "he walks the day, shines hope in darkness."

SEND  TRY + A CHARACTER  YOU’D LIKE TO SEE ME ( ATTEMPT ) TO WRITE !  // accepting.

They were fools to stand against the Dark Lady.

Anger, perpetual state of his undeath, old companion in this existence, arose renewed within his chest, interwoven in contempt as crimson gaze looked down on the combined forces of enemies and traitors standing at the gates of Orgrimmar. The unrelenting sun and arid land of Durotar had never been to his tastes (would not be to most of the Forsaken, he wagered, used to the dark coldness of the Undercity as they had been). Not without reason, either; to those whose bodies continued to decay, dead flesh left exposed to sunlight was only a means to decompose faster. Yet they stood, unfaltering in their loyalty to their Queen, as it should be.

Few of the other Horde races showed similar loyalty to the Warchief. Some more than others. Repugnant goblins stood on both sides, trolls as well. The tauren had all departed alongside Baine.Most of the orcs other than the Mag’har had followed Saurfang, mindless beasts that they all were, barking about senseless things such as honor (Nathanos had known honor, once; it meant nothing when he faced the scourge). A considerable number of the elves, however, had remembered their loyalties to one who had sacrificed everything to save them, even when their esteemed leader did not; they, perhaps second only to the Forsaken, ought to acknowledge her for her leadership.

He knew it was expected. And he trusted her, faithfully (blindly); Sylvanas had never failed him, in life or in undeath. It had been by her will that he had joined the Farstriders, becoming something more than his simple life in Marris Stead would have allowed for. Most importantly, it had been by her will that his had been made his own again, freed from the Lich King’s grasp when she called him to her service once more. The Dark Lady had gone to great lengths to give him his current former, spared from decay, stronger (worthy of her). There was no path too dark, no task too horrific that she could command him and he would not obey. 

And if his queen (his love) found damnation, then he follow her into it and be satisfied, so long he was allowed staying by her side. 

Trusting her plan did not prevent him of resenting those who would oppose her, who failed to see her for what she was: worthier a leader than any of them. The Alliance he could understand, despicable little beings clinging to righteousness as they shunned those who had sacrificed most for them to keep their perfectly polished castles and other such petty things; they were enemies, after all. The Horde, however... instead of valuing their Warchief as they ought to, they scurried to hide behind that old fool’s skirts and pretended to be friends of those who would have had them killed. They were undeserving of her. But the living, much like life itself, were a thankless sort.

And then all train of thought is interrupted by the resounding challenge Saurfang cries outside the gates.

Momentarily, anger subdues. Nathanos would have preferred to be beside her than atop the walls of Orgrimmar, even if he knew well she needed not his protection. The old orc was nothing; at last he would find the death he so longed for, and they would all be better for it. The Champion of the Banshee Queen doubted not her capacity to win, worried not so much for her immediate safety as he did for what this meant. 

Sylvanas had planned for several outcomes, this included. Less than ideal that they would end the war so soon (pity that he would not get the chance to slay the traitors in her name, nor even to watch her defeat the old orc), regardless of how well prepared they were to put in motion next steps. No matter; this would be inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Their work was not yet done. If anything, this was but the beginning of its most crucial step.

One last glance (she wields the pair of daggers, as confident as if she held her trusted bow) and he turns his back to the scene, silent looks exchanged with Dark Ranger Lenara before Nathanos takes his leave --- simple enough to read that she knows what to do, as well. His own mission awaits not here but a world away, in dreadful Quel’thalas; and he would see to preparations before the orc’s dead body hit the barren ground of Durotar and his queen set foot in her ancestral home once more (she would, as they had planned, for no ill would befall her here; there was no need for goodbyes if they would see each other again).

@ladywindrunner

Send 🍷 For The Lord Admiral’s Intoxicated But Honest Opinion(No longer accepting bc Jaina’s had enough to drink^^)

*hic “Shit,” Jaina whispered softly and with feeling.

She tensed in her chair and simply stared at Sylvanas, trying to think through her leaden insobriety. She sighed, resigned to her situation. When you’re going to die at least die brave. It pisses your enemies off. Jaina smirked and leaned forward to grip the long neck of the wine bottle, refilling her glass to the brim.

“Warchief,” her voice was mild enough, but there was an undertone of something unpleasant. “What an unexpected *hic surprise.” Jaina tilted her head to the side and took a long swig of the dark red port, making a mental note to, should she survive, have a strongly worded conversation with Master Shaw regarding the competence of the guards he’d assigned her.

“According to the many reports I’ve received over the last week proclaiming your *hic very fond affections toward me, I assume you’re here to ask me to marry you?”

“While I had always hoped to be ‘whisked away’ before I turned forty, I’m afraid I must respectfully decline. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” She said it all with a lazy smile and a warm glow in her eyes.

Jaina sipped her wine, wrinkling her nose. “Pesky business with the burning down of inhabited world trees and such rubbish. I find that one must share certain ethics with their *hic lover in order for a relationship to be successful - wouldn’t you agree?”

“Though I have always respected your competence, both in battle and in your resolve to endure, despite your *hic suffering.” Her expression turned sympathetic and she grimaced, taking a long sip of wine. “You were a true hero, for a time.”

“And I am sorry for Arthas….” she whispered. 

She sat lost in thought for a moment before shaking her head gently. Surprised she was still alive, Jaina took another sip of wine and waited for Sylvanas to say something, but the silence stretched into eternity. She decided to keep filling it.  

         so she was turned around, a little lost, too tired to remember which direction she’d arrived from. this left her plodding through the wilderness, holding onto herself, eyes searching for the first sign of HELP she could find. that sign appeared to be a person, eventually, someone tall, unfamiliar. however cautiously, mihra stepped up behind the stranger, speaking quietly.

          ❝ excuse me ? ❞ words were paired with a little cough, which she quickly cleared away. ❝ i’m mihra, and i’m afraid i’m a tad bit lost, and rather worn out at that. i don’t suppose you have any WATER to spare, or a map ... ? ❞