#throned

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— @throned

If she were to be truthful, Azeroth had long since become foreign to her. The world she had known as kaldorei had been irrevocably changed by her queen's own hand, the shape of the land as altered as that of Azshara's sacrificed subjects. She had not left the ocean floor and the greatness of Nazjatar until sent to spy on him; and then came the switching sides that led her to Outland, death that led her beyond.

When Vashj considers their homeworld, she finds there is little attachment left for it. She cares not for the place; she cares not for the races that came to inhabit it. Even those who held her allegiance in the past, deep beneath the seas, elicit no sympathy from her heart; those least of all, when she thinks of Azshara.

But he still cares — and if it is enough for her to forsake her place in death, there is never any question she would follow him in whatever cause he saw fit to fight for. Even for this planet; even for people she cared naught for.

One of her hands plays idly with his hair, looking at him as Illidan speaks. He doesn't need her, Vashj is certain; not with the amount of power he possesses now. Yet never had she doubted her presence was dearly wanted, otherwise he would not have gone through all the trouble he faced to return her to the world of the living, to his side. Throughout millennia, the changes had been many; yet even death had held no power to sever her loyalty to him. If Illidan needs reassurance there is one person in existence who shall always have his back, then by all means she would provide it.

Another of her hands rests upon his chest, a third reaching to cup his face. "I am with you, no matter what comes. As I was before, as I will always be. That will never change."

OK THIS IS ROUGH

He was born during the Troll Wars, which claimed the lives of both his parents --- he never knows more about them, not even their names. He takes on the surname Belore because he is, if no one else, a child of the Sun.

He’d go on to become a Spellbreaker once he was old enough, a career that .... did not fit him at all, he was extremely mediocre at it. Wasn’t his calling, but it was now his duty --- and he dutiful until he isn’t.

The Third War shakes him out of it, as he sees a chance at change by throwing in with the Blood Knights ... for all of three seconds. What’s done to M’uru is unconscionable. Athanair exiles himself from Silvermoon, joining up with the Argent Dawn, and does not see his home again for years. It’s a choice that will always haunt him. When the going got tough, he got away. Rather than fight for what he believed, or gritted his teeth and stayed to help restore his home, he ... left. 

He regrets. And he regrets even more that he would never change his decision.

Nowadays, he can mostly be found in Light’s Hope Chapel, where he’s taken up Tirion’s mantle of coordinating the efforts of cleansing the Plaguelands.

RANDOM TIDBITS

He WILL flirt with your muse .... basically whenever. It’s entirely possible not to notice, since this tends to manifest as inspirational speeches.

Current wielder of the Ashbringer!

Was not joking about the chocolate. He has it. You need it. Take the chocolate.

Constantly smoking. But it’s fine, because he’s lighting the cigarettes with Holy fire. That makes them spiritually healthful.

Hedonistic little lad. Big fan of living as luxuriously as one can. That’s also important for the spirit. Good food and comfy sweaters will bring you closer to the Light.

Zoen considers him a boring old man with a judgemental streak. ( She’s wrong. He just very effectively utilizes the :| expression on her. )

Zoen knows little of herbalism.

The practice catches his interest more oft than he cares admit, crowding his shelves with almanacs and guides and field reports as though the racks do not creak enough under the weight of proper grimoires. Useless information for a Deathlord. Rare is the plant which can abide his presence longer than a moment, after all. Rot loves little so well as fresh company.

Still. The shelves languish.

( You are ever a curator of suffering. )

Sholazar Basin seethes. With life, and with Freya’s will. Such verdance is intoxicating at the best of times. ( So much prey! ) A stone’s throw from Icecrown, with a Titan’s ancient ire beating upon her back, it’s a wonder she does not stumble like a drunken fool through the underbrush. Even with a fresh feast cooling at their feet, frenzy gnaws the back of her mind. It worries the edges where once dwelled the voices of Empire.

She’ll make do with speech.

“ Bit far from Ulduar, aren’t they? Not much of the Thousand Maws around here, unless the Titans were playing very fast and loose with their experiments. 

“ … Which… come to think of it … ”

In all lands grow mortals, and in all mortals grows a foolishness. Some get wise to it --- recognize this weed which curls through their garden and chokes the better plants. They dig it out, they rip it free. Root and stem are cast in flame. Every new infant bud joins its parent in the embers. But others. ( Most of them. ) They let it stay, and feed it water, and think to taste its petals once they bloom so prettily.

And so the Old Gods tend new followers, and the Lich King summons Acherus as pesticide.

Zoen yanks Lament free of the last twitching corpse. None of them had deigned reveal where their wretched fellows were squirreled away, no matter how persuasively he and his Highlord asked. Tiris snuffles around the carrion for the choicest meal, and Zoen never thinks to deny him. He twirls his blade idly, considering if undeath might loosen tongues wh--- when ---

It’s such a little thing. He could mistake it a breeze were it a shade less tangible. 

The flex of muscle and tendon sends armor clattering; she hears his mailed hand more than feels it swipe across the high sharp sweep of bone. Has she flesh at all upon that cheek? Zoen doesn’t know. He might as well have strummed raw nerves.

Rot has claimed her tongue. It festers in his mouth, useless as gristle. Only when Tiris shoves his way past her with determination does he figure out how to peel it off the floor of his mouth, and flap it around uselessly against his teeth.

“ Right. Ah --- thankyou. ” 

A miracle worthy of the light of dawn. Those were nearly words.

Through the brush her shadow disappears, yapping with bloodhound excitement, leaving her nailed to the ground behind. What has not decayed is frozen solid; she couldn’t move if she tried. 

( Why haven’t you? )

“ We should, uhm. Probably. ” Eloquent as a ghoul. “ Do something. ” And twice as wise.

A twitch cracks the ice around his knee. If he could do it again --- go so far as to take a step? --- he might know his first mercy, and simply shatter to dust glittering on the breeze.

hurt / comfort starters - always accepting!

healing? linear or not had she ever truly … healed? had she ever truly allowed herself to heal or had she simply let the wound scab over time and time again before taking her teeth to it - before tearing it open just to feel the normalcy of basking in the bloodletting, in the pain that came with feeling wrong, with feeling broken in a way that seemed obvious, but remained unidentifiable no matter how many times she questioned it?

' it feels like a curse, ' she breathes and fingers intertwine, head hangs between outstretched arms, ' one step forward, three steps back. ' slow, slow progress if any - guilt, shame, and loss swirling around in her head like a calamitous cocktail, a cacophony of corpses. the question is, as always, how does one move forward? if not in a linear pattern, which way should she step?