#tanryn

tanryn

c major

"and isn't it just so pretty to think / all along there was some / invisible string / tying you to me?"

yes i did invent soulmates with tanryn and elihana you're welcome

d major

"whoever's writing my story wants me to learn the hard way"

haha get it because he's a fictional character? anyway. he's had it very rough! he finds the love of his life, finally gets the courage to propose, she says yes, and then she dies. he meets someone and starts raising a phoenix with her and processing his fear of fire and then she dies. yikes!

a major

"lover, when i sing my song / all the trees gonna sing along / and they're gonna bend their branches down / to lay their fruit upon the ground / the almond and the apple / and the sugar from the maple / the trees gonna lay the wedding table"

this is just. the quintessential tanryn song. orpheus is right in his range in my brain and he fits the character really well, idealized and romantic but ultimately tragic end for them

c minor

"i'm mr. loverman / and i miss my lover, man"

Malachite:has your muse ever done anything that they wound up feeling incredibly guilty for in the end?

“The demons before us are all that stand between us and the Ashbringer. Regardless of our outcome, our families will know that we fought for the freedom and safety of our world.”

Reginald sucked in a breath he didn’t need, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Tirion lives. Thank the Light, he lives, and we can bring him home. Under him, Rocinante shifted anxiously, clearly eager to dive into the fray. Reg couldn’t blame her; it was a blessed relief when Lord Tyrosus’s voice rang out again.

“Knights of the Argent Crusade! CHARGE!”

They dove.

Reg leapt clear of the saddle almost before he hit the ground; while the living made ample use of the height and safety of their mounts, any living creature within range of an undead knight’s blade was a liability at best—and since he could no longer rely on Bonnie, who had lost her unlife to a wrathguard at the Shore, he fought far better on foot. Besides, Rocinante didn’t need him to direct her. Aya in her sandstone drake form cast a vast shadow above him, blasts of superheated air obliterating the flying demons that sought to swoop down on their forces. For a few glorious moments (which could have been seconds or hours, he couldn’t tell) he thought of nothing other than the fight.

Stab—slash—there, between the ribs—move and keep moving—for the Light—kill—take its legs out—Light, the smell of the blood… In a heartbeat’s lull between demons, he took a breath, filling his lungs. Normal battlefields stoked his rage and his hunger until they melded together in a single, savage force, anger and anguish given edges and turned back on his foes. The smell of demonic blood mostly just made him nauseous. It was a welcome respite.

And then the infernals started falling, and he snarled and threw himself back into the fray. He hated fighting infernals; it was impossible to hamstring or gut creatures made of rock, and he simply wasn’t tall enough to stab them in their cores. One thing he could do very well, however, was distract them so that his comrades could land their own blows—and so he did, turning into a blur of speed and hard strikes to what passed for their joints.

Someone was roaring in pain—a voice he recognized, that odd undead echo. Some part of his mind, the part that was still him, thought idly, Oh, I do hope Tanryn hasn’t burned Sir Embermirth again.

She hadn’t; her shriek of rage nearly shattered his ears, but he didn’t dare turn to see what was going on because a dreadlord had chosen that moment to lumber forward, and he found himself preoccupied with the rhythm of slaughter. Cut across the top of the thighs—and into the abdomen—oh, there’s Aya, lead the felstalkers into her blast—

He stopped. Froze.

Within the miasma of felblood, an intoxicating scent was seeping into his nostrils. Paladin. Powerful. Bleeding. Feed—no, no! Hastily, he shook his head to clear it and scrambled up a small boulder to see if that made the potential source any clearer.

He knew his mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear himself talk. “Oh, no.”

There was Lunathiel, pinned and crumpled and fighting furiously to be free of a fel-tainted spear. A little ways away from him, Tanryn was sprawled against a rock; she’d lost her helmet and one pauldron at some point, and blood coursed down her cheek over her chest and arm. From what he could see of the angle, her shoulder was probably broken. With her good arm—barehanded, she’d dropped her shield as well—she had a felstalker by the throat. As he watched, it was seared from the inside by Light.

He bullrushed his way through the battlefield and sprinted towards Lunathiel, yanking the spear out of his guts roughly. I’ve already lost so many friends; damned if I’m going to lose my student as well! “Lunath!”

The death knight was already looking past him. “I’m taking her back!”

He only nodded in response; Lunathiel was good at anticipating sensible courses of action like that. There wasn’t a moment more to waste; hefting his sword again, he turned back to the battle. A massive felguard charged at him and he dropped to one knee, letting its momentum carry it straight into his sword. The weight almost unbalanced him, but he threw it off and charged forward into the next nearest demon; a wrathguard that had been about to bring its sword down on one of his comrades found itself minus an arm.

Ahead of him, he thought the battlefield was starting to clear. There was more rock and fewer demons, and the paladins’ bursts of Light illuminated a rise filled with floating figures. More demons. Wonderful. Hopefully they have something I can stab.

Lord Tyrosus’ voice rang out above the din. “The fiends have Tirion!” There was more after that—something about hippogryph riders, and come to think of it Reg could see Rocinante covered in demon blood out of the corner of his eye—but he wasn’t listening, because his Highlord awaited.

The Crusaders swept up the ridge as a single wedge of Light and fury. Reg was only a part of it; he was vaguely conscious of others dealing out just as much death to the Legion, but it all paled in comparison to his own urgency. Tirion yet lives. A moment longer…Light, please grant us this time.

The voice slid past his ears and carved its way into his brain like a saw.

“You will suffer for a thousand lifetimes.”

Demon. He didn’t think beyond that; rage lent wings to his feet, and he charged past the rest of the host with a roar of fury. He barely noticed the actual physical shape of the demon he was attacking; by its side, Tirion lay injured, and his only thoughts were of how to kill it. The smell of sanctified blood drove him into a frenzy; he barely noticed when the ground beneath him erupted in shadows. When he realized he was being pulled backwards into some sort of cage, though, he leapt clear.

Oh. His arm was off. When had that happened?

Growling, he tossed his sword to the other arm and continued the attack. He’d sew it back on later. Right now, this demon needed to die. It seemed to be mostly made out of wisps, but it bled and screamed in a most satisfying manner when he managed to land a hit. Arrows and bullets slammed into it, slowing it down, and when it finally fell to a blow from a draenei’s blessed hammer he took great pleasure in chopping off what passed for its head.

As the rest of the Crusaders thundered past him into the temple beyond, a raspy wheeze caught his attention. Tirion’s voice followed it a moment later. “Retrieve…the Ashbringer. Leave me.”

He shook his head numbly, gazed fixed on the stone just to the left of Tirion’s head. It was easier that way; he thought that if he had to actually look at the extent of the Highlord’s injuries, he might be sick. “No, sire. Lay still, the healers will be here soon…”

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He didn’t need to lift his head; he knew from the heat that it was Lord Tyrosus. “Bladesworn. His injuries—”

He spun to glare up at him, voice snapping out in a too-loud shriek. “Are you a paladin or not?!”

Tyrosus flinched, turning his face away. “Some things are beyond even the power of the Light.”

“You—”

“…You must…”

Tirion’s voice. He forgot Tyrosus instantly. The Highlord was charred and battered; as Reg watched, he tried and failed to raise his head. Still—somehow—he thought he saw the faintest of smiles. “You must…stop the Legion.”

In the silence, he heard a faltering heartbeat stop.

No.

Tirion was dead. They had failed. They had fought so hard, clung to that tiny sliver of hope—he had dared to actually hope—and now Tirion was truly dead.

Tirion Fordring was dead, and many members of the Argent Crusade with him. Reginald’s friends, his colleagues, his siblings-in-arms, had thrown themselves against the might of the Legion and failed.

He thought he should be sobbing (if only he had the tear ducts) but where wild grief should have been there was only a cold numbness, heavy and hard as stone in his chest. When he closed his eyes, he saw black stone and the hot brightness of Light guttering out.

“Let us stand in memory of those brave souls who gave their lives on the Broken Shore…”

Mechanically, he rose from his pew. By his side, Samric was sniffling; the young orc had lost two of his older friends to the Legion. Aya had to reach up to pat his shoulder. As the names rolled out into the suffocatingly still chapel air, he turned his head and let his gaze sweep the crowd. There was Aethan in black, his harpstrings stilled; there was Lady Mahuura with her horned head bowed in respect. Tanryn had taken the seat on his other side; as High Cleric Alphus reached a name he vaguely recognized as a priestess friend of hers, she sucked in a breath and let it out in a sob.

Oh, no. Before he could think better of it, he laid a comforting arm around her shoulders. She nearly collapsed into it, eyes squeezing shut; the Light within her burned to the touch, but he didn’t let himself flinch. “We will have justice.”

And now tears were sliding down her face. At least she wasn’t the only one, though Reg found himself wishing that she might have crumpled onto the solidly-built pandaren on her other side. Her voice was a rough whisper; it would have been inaudible if he’d been human. “Sorry. I just—sorry. But—she’s gone, they’re all gone—”

“I know.” He took a breath he didn’t need. “But we’re going to avenge them, you and I. We’ll keep the rest of this world safe.”

She pulled away and glared at him, eyes red and puffy. “Fordring said that, too.”

Oh. There was the grief, twisting through his chest like a blessed knife. He couldn’t look at her. He did. And he—Light, right in front of me, there was nothing I could do, he… “I am. Aware. Of that.”

Tirion’s screams still echoed in his ears.

She breathed out slowly. “I’m sorry. I know you looked up to him. But—what can we do? The Legion is…it’s immense, you saw it.” Her voice took on an edge. “And the Alliance and Horde can’t get their heads out of their asses long enough to work together.”

Air. Air helped, somehow. He took a slow breath. “…Then we fight the Legion. What is the Argent Crusade, after all, but a shield against those that—that threaten this world?”

Her smile was faint and watery, but he counted it as a victory—at least she wasn’t crying. “Yeah.”

If there’s still a Crusade left. Light, we lost so many… The chapel had once been packed to capacity; he didn’t need to look to know that more than half the pews were empty. Alphus was still reading off the list of the slain; Reginald couldn’t make himself listen to it. He knew that if he did, the grief coiling through him would sharpen into rage, and it wouldn’t end until blood was spilled.

Tanryn was leaning over the rail, watching as the mountainous island chain ahead of them loomed ever closer. Demons were massing in the sky above them, black swarms against the boiling clouds and the vast bulk of the collected air fleets. (Horde, Alliance, Argent hippogryphs and proto-drakes, even Ebon Blade gryphons--it didn’t matter who you fought beside, not when the stakes were so dire.) In the glare of falling infernals, her skin looked sallow and pale. "Dear Light."

Lunathiel muttered something that Reg thought was, “I don’t think the Light has anything to do with it,” but the echo of his voice made it hard to tell.

Anyway, he had more important things to think about than a snarky death knight. He came up next to his student, laying a hand on her pauldron. "Your first real engagement as a paladin of the Crusade. You'll be fine."

She looked doubtful; he watched her fiddle with the scarf tied to her left arm. "I have plenty of faith in you guys and the Light, but...well, those are a lot of demons. I've never fought so many at once."

"So you can't miss!" It was an awful joke, but he hoped it'd lighten her mood.

There was a chuckle, but it sounded forced. "Damn straight! I...I can't afford to fall here, anyway. I have Aethan waiting for me back home."

Not for the first time, Reg caught himself wishing that Aethan Sunscream had been gifted with anything resembling combat skills. It's one thing for me and Aya. We have each other on the battlefield; we can protect each other. We are a team. How must it feel to go to war and know your lover cannot follow? "Exactly right. Let's bring you back home a hero, Crusader Andoval."

She jerked her head up to stare at him. "I was only just knighted last year—”

They were so close to shore that Reg could have leapt from the boat and charged into the fray if he didn't mind sprinting through three feet of water. He drew his sword. "When we make it back to Hearthglen, I will personally vouch for your promotion."

The Highlord's boat ground to a stop on the sand. His bellow carried through the ranks of Argents behind him. "For Azeroth! For the Light!"

Part 1 Part 3

SI:7 headquarters was usually bustling, but today it was almost eerily quiet. Nobody wanted to move much in the summer heat. It was a situation that suited George Shoe just fine; he had paperwork to check, and the quiet helped him concentrate on deciphering the mix of rogue code and handwriting that might as well have been.

Until his office window fell down with a bang that made him jump. Sighing, he got up to wedge it open again. Kingdom-owned building, and we can't fix the damn windows. What do I even pay taxes for? As he drew a knife from his belt and jammed it into the windowsill, he thought, I bet Reggie doesn't have to deal with this. I bet Hearthglen actually keeps the place in good shape. Maybe I should visit...no, bad idea.

He sat down at his desk with a huff. At least he responded to my letter.

From the front of the building, clanking footsteps drew closer, an underlying jingle suggesting spurs. He frowned, head tilting.

When the source of the sound finally leaned in the doorframe, he blinked. It took him a moment to recognize his niece in the golden-armored knight frowning at him. "Tanryn?"

She glared at him. "Uncle George. Hi."

"Um. Hi?" Why is she here in armor?

"Your son sent me. Something about a curse?"

Oh. Fuck. He shrugged, hoping he gave off an appropriately calm air. "Yeah. I wasn't expecting him to send you, though! Did you stop by home yet? Your aunt misses you."

Tanryn shook her head. "I just want to get this squared away so I can change out of this armor, I'm dying in it." When she met his gaze, her eyes were cold. "And Crusader Bladesworn wouldn't have mentioned me specifically, because I made sure not to let him know we're related. He sent me because I'm good."

George hoped his dismay didn't show on his face, but he suspected it was a losing battle. "Of course you are, kiddo. Anyway...this curse." He pulled out the folder he'd collected and handed it to her. "It's claimed three victims so far--a night elf adventurer, a draenei priest, and a human paladin. A fourth is in the clinic in severe but stable condition. So far, the only thing they have in common is that they all visited the Cathedral of Light in the past week." He grimaced. "And we can't figure out how they got it."

She frowned, pulling her gauntlet off to scratch at the back of her neck. For the first time, he noticed the crimson scarf wrapped around her upper arm, some kind of bird picked out on it in gold thread. "Okay, I'm seeing why you didn't wanna go to the Cathedral with this. Is there a statement or something from the survivor?"

He nodded. "It's in the folder. I gotta tell you, I'm stumped--I was hoping you'd have a better angle on this."

"I can try." She opened the folder, paging through it. "Hrm. Can I talk to this lady myself? No offense, but whoever you got to do the questioning here has the tact of half a bagel." When he went red, she shrugged. "Sorry, Uncle."

"No, it's fine." He cleared his throat. "Thanks, kiddo, really. Hah, I can't wait to tell the guys that my niece, the knight, is on the case."

She closed the folder. "Your son is a Crusader, and he taught me all I know about combat. I hope you brag about him too."

He grumbled indistinctly, looking away. "It's hard to do that, given his condition." Remembered family gossip filtered to the front of his mind. "You'd know about that. Are you still with that elf?"

"That elf is a good man, so yes." She stuck her tongue out at him. "In fact, we're moving in together--and you can't talk at all."

"I wasn't going to!" He held up a placating hand. "I just hope it works out between you two."

She didn't quite meet his eyes. "We'll be fine."

He grumbled. "If he ever hurts you, you tell me. He won't get a chance to do it again."

Tanryn rolled her eyes heavenward. "Okay, Uncle. I'm gonna go talk to that lady if I can; I'll stop off at home later. Tell my cousins I said hi."

"Hrmph. You be careful, okay?"

"I will!"