#laereth

The Spellbreaker had to admit that the tactics displayed so far were close to brilliant. He eyed the area of Lor'danel, lips pursed. "If I were her," he murmured, talking to himself, "I'd find a way to bring in troops from north or east." Morollan perked his long ears, listening. "Can't use a dirigible; the tree cover in Felwood and along the mountains is too dense to be able to aim well, and they have to know there are hippogryphs in the air by now. Surprise would be spoiled. Can’t come in by sea; the Night Elves will be ready for that with their fleets. So… over the mountains."

"What good does that do?" Morollan hated the crack in his voice, and he started jiggling both knees, nearly vibrating with tension. "I need to go there, to do something…" Fresh tears welled up but he brushed them irritably away with the back of his hand. Mourning could come later.

"And you're not going to go there alone." Laereth's tone was confident. Laereth himself wasn't confident at all; the plan forming in his head was extremely risky. But it was all he had; his two hundred soldiers wouldn't be able to make even a dent in the Horde forces, and doing that would make him the Horde's next target. "By now.. Morollan, you have to realize, by now Lor'danel has fallen," he said softly to his purple-haired compatriot.

Morollan bit his lower lip and reluctantly nodded, setting down the well-shaken cup of tea before he had a chance to spill it. "I know," he whispered, thinking of all the noncombatants that lived there, the shopkeepers, the craftsmen, the children. "Where.. does that leave us?" He looked up again at Laereth, hoping for some brilliant plan.

"Well… I'm going to send a page to round up Kerythian, and she's going to scry to see what sort of state Darnassus is in. If it's occupied by the full Horde forces, I'm afraid there's nothing to be done. But if the Horde hasn't made its way to the top of the tree yet, we can assist with evacuation."

"How?" Brows furrowed, Morollan peered at Laereth incredulously.

"Let that alone for a moment, until we figure out what the state of Darnassus is."

"You're part of the Horde," Morollan muttered, and Laereth crinkled his nose with a bit of distaste. The Horde had been fine under Thrall, been alright under Vol'jin, but under Sylvanas it was unacceptable. "What do you think they're going to do."

"Eh.. with the Horde, there are two options. Burn it or put spikes on it. I'm guessing spikes; they'll want to occupy the city to have full control over Kalimdor and disrupt trade and travel for Alliance vessels. There will probably be a good deal of death, my friend… but they'll also take prisoners. Under other circumstances I would hope that they wouldn't harm children, but it appears they've harmed plenty already. So much for Orcish "honor."

"So what will we do?" Morollan got out of the chair he'd been jittering in, walking over to look sadly down at a map that would need to be redrawn.

Laereth rolled broad shoulders in a slow shrug. "We put together a small strike-team of stealthy sorts --I employ a good number of those-- and we go in, try to rescue who we can, and get out as quickly as possible."

"We're not going to be able to save Darnassus, are we?" It wasn't really a question anymore. But the Druid still needed to actually hear it.

A shake of his head made sleep-mussed crimson hair slide along his shoulders. "If they got reinforcements over the mountains, no. We might be able to evacuate those two little towns you told me about; the Horde might not care about them… hell, know about them yet." Morollan nodded slowly; at least there was that little hope of saving someone. "I'll be right back; I have to find a runner to fetch the mage."

With that, Laereth turned and headed outside through the kitchen door, peering around until he spotted one of the youths in crimson robes. A gesture brought the boy over, a young lad just entering adolescence. A few quick words and the youth was running off in search of the mage that Laereth employed as a sort of secretary. Like much of what was in Laereth's life, there was far more than what was shown on the surface with his "secretary."

When he came back in, Morollan was slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, staring forlornly at the map. The Druid looked up at Laereth, but no emotion besides deep sorrow was in his eyes. The Spellbreaker made no effort to console him; there was nothing he could say and he knew it. This grief would simply have to run its course.

After about ten minutes of miserable quiet and staring at a map, a woman breezed into the kitchen with a small smile, black hair done up neatly in a bun, gray and white robes elegant and wrinkle-free. Kerythian liked to be tidy. Her smile faded as she saw the map, and she glided over to peer down at it. "Are we invading Darkshore?" It was light-hearted, meant as a joke, but the two men gave her grim looks. "..wait. Seriously, we're invading Darkshore?"

"The Horde is. Or rather, it has." Laereth poured a cup of tea and handed it to the slender mage. "I didn't hear about it until now. Guess House Bloodhawk wasn't invited to the party," he said with a droll smirk; the most likely reason he wasn't invited was because the Blood Elves of authority knew full well that he would heartily disapprove of such an action. Perhaps a change in leadership was required… Laereth pushed that thought to the back of his mind, to be pondered later. "Can you scry on Darnassus so we can figure out what the situation is?" He frowned a little, tilting his head. "And could you make a portal there? Because if you can't, this is all pointless."

Kerythian's dark green eyes widened. "You want to go to Darnassus." At Laereth's simple nod, she shook her head. "Seems like a terrible idea. Let's get started."

He decided to turn that restless energy into action; a foot patrol of the manor grounds wouldn't hurt. Perhaps he'd even find what was bothering him so much. Laereth stalked toward the door, picking up his round shield by one of the grips on the edge. Were it not for his supreme reflexes that told him to back up a step, that door would have bashed into him when it was flung open with excessive force to bang against the wall like a gunshot.

Laereth found himself staggering backward further, shocked, as Morollan half-stalked, half-stumbled through the doorway, shoving hard at the Blood Elf's chest, forcing him back into the entryway. He was too stunned to even put up a fight, though the claws that currently tipped his Night Elf friend's fingers were drawing blood where the chainmail didn't protect. "Morollan, what the-"

"Did you know?! Did you know and just decided not to tell me? DID YOU KNOW?" Morollans voice hummed with a growl, though with nearly every other word, it was cracked by grief. Silver eyes glistened with unshed tears, though by the glinting tracks down his cheeks, several had been shed already. Just a detail glimpsed between each hard shove until his back was against the wall.

Lacking his voice for the moment, Laereth just shook his head, sending crimson hair swaying down his back. Never had he seen Morollan like this, not in battle against enemies, not in horror at war-torn earth, not at witnessing the goblin-fueled destruction of pristine wilderness. He was the calm of spring rain, the nurturing of summer sun, the playfulness of falling autumn leaves. Not this…tear-streaked tragedy. The look in those silver cat-like eyes was beyond sane grief.

He managed to catch his breath and drop the shield with a clang so he'd have both hands free. It wouldn't be long before soldiers came to see what all the ruckus was, and he wanted a calmer companion when they arrived. With the next shaky shove, he grabbed Morollan's wrists tightly enough to grind the small bones together, using pain to make light appear in the Night Elf's eyes. "Morollan. What happened."

It was as though Morollan were one of Ji's puppets and the strings were suddenly cut. He dropped to his knees and sagged, shoulders rocking with silent sobs. He gasped for air as though he'd forgotten to breathe since the moment he'd slammed the door open, shuddering and placing his hands in front of his knees for balance, to keep himself from simply falling over.

Ignoring the blood that dripped down his chest --those unsheathed claws were sharp!-- Laereth dropped to one knee, kneeling in front of his friend, and pushed at his shoulders to try and get him a little more upright, a little more stable. Whatever was going on, this was what made instinct wake him. "Morollan. I need you to talk so I can help. What happened?"

Drawing a shuddering breath, Morollan slowly looked up from under strands of disheveled purple hair, appearing helpless as a child. It made Laereth wince a little, to see his confident and playful friend in such condition, and he squeezed the Night Elf's shoulders firmly, needing him to explain what happened. Laereth was not about to let whatever put his friend in this state go without ample payback.

"Y-you.. you swear you d-didn't know?" He stared up at Laereth with hopeful, earnest eyes, needing to believe that has friend had nothing to do with.. with it. He let out a heavy sigh when the Blood Elf slowly shook his head, sincerity showing in his emerald gaze. Sincerity and a certain restlessness, a need to take some sort of action.

"The Horde.. Sylvanas…" Morollan trained off, choking up for a moment.

Laereth stared at Morollan, emerald eyes narrowing to mere slits at the mention of the very loathed "Warchief". "Sylvanas… what?"

"Astranaar… it started in Astranaar…" Morollan took a shuddering breath, then started to speak with a false calmness that left silvery eyes staring at nothing. "Astranaar is gone. Everyone was killed. Even the children."

Laereth blinked, for a moment unable to wrap his mind around the idea. Also unable to be comfortable with that blank look in Morollan's eyes. He opened his mouth to say something --though he wasn't certain what-- when the Night Elf spoke again.

"Then they marched through Darkshore… they just kept coming. Shan-do brought a wall of wisps to buy time, but they managed to get through it. When I left, they were about to take Lor'danel…"

Laereth frowned, brow furrowing as he considered this information with his ever-running tactical mind. Mentally, he made a map of northern Kalimdor and followed the line of the Horde's apparent march. "Lor'danel.. that sounds famil- Fuck, it's a port city." Suddenly all the pieces crashed home, and Morollan looked up at Laereth with defeated eyes, knowing that Laereth had figured out what the plan of the Horde was. The Spellbreaker spoke with quiet trepidation. "They're going to take Darnassus…"

In part it was her youthful vitality that kept her free from the Fel taint. Lamb hadn’t been aware enough to catch that the voices in her head hadn’t only been Wolf’s. The entirety of her recovery, however, could be attributed to the blessed efforts of Laereth and his druid friend. She wouldn’t have gotten far without them. 

Dead. Lamb should have been dead. 

Wolf did as Laereth requested. He moved when needed, only to hop back up onto the bunk with his little elfling and rest his head over her arm and shoulder. The blanket would help against the oncoming chill, but ... the fur of her ebon companion would be far more reassuring.

Hours passed. Lamb fussed a bit in her rest, but the weight of Wolf’s head kept her from rolling and turning about. Her wounds needed to be treated with the utmost care. Wolf wasn’t willing to let her injure herself before she ever woke.

When the time came green eyes opened to stare listlessly at the ceiling ... and then the light. And then anything she could see. The setting was unfamiliar. A slow tug of uncertainty was met by the huff of Wolf’s nose against her arm. “Welcome back, little Lamb.”

A light shiver chased over the blonde before she seemed to catch a familiar scent. The realization that Laereth had been there drew her attention first. “Lethallan?” Her voice felt strange. Not only was the usual monotone in place, but her throat was dry. Lamb’s voice was too weak to override the rasp that came with it. 

A thin hand pressed to Wolf’s ears. Fur was gripped tightly as Lamb attempted to sit up. Not only did Wolf keep her down, but the sharp pain that shocked through her made Lamb’s breath catch. 

“Stay.” Laereth would return. 

Description Sheet for Laereth Bloodhawk Setting: World of Warcraft Race: Blood Elf Age: To a human, he'd appear late 30's, maybe early 40's Height: 6'5" Weight: 240lbs Build: Heavily muscled, minimal body fat.

'Face Claim': Jason Momoa, specifically without facial hair. Images from the Conan film work best.

Differences from the Face Claim: As mentioned, he's got no facial hair. Racial characteristics of elongated eyebrows and tall, tapered ears apply. Laereth's bronze skin tone matches up fairly well. With bone structure, slightly higher cheekbones and just a little more elegant sharpness to the features, but overall, the face is very similar. Hard planes and angles with a strong jaw line, full lips, sharply angled eyebrows, and a broad, bluff forehead.

Eyes: Emerald green, with the slight glow that Blood Elves have. His pupils show as a darker, forest green. Their shape is just slightly tilted at the outer corners. Age and a lot of squinting in disdainful disbelief has made very faint lines at those corners as well.

Hair: Very thick with a slight wave to it. His hair is long, reaching to his waist, and he usually has the sides pulled up into a foxtail. Tendrils always escape to hang down his chest and back. It's a deep and vivid crimson color, surprisingly soft in texture, and when it's not tied back it's thick enough to seem mane-like. He has very little in the way of body hair, and what he does have is very fine, a slightly darker red. The only places body hair would be found would be his under-arms, faint traces along his forearms, and line down the middle of his stomach starting just below his navel.

Marks: Laereth has no tattoos or piercings. He does have plenty of scars. Like the Face Claim he does have a thin line through his left eyebrow. At his left side, just above his hip, there's a jagged scar of slightly paler skin, though it's well-healed. Down his back, angled from just under his right shoulder and stopping just before his spine is an old claw-slash, a scar deep enough to leave faint depressions in the flesh. There are a few other battle-scars but they're all very old and barely noticeable.

Body-Type: He's heavily muscled from centuries of heavy labor, blacksmithing, and combat. He's not vain about his physique; he views his body as a weapon or bulwark, and has the same pride in it he'd have with something he crafted at the forge. He's built for battle, broad through the shoulders and chest, with minimal body fat. Lines of veins stand out a little along his arms.

Clothing Preference: Armed and armored. The first piece of clothing he puts on before leaving the house is a worn pair of leather pants, snug-fitting with the impressions of armor straps slightly indented along the thighs. They're a deep bronze color, a bit paler where they've been worn by his gear. He's not a fan of full-plate, preferring mobility. He often wears a leather harness across his chest that holds shield and/or weapon at his back. The clasp in the center of the harness shows a spread-winged stylized hawk, as does his usual belt buckle. The harness also serves as an anchor for chain-mail along his sides, and when fully armored, he'll have a heavy plate belt that covers his lower stomach, metal-plated gauntlets, heavy shoulder-guards, and plate pieces strapped over his thighs, with heavy plate boots. The plate (and chain) is a gunmetal gray color with fairly intricate designs in bronze and copper because very functional battle-gear can also be aesthetically appealing. He owns clothing that isn't made of armor. It's just that he's rarely seen in public in a state that isn't ready to stop (or start) a fight.

Personality: He tends to be stern, gruff, and serious, though rarely to the point of brooding. He has a habit of psychoanalyzing everyone he meets without even really giving it conscious thought, like he's trying to determine where they'll fit into any given strategy. How useful or detrimental they'll be under a variety of circumstances. He can be exceedingly judgmental and hold people to a very high standard, but he applies it to himself as well, sometimes even more-so. He tends to have a fairly sardonic sense of humor and finds amusement in watching people be predictable. (He's often exasperated by the same thing.) When he's being tolerant or genuinely amused by something or someone, he'll often show a slight smirk or half-smile. If he's showing a bland and pleasant smile, someone is about to get owned. About the only time he grins is when he gets to be violent.

He's extremely controlling. He wasn't always, but he learned that he has severe anger-management issues and is pretty much fueled by rage, so he started by keeping absolute iron self-control. That led to controlling situations and other people. It's second-nature to him now, though he's usually fairly subtle about it. Extensive psychological study has taught him how to make people do what he wants them to while they're believing they wanted to do that the whole time.

He has emotions, but they only tend to display in a very minimalist fashion. Most often, his expression is one of slightly stern neutrality. It's very rare for him to be especially expressive.

He's always confident. To many, it seems like arrogance. He's extremely self-assured because he's got something most average people don't. He fully understands himself as a person. He knows who and what he is, and he's perfectly comfortable with that. Stoic, violent, manipulative, condescending, sadistic; he knows he's not a 'good guy' and he accepts that. He's quite comfortable in his own skin, rarely questioning himself. He knows that the things he does are all aimed at the Greater Good, and the Greater Good can have a cost in lives. He's willing to pay that price. And he knows that some day, it may be necessary that the price includes his own life. When that day comes, he won't hesitate.

Another chime sounded and his attention snapped to the box, half-read parchment still in one hand. And then another chime. And another.

Fine vellum, thin hide, torn scraps; they piled up within the box. Each faint chime, so quick in succession, seemed to spike adrenaline until he thought he could hear the rapid drum of his own heart-beat.

He stood up so abruptly that the heavy chair rocked backward. When the door to the study opened, Laereth was already clutching the edge of the chair, alarmed instinct seeing it as the closest weapon. Morollan entering failed to diminish the little trickles of rising fury that made his muscles twitch.

The Kaldorei didn't even notice how close he'd come to having a chair that weighed easily as much as he did hurled at his head; he was looking downward, a pensive frown on his feline-like features. "Laereth, I think something's wrong-" He jerked backward with shock when suddenly the Spellbreaker was right there, so rapid it seemed he'd gone from point A to point B without crossing the intervening space.

"Stormwind. Go," Laereth barked, pulling about half of the varied and unread missives from the stack he clutched, shoving them against Morollan's chest.

Fumbling a little in his surprise, Morollan took the papers and glanced at them, puzzled. "What? Why? Laereth, what's going-"

"Stormwind, Morollan! Go, now!" The capacity for complex explanations had temporarily left the normally eloquent Spellbreaker; the adrenaline was too high. He'd barely glanced at only a few of the reports that had come in; the box was still chiming somewhat steadily as more arrived, but he'd seen enough. One word was enough. "Legion!"

The Druid needed no further explanation. That one word made his hackles rise, brought a growl to his throat that would have done any saber-cat proud. He crumpled the papers and stuffed them into his belt pouch while darting to the balcony door. A breath later, and a stormcrow soared south across a dawn-lit sky.

Laereth followed quickly behind; the third-story balcony was faster. One hand hit the marble rail and he vaulted over, the resounding crash of his crouched landing snapping attention toward him from the soldiers and workers scattered about the military compound.

Higher-ranked members of the Bloodhawk regiments started toward him, intent on finding out what trouble would make their leader lose his legendary composure enough to leap down among them that way.

Laereth pulled the small talisman from his belt pouch. A simple flat stone, the sort one might try to skip across a lake on a lazy afternoon. With far more vigor than the enchanted stone required, he hurled it to the ground.

High above the compound, a bright light flashed, crackling like heat-lightning down around the vast, invisible warding magics that kept the Bloodhawk Estates concealed from the casual traveler, and a peal like that of a trumpet echoed through the air.

The moment of stunned silence after made it seem as if every person in the extensive holdings caught and held their breath. Perhaps they had.

Then the whole place erupted like an angry nest of hornets. Soldiers threw aside their practice weapons and dashed to the Armory. From the stables, the fierce cries and disconcerting hisses of battle-trained Hawkstriders came. Doors of homes were flung open and elves rushed out to take positions along the pathways and training yards, some half-dressed or less and clearly roused from sleep; the sound of portals snapping open added to the din. Servants darted between the roiling mass of troops to ignite the forges and open up the supply warehouses.

Laereth could take no pleasure in the perfect response to the alarm shown by his people. Each and every one had trained for a time when that talisman would be broken, some for decades. In mere moments, the estate of a military noble had turned into a full-fledged army base ready for war, like clockwork.