#quelios

Day 4 / May 28

Dangerous / Tremendous

It didn’t matter how lauded the best dish was in Silvermoon’s cafes, how well the liquor flowed, or how readily the denizens might answer a temptation, Quelios inevitably found the city life grating. Even House Dawnsinger’s black sheep of a son craved something beyond magic-tinged air, where everything seemed handed to him on a platter.

An itch in his lungs craved fresh air. A deeper itch in his fingers craved the draw of his bow. He knew until his sister was found and brought home to the nest of Dawnsinger vipers he would not be released back into service with the Sunreavers where he belonged. An annoying fact of insufferable nobility was that a man entangled by it just couldn't always piss where he wanted.

The Ghostlands was as close to a hunting ground as Quelios would be allowed. His eyes went to the real predator trailing beside him on careful, stealthy paws. The matron lynx shifted her great head forward, tufted ears perked as she contemplated their direction. He noted the way her muzzle wrinkled in dismay as she slinked into the Ghostlands, silently baring her fangs. She never liked the way the dead soil felt beneath her paws, or the unnatural stench of rot and mold when crossing the threshold into ruination. “S’okay, Favola. I know,” he whispered assuredly to the feline huntress. “Just a circuit, yeah?”

The lost land was often the depressing lesson to introduce to most new Farstriders, then sometimes a form of corporal punishment for those sent to guard over Tranquillien, Lio thought to himself, remembered from his earliest days as a recruit. Living in this isolatingly bleak, blanched rot, day after day humbled a soul quickly. Eventually, the Striders changed out the guard of course. You let a man live long enough in rot for too long, it was only a matter of time before he would begin to resemble it. He’d known some broken enough by life to go to the Ghostlands willingly, and never return. And of course there were the usual horror stories little ones were told to keep them far away this place, dark fantasies that only twisted the truth of a tremendous trauma experienced by an entire nation. Quelios knew what he needed to be effective.

He let his arrows sink into the heads of a few spare walking bodies shambling past dead wood, and an older monstrosity twisted by long set dark magic that Favola mauled until it no longer moved. But something else caught her scent, something else scurrying past trees, into hiding. Naturally, the lynx gave chase, and her years of experience as an honed predator produced results, stirring a cry from nearby foliage. Low to the ground at the feet of her fallen prey, she remained deceptively still, awaiting the single command that would set her like a springboard on a throat for the kill.

“W-wait! Don’t shoot!” came familiar notes of Thalassian. Cloak and hood had been shaken from the target’s face, revealing none other than another elf. Quelios almost felt a disgruntled mutter start in his throat at the thought they’d pinned down some ignoramus that got lost in the Ghostlands.

But it was not green eyes that stared wide up on him, or even the golden variety. A violet- blue pair of eyes tried to hold him and Favola at bay, empowered by the void. It was a stain that blanched their complexion too, revoking all natural color from the skin. Favola hissed menacingly, making the void elf attempt to scramble back from her in fear. She didn't like this one's scent either.

“Did you fall off your purple chicken on the way to the border, friend?” Lio teased back with pleasant Thalassian, but did not dare lower his attention from the target.

“…what? No…I am here to…meet with someone.” Either the void elf was fully naive or entirely unprepared for their excuse, Lio noted. Every word reeked of suspicion. “Please. Let me stand.”

Crouching in low and fast, he let his fingers fall briefly to the forest floor in a subtle affixing of a masked trap, before returning his hands to the aimed clocking of his bow. It would be a consequence lain out for any potential “friends” this one had at the thought of a ‘friendly’ little ambush. There was enough explosive, mechanized power to hobble several pairs of legs if it was triggered.

“Mmm, I think not. Not the ‘best’ place for a little reunion, you know. And we can’t have you in the city. Ah but I’m sure you know that. Drinking the very bad water didn't do you any favors, did it?”

“What? I’m not drunk, I’m just–”

Thwip! An arrow whipped like lightning into the void elf’s thigh, and his fumbling words deteriorated into a satisfyingly pained cry.

“Oh no, you really should be more careful, look at what all that void sniffing’s gotten you? Drugs are bad,” Quelios admonished mockingly. “It seems you won’t be walking much of anywhere now with that ankle, so I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel your plans. But I’m enough of a gentleman to escort you back to your chariot.”

Favola closed in and clenched her strong jaw around the loose, oversized hood, and began to drag their captor back to Tranqullien proper. It would be a painful 15 meters for the void elf, but one that would not be forgotten.

“No odd movement now, my friend, or you might find another body part made a little useless, hmm?” Quelios remarked with a dark turn on his joviality. In truth, any further issues would earn the void elf a more permanent silencing. On the front, the Sunreaver had seen how easily the Ren’dorei had been overtaken by the Harbingers call, how weak willed they were to the force they invited into them, and how quick they were to betray their own. A dangerous risk that would become inevitably unstable, like a ticking bomb. He knew what they were to the Sunwell, and none could be trusted with a Windrunner betraying her people to align the void-addled with the Alliance. Already, Quelios thought himself too merciful, letting this one be confiscated by Tranqullien’s forces.

It would have been better to loose an arrow in their head now like everything else shambling around the Ghostlands. Quelios hoped they would give him further reason to do so.

Serenas blushed red to her ears at the involved question, and could not formulate a proper answer. She swallowed, hard, eyes bright at the thought of any of it. "...yes?"

Quelios had no answer he would lower himself to answer a stranger with, drawing his weary gaze away with indignance.

Ah, of course, the Dawnsingers are a newer character examination (and fairly new blog), though their story has been long in coming. House Dawnsinger is an old house of noble repute in Quel'thalas with historical connections to the Isle of Quel'danas and the security of the sunwell. This blog primarily focuses on the youngest generation's trials and stories, a brother and sister.

Serenas Dawnsinger

The younger of the siblings, Serenas is a young noble that has been catered to and sheltered by the elders of House Dawnsinger since her parents passing, and as she has aged into maturity she is burdened with the responsibility of carrying on tradition expected of her, such as abiding by the demand of an arranged marriage. Despite her wish to please her House, the rebellious need to claim some autonomy has very recently lead her to escape her home. She is currently missing from Silvermoon/Eversong for the first time in her life, driven by the knowledge that her mother is still alive.

Quelios Dawnsinger

The older of the Dawnsinger siblings, Quelios is a Sunreaver, a stoic and driven marksman driven to bring worth back to the House name after the blow of his mother's death, despite his sister's insistence that she is somehow alive. Only just now returning from the mess of a fallen Dalaran in these recent times and heading back to Silvermoon to recoup, he returns home to find his House in disarray and at arms with the notion that his younger sister is missing. While the elders of House Dawnsinger argue blackmail, ransom or betrayal, he will soon be tracking down the messy steps his sister has left for him to follow and secure her.