#sunvein

Age was a foe that was always fearless, constantly bombarding the mortals of the universe; some say that even those that were there at the beginning of time will someday kneel in defeat if they have not already become a weakened vassal.

The Elves of Azeroth darted around the vicious stabs of time for many years, in a sense becoming immortal - but even they would soon know of the drowning tides that would swallow generations.

Of the Elves the Sin’dorei were born, immortal not by their strong defense against mortality but by their strong affiliations to the forging of history. Mass pillars reaches for the sky, building defied gravity and hovered far off the ground, cities that would rival all the capitol of the world combined. The Sin’dorei would live forever in the threads of history.

Or at least they were arrogant enough to believe.

Val’thalore sat in his favorite chair, posted on the border of his balcony near the edge so that he could view the whole of Quel’thalas - a land restored to rightful power just as he had envisioned in his youth. The rebellious mane, once painted in the shadow, was now pliable to snow that never fell upon Eversong. His toned body, while still covered in an army of scars, was now weak and thinned. His face removed from the childish ambition and youthful ignorance, now graced with aged wisdom and satisfactory.

In his hand he cupped the base of a wine glass, Eversong Wine warmed by his grip sat patiently inside; grapes grown in Quel’thalas, picked by Sin’dorei, and aged in Sin’dorian barrels. The sun had just began to sink behind him, the sleepy rays slashing across the sky to create a dusk-time show of colors that painted the clouds.

Behind him as well approached his Son, ambition made his presence known. Val’thalore knew what he was here for, in way he was proud that Alerion was able to achieve the vigor that he only was able to grasp too late. Val’thalore did not greet him as he stood quiet just a few steps behind his chair; he only raised his glass and finished the sweetened alcohol, placing the bare glass on the table at his side.

Val’thalore smiled as his lungs filled to the brim with the fresh, free, and glorious air of Quel’thalas only to have it ripped away.

The Blood Father remembered the face of his daughter, pouting thoroughly as she was forced into another dress by her Mother.

He remembered squeezing his palm after slitting the flesh deep, cleansing Tuathal of his sin and guilt just before being embraced in a tight hug.

He remembered returning home after years of service, walking into his own room to be greeted by three little Guards, all trying to lift the same heavy sword as they attempted to protect their Mother.

He remembered his wife becoming tangled up in the blankets of his bed and falling off as she attempted to be ‘sexy’.

He remembered engaging Alaerya, forging her into the last great sword of Quel’thalas - a slayer that would carve a path to victory for Quel’thalas even in the most disturbing of odds.

Val’thalore sat still as the blood mimicked the rivers of Eversong, trailing down his torso and onto his lap. The congealed mass began to form in his lungs; forcing him to cough violently until the crimson rose up his throat and ran past his lips. The Blood Father’s hear slowed, pounding like a distant drum traveling further and further until not even an echo was heard.

And here is the finished product as well as the sketch. I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for being the best, Fluffiluvigus.

I'd say other mushy shit, but you know how we are.

ladyallowyn

There are many scars that have scorned my flesh, each has a story and a reason to belong. Each serves as a reminder, some remind you of a failure, some remind you that you are still alive, some remind you that you did far worse to others. With each scar a lesson is learned, a lesson that will always be with you, cradling you like a supple mother whispering encouragement in a toddler's ear, reminding you always of your mistake, reminding you of a worst fate should you fail again.

In our life there is no room to fail twice, attempting to strike when you should have blocked, forgetting to check the ground for traps, emerging from the shadows too early... Each failure has one thing in common. It destroys our control of our fates. When you fall destiny is no longer in your hands, when you miss, your lineage could be erased.

Many years ago, before the rise of the Blood Lords, before our ascension to glory and power, there was a war. The elves are not new to such a detail, we've all faced many wars - Some wars were personal, some were for survival, some were out of boredom, and some were for power... All of us have faced a war either with blade and bow or with tears and rage.

This war was different.

It was not against a grand evil, or even a rivaling house hold. This war was waged against blood, Mother versus son, son versus mother, brother versus brother, brother versus sister... This was a war that was so wretched and vile that much of the recorded history was burned and hidden, those that spoke of such a past were punished... Those that remembered it; would not last long.

When our first Blood Father faded away, the spinning void opened wide and created a strong suction of power - urging all those that sought after personal glory to take their rightful claim as the new ruler of the infant Sunvein Dynasty; they and we all knew that on our Father's death... History would be altered forever, and as always it will be written by the victor.

There were several 'factions' that fought in this war, each led by a clear individual.

The Blood Mother, a primary wife to the recently fallen Blood Father; determined to establish her own reign - her argument remained that the First Born son was still too young to lead the dynasty. Her goals were to violently change the methods of Sunvein, establishing a culture similiar to the current day sentinels.

Vartharious Sunvein, a childhood friend to the First Born Son, Ratheal, and by law the rightful heir. At this time, Ratheal was indeed young, hardly a teenager. However, Vartharious was a loyal friend and fierce warrior; combining blade and magic. Vartharious led the forces that supported Ratheal's rightful rule.

Tel'thadria Sunvein, the first Daughter to the Blood Father, and Orilus, her husband. Both believed that as the first born and the eldest child, that Tel'thadria has the highest claim to the throne. They sought after their pursuit to not only rule Sunvein, but the newly established Quel'thalas.

Mytharian Managaze, Lord of House Managaze, a bordering territory to the Sunvein lands. This elf sought to take advantage of the chaos and destroy the Sunvein, taking their lands.

(To be continued.)

But alas. She could not. Her knives had been confiscated, and she was under strict orders not to personally harm any of the Wretches herself. Val'thalore's tone still echoed in her mind.

'And I will speak to him tomorrow. You know what I expect from you. If I get a bad report. I will break you. Not your meaningless soul, but your fucking body.'

She rolled her eyes and folded her arms, leaning against the tree she had used as a starting point for their training. It had taken all of her will to not mark some snippy reply, but she knew something like that would have only resulted in more confiscation of her equipment.

Even now without her daggers she felt naked and exposed. Her eyes flashed, furious at the thought of the whole thing. She had been punished for their arrogance, these worthless wretches had overstepped boundaries and gotten a damned pat on the head for it?! She would have made them slowly bleed into humility and beg for her forgiveness, but no. The Blood Father had actually forced her to remove every single one of her favourite weapons from her arsenal.

If she had not been so furious, the five or six minutes the whole affair had taken, and the giant pile of knives that had stood nearby, would have been almost a comical scene. To her at least, to others that amount of steel that she had been able to hide on her body would have been intimidating.

With one last huff, Alae watched as Forgetful disappeared off to his tithe gathering. There was a part of her mind that was almost proud of him, he had done well in the training she had thrown at him. He learnt quickly, his eyes were keen, and his footfalls light. He had also apparently passed the history test well. In truth, had the Sin'dorei not been blinded by pride, she would have wanted the complete opposite of killing him, she would have wanted to see him succeed.

Yet her pride was toxic to her mindset, her own faults she now blamed on others, and her cocky attitude that kept getting her injured or into trouble was hindering her and Sunvein overall.

"And you say you're my boy? - I knew I should have tossed you with the runts. Look at you, weak, clueless... I can smell the fear drenching your body like it was your natural scent."

Bal'thalore stood, fully adorned in a grand set of plate armor that was fit for his body alone. The gold and silver armor that lined his body mimicked and hugged his toned form as if were more leather than metal. Just rising over his shoulder the Blood Father could make out the familiar leather straps that surrounded the hilt of the Sunvein Family Sword. On the hip of Bal'thalore there was a leather sheath that wielded the additional steel of a combat knife; perfect for a last resort weapon if the seasoned Crusader needed such means. 

Val'thalore did not look away, his hardened gaze did not even falter, but instead the fel-tainted aura around his orbs flared violently as he narrowed his eyes. At the Blood Father's hips the calm hands tightened and came to form white-knuckle fist; even his jaw clenched, every muscle seemed to strain in the idea of withholding the boiling tension. 

"Well? Speak you pathetic piss-stain, why are you here on -my- lands with your demon-sucking pack of rodents?"

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((I apologize if I butchered Val at all; I’ve never written him myself before. xD))

Val’thalore felt the impending clench within his throat as tears swelled at the corners of his youthful eyes. A stream of blood beat the bitter liquid, as a gash on his forehead began oozing with the familiar warm crimson; leaving a trail down his pale flesh to drip off the dirt-hugged chin, falling to the ground at an alarming rate, forming a puddle. His hands lay in the grass at either side of his sore thighs, defeated thoroughly from the long day of training. Val’thalore was but a child, still not even carved in the toned Soldier that most would know today; yet still he faced the same atrocities.

“Meaningless, a meaningless wretch... That is what you are. How you were begot from my loins is a mystery not even our Magistrate will learn of.” Bal’thalore spat beside the broken boy, fist clenching tightly to his side as the only mercy within his soul orchestrated his actions; forcing him to stop the beating and take his brutal teachings to another elf, an elf worthy of the title Sin’dorei. He snorted, turning upon his heel and walking away; letting the boy waste the blood of Sunvein in defeat.

Val’thalore's gaze was hazed over, drifting in and out of reality to be coddled by the shell of his mind; from a young age he learned that his body may be broken but his mind would always hold true. Soon, the boy’s fist gathered the grass at his sides as he too made a fist in a brutal desire for acceptance. Val'thalore sat quietly for a time, as he does, staring down at the rugged and torn leathers that clenched around his body loosely, only allowing the release of tears to charge into the stream of blood. Now drifting in and out of reality not by his own accord but by nature’s own protective will; Val’thalore dug into his reserves, reaching forward to grip his knees and pull them towards his heaving, bruised chest; a guttural groan escaping his busted lips as his legs spasmed. Holding each knee strong; he created a ball like form and allowed the dazed head to lay against the mud-n-blood covered leather patch of his knees, not sparing the energy to weep now.