#phoenixguard

“Ranger-Captain,” one of Ruthar’s Lieutenants proclaimed after loosening yet another projectile. “We can’t continue on like this for….”

“Well aware, Lieutenant,” Ruthar returned, firing his own weapon with practised haste. “We’ll have to hang on for a little further - they are nearly to the ridge.”

Sure enough, the front line had shifted forward a noticeable amount from the start of their advance. It was much slower going than any of them had predicted, sure, but it was progress all the same. They were well aware that approaching Antorus itself would be no simple task - but no one expected it to be quite this difficult.

Suddenly, the rocks providing cover at the Rangers’ rear burst apart, showering them with small rocks. As the haze only just began to clear, the Legion was upon them. Ruthar snapped his head around as he tried to piece it all together. One of the Legion ships had blown a hole clear through the back of the rocky wall. Probably one of the ships, he thought silently to himself. But there was no time to think further on the how - the rearmost ranks were already being cleaved and crushed by the advancing Legion forces.

Ruthar returned his bow to his back and removed a pair of daggers from beneath the lower fabric of his Shattered Sun tabard. He crouched low for a moment before slipping forward with a burst of speed.

“For Quel’Thalas!”

The recognizable expression was returned by hundreds of other Rangers in an Elven roar as they took heed of the Ranger-Captain’s intent. The waves of bow-wielding Rangers turned clean around to assault the Legion in close-quarters combat.

It was only a moment before Ruthar’s daggers plunged deep into the chest of an advancing Eredar. His pair of small, ornate blades tore up from the chest through the neck before the vile worshipper could mutter even a sentence of incantation. Purple-black blood sprayed upon the red and gold of his Thalassian armour, but he did not slow, did not hesitate. Memories of Quel’Danas assaulted him with every kill, with every spray of demonic blood - it supported his thirst for victory, his wish to prove, once more, that the Legion has no hope at the hands of the Sin’dorei.

“Ranger-Captain!” his Lieutenant called, just quickly enough for Ruthar to slide beneath the legs of an approaching infernal. The great creature’s massive hands slammed into the darkened earth to leave a small crater where the Farstrider only just stood. He wasted not a moment, springing back upon his feet to leap to the side of the monstrous beast. He dug his pair of daggers deep behind the knee of the creature as it howled in massive pain, lilting to the side as bright green liquid dribbled upon its leg. Other Farstiders snapped to the attention of the Infernal’s scream, peppering the weakened creature with an assault of arrows that finally ended the thing completely.

Ruthar smeared the blood across his chest, cleaning his blades as he hunted for his next quarry. A massive cheer in the distance caught his ears as he twisted his head toward the gate of the Burning Throne. His jaw loosened slightly as he saw it with his own two eyes.

“Sir, they are upon the Gate!”

The Lieutenant had saw it as well - the very best of Azeroth’s forces had successfully pushed to the goal, right up to the heart of the Legion itself.

“Fools!”

The single word was uttered with such power, such confidence that it seemed to visibly tear through the air itself. Ruthar snapped his head around, returning his daggers to their resting place and slipping his bow into his grasp all in one quick, effortless motion. He unleashed a single arrow right at the head of the speaker, the projectile leaving a glowing gold trail in its wake. Dozens of other Rangers followed immediately as a small wave of arrows sailed toward the bold Eredar.

With a scowl and a toss of his hand, the air around him shimmered. The arrows that once were present had simply vanished, disintegrated by the powers at word. Without another moment to gloat, the Eredar raised his hands to the sky as a new wave of Legion denizens flowed forth from the sides, pinning the Rangers in the middle.

The sky opened atop them as liquid felfire rained down upon them. The screams of singed Rangers were met only with the sounds of renewed battle as the outer edges of the contingent were tore into. Glinting armour burned and melted beneath the Eredar’s assault as centuries of training was halted by the ceaseless blows of the Legion.

“Fall back!”

The words fell heavily out of Ruthar’s mouth, a burden of a phrase that he used in only the most desperate of times. In mere seconds, the remainder of the leadership was desperately spewing the words as well, trying with all their might to get their force to move away from the Eredar toward the Gate in the distance.

More cries and screams assaulted the Ranger-Captain as armour melted and weaponry exploded. The sickening crunch of skull beneath plated appendage haunted his thoughts as they fell back. Quickening their pace, they made their way down the sloped ground. All the while, the Eredar cackled from his vantage point behind them, hands still lifted toward the swirling sky as his felfire eyes surveyed the carnage. As stole a backward glance, all Ruthar could see was the smouldering remains of his unit that had only just tasted a hint of victory.

He stumbled as his feet caught the mass of something in his path, his helmet slamming against the charred earth. As he pushed himself up, his eyes caught the object behind him - the glinting armour of his trusted Lieutenant, the brightness of the chestpiece a stark contrast to the charred helmet that encased his now lifeless head.

“Arturian…”

There was no time to grieve, no time to stop. The Ranger-Captain and the few that remained continued in their flight from the Eredar and his minions. A spark of hope approached in the distance as green blasts of felfire illuminate the plated armour. Certainly they have seen our retreat, Ruthar thought to himself as he continued along down the slope, blocking the terrors behind him from his mind.

He continued to press on in an attempt to close the gap between himself and the forces approaching from the other direction. The air began to shake, a haze falling between himself and those in the distance as he came to the realization nearly too late.

The ground before him exploded in a torrent of bright green.

Ruthar was blown off his feet and thrown backward, crashing hard against the ground as the blast from one of the Legion’s ships decimated the area. The debris clouded the air rendering his eyes useless while his ears rang with the intensity of the explosion. He reached, blind and deaf by the suddenness of the situation, searching for something - anything.

He found only pain as something slammed into his side, his consciousness fading as the surrounding darkness consumed all.

“Dawnblade,” he muttered slowly as he felt his energies slip away.

“Better me than the lot of you.”

‘An orc wearing Sin’dorei robes.’

Such was the impression the fortress gave him. The craftsmanship of the buildings bore a familiar Horde feel; stone, wood, and plain unembellished metals. And yet, each structure was dressed in red and golden drapery to offer an overall Thalassian aesthetic. 

“Quaint.”

He walked passed a number of guards, each either standing stoically, or moving with intent from one place to another. A few glanced the Magister’s direction, but most of them appeared to busy to even acknowledge his existence. It was well enough; he hadn’t come to speak to them.

His attention was drawn to a portal sitting at the heart of the garrison - a portal, crackling with Arcane power. Around it sat a manufactured cradle of crystals, each hanging suspended equidistant from one another in a radial patter about the portal itself. Stabilizers, no doubt. Had he known there was a portal directly here, he would have inquired about using it. But the journey from Warspear was of little impedance nonetheless. Bey’ron nodded, giving the portal a sufficient gaze of admiration before moving on.

The command building towered over the others. Familiar Silvermoon banners hung proudly against the stone wall of the structure, as well as the crests of the Phoenix Guard itself. It had been some time since Bey’ron interacted with the Phoenix Guard; they had served their purpose for him once before in Dalaran. And he expected they would again...

Parting the curtain, Bey’ron stepped inside the command building. A small stairway let him out into a large, open room. Torches lit the room up sufficiently, while also doing their part in staving off the outside’s cold. He stood in the center of the room, and looked around - eyes catching the familiar face of Champion Dawnblade, sitting at a table off to the side. She spoke with another, unfamiliar to Bey’ron. He smirked, approaching.

“...I am still a Sunreaver to the bone.” the unfamiliar man continued conversing, before noticing Bey’ron’s approach.

"I'd recommend another color at least, but that whole getup is ridiculous--” Champion Dawnblade replied, before also turning her attention to Bey’ron.

“I think it's fine, myself. Purple's a regal color, factional tendencies notwithstanding.” the Magister added, inserting himself into the conversation.

Champion Dawnblade’s face solidified, all but frowning at the Magister as he approached. She clutched her teacup tensely, causing it to shake slightly.

“Magister Everblaze.” she greeted him, simply.

“Bal’a dash, Champion Dawnblade.” he responded, dipping his head in respect.

She made no effort to rise, much less return the gesture. Instead, she kept her single eye warily affixed on Bey’ron; breaking away after a moment to look to the violet-dressed man. He wore garb akin to the Kirin Tor, including a mask which hid his face from view. Nonetheless, Bey’ron could feel this stranger’s gaze upon him, and returned it. Noticeably, the man lacked an arm.

“Magister Sunkeeper, this is Magister Everblaze. We are...” The Champion heistated, as if searching her mind for the proper term. “... acquaintances.”

“Magister Sunkeeper.” Bey’ron repeated, green eyes trained on the man. “Well met.”

“A pleasure,” came his response, “though I left my Magister title behind me quite some time ago. I am merely Doctor Sunkeeper.”

‘Amusing,’ Bey’ron thought. ‘Another former Magister seeking to differentiate themselves from the Magistry.’

“--Doctor, then. Apologies.” he replied.

“None needed.” the Doctor returned immediately.

The two regarded one another a moment, formalities and politeness only thinly veiling one another’s appraisal of the other. Champion Dawnblade spoke up.

“--Have you come to aid the war effort on your own accord? Or were you sent here?” she inquired, succinctly.

“Neither.” Bey’ron replied, returning his attention to the Blood Knight. “I’ve my own agenda. But I’m grateful you’re willing to house me for a day or two.”

Once more, he dipped his head respectfully. And once more, the Champion made no move in response. 

“Did I have much of a choice in the matter?” she chuckled, dryly.

“... That being the case, I’m more than willing to help you and your merry band out in any way I can. Return the favor, and such.”

Champion Dawnblade retained her watchful eye on the Magister, as if he were a coiled snake preparing to strike at a moment’s notice. She reached out, flipping one of the many maps and missives over onto another, concealing both.

“In any case, I think we can find work for you to do. The stables need shoveled, after all.”

“Simple enough,” Bey’ron nodded. “I’ll get a couple of my servants right on it. But pray tell, how have your efforts here fared? I’ve heard many success stories.”

The Blood Knight shifted in her seat. “Our efforts have been going well, as I’m sure you can see by our small fortress. Tell me, what brought you out to Draenor?”

“--An impressive fortress, indeed!” the Magister deflected. “A venerable slice of Azeroth, carved out of the ice. You and your people should be proud.”

“Oh, I am sure this is only meant to be some routine inspection on behalf of the Magistry. They must keep an eye on those they govern.” Doctor Sunkeeper spoke up, rekindling the Champion’s question.

Bey’ron only smiled. “My business here is mine, not the Magistry’s.” he stated. “Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.”

“Of course...” Sunkeeper replied, tone betraying his skepticism.

“It seemed as much.” Champion Dawnblade said, tapping her chin in thought. “I’ve seen little, if any of the Magistry in Draenor. I hear they are still squabbling over scraps in Silvermoon.” 

The disdain dripped from her words; she wasn’t shy about her feelings towards the Magistry.

“Hence why I left.” the Doctor added - also very candid of his feelings.

“Oh, yes.” Bey’ron replied. “Incessantly. Sad to say, but few among them seem all too interested in Draenor. Now, the methods of our trans-dimensional arrival here? Quite a topic of discussion.”

The Champion sipped once more from her teacup, shifting to a stance indicating more disinterested in the Magister at this point. “We’ve worked it out well enough. Any portal is dangerous; this one just happens to be moreso.”

“So I’ve seen; another impressive aspect of your grand fortress, Champion.” the Magister nodded.

“Our personal portal is quite easy to maintain, however. the combination of magic, machinery, and artifice makes it quite stable.” the Doctor boasted.

“Restricted use, I assume? Can’t let just anyone walts to and fro through such a rift...”

“Of course.” the Doctor nodded. 

He conjured a teapot with the wave of his hand, accompanied by two teacups.

“Tea, Magister?”

“Ah, I’ll abstain. But thank you.” Bey’ron declined.

Sunkeeper nodded, waving his hand again. The teapot poured its contents into one of the floating cups magically, and without any physical exertion. The cup levitated about the Doctor’s face who, with use of a conjured straw, took a sip of the tea through his mask.

“The Guard boasts many skilled arcanists, theorists, runemasters, and machinists. It has been a collaborative effort - and yes, access is highly restricted.” Champion Dawnblade added - nigh warned - as she set her teacup down.

“For the best, assuredly.” Bey’ron replied. “What of your campaign? I’ve heard fantastic tales of triumph from every corner of this world. You and your band, too, share in such glory?”

“--You understand that much of our operations are classified. But I can say with total honesty that they have been successful.” Champion Dawnblade returned, irritated - by Bey’ron’s questioning, the floating teapot beside her, or both.

“Of course. No need to go into specifics. It’s enough to hear you’re doing well. Fighting the good fight, in defense of our world as a whole.” Bey’ron smirked.

“--My, my! You sound like a true politician, don’t you?” the Doctor sneered.

“Old habits, I suppose.” the Magister replied. “Proof enough there can be truth in even a politician’s words.”

“And my old habit of not trusting a word of it will die hard.” Champion Dawnblade rose, resting her palms on the tables surface.

She offered Bey’ron a smile, for the first time since his arrival; Bey’ron could almost taste the insincerity, but returned the gesture nonetheless.

“You’ll have lodging for two days, outside the garrison walls; there are cabins under our protection where you and your servants can rest safely. You are welcome to enter the Phoenix Guard’s garrison, but you will be escorted by myself, Lieutentant-Commander Ronaestrider, or a designee at all times. Am I clear?” she instructed, tone firm and commanding.

“Crystal, Champion. And you’ve my sincere thanks for accommodating this little excursion of mine.” Bey’ron replied, still smirking. “I won’t be any trouble. And in two days, you’ll be rid of me once more.”

The two stared at one another for a moment, before the Blood Knight nodded. 

“But of course. Let me know what supplies you or your servants may need, and we can requisition accordingly. For myself, I’ve a great deal of work to do before I turn in for the night.” she informed him, dismissively.

“Of course.” Bey’ron dipped his head respectfully. “Pleasant evening, Champion. Doctor.”

The three traded nods, before Bey’ron turned to depart the way he came.