#tyleril

Tyleril for @tyleril-silversword

Thank you for commissioning this lovely boi!

Just a reminder I am also active with a new Twitter and Instagram!

twitter.com/Rishnea

“Moonveil??”  The voice seemed at least as much frustrated as it was confused, but there was an audible sigh of relief when Lyrenn nodded yes. The strangely large crate was thrust forward against the blond’s chest and the moment he’d taken control of it the courier retreated. “Direct to you.”

Ah, no wonder he was annoyed. He’d spent who knew how long searching for Lyrenn while the druid had been hours in the forest doing.. whatever druids did out there. At least as far as the poor frozen courier was concerned. Putting his hands to his mouth to blow warm breath between them, the elf turned on his heel and was away to deliver less bulky things.

Lyrenn watched him go for a moment before looking questioningly down at the crate. A note taped to the top had him hurrying to his tent. His bunk mate was missing for the evening- likely on watch or enjoying a night of stories about a fire- so Lyrenn plopped himself down on his bedroll and reached to ignite the flame in the lamp hanging from a pole in the center of the tent. The faint light was more than enough to read the letter by

              Son- I found this animal not far from the camp with others that were to                        far gone for me to save. I did what I could- the paw has frostbite                         and I fed her some water and dried meat from my rations- but she                       has not taken kindly to me. Would it be to much to ask if you could                       watch her until the morn? I wish I didn't have to ask and burden                           you but I fear leaving her alone and you're one of the few the Light                      has whispered can watch her.  If you cannot send her back with                            the Courier. Be good. I love you.      -Tyleril

                    P.S. Her name is Skritches.

Lyrenn stared at the note for a moment, lingering on the last line before the post script before a noise from the box had him reaching for the lid. An immediate whirring growl split the silence. He paused, setting the lid of the box down and peering into the crate. Inside huddled a fox cub. She had shoved herself into the corner furthest from him, tail curled around as if to hide her. Her ears flattened and a sound somewhere between a whine and a warning came again. She was white, though the tips of her fur seemed almost blue. Dark eyes watched him warily, and Lyrenn turned to pull his meat rations to him. He was suddenly thankful he’d kept them. “Here now bit, be calm.” He fished a piece of jerky from the tin and offered it out, at the edge of the box so not to crowd her. At first the fox snapped, a high pitched growl bouncing around the box. Her shuffling let him see the bandage wrapped foot Tyleril had written about.  “I know...” He cooed, “I know.. you’re scared and hurt and alone. You’ve lost your family all at once and that should never happen. I’m sorry. I can’t bring them back or replace them, and it will never be the same. But maybe I can help a bit, yeah? You're not alone now. And happy will come again.” He watched her watch him, little head tilting a the sound of his voice. It would take a lot of this, he figured, before she chanced to take that meat.

“You and I have a lot in common you know. My brother would have loved you. My sisters.. would probably want to put bows around your neck..”

It is a strange thing, when she finally pays mind to the holiday season and feels the impulse to do.. something, for once. It has been many years since she has had more than the smallest handful of people to give gifts to.

Through varying degrees of occult and official means, she sends out a variety of things over the course of several days, when the Archon turns the members of the Sunguard to their own business. Most of the letters are bewitched, unable to be read except by their intended recipients. 

---

Aestus receives a leather armband with elaborate patterns seemingly burned into it, stylish but unobtrusive. On the inside face is inscribed in Thalassian script, “The night does not survive the dawn.”

My friend,

Of the guard, you are the first with whom I spoke besides possibly the dryest interaction I have ever had with the Scion. Though we have not done so in some time, I count you among one of my few steady friends. You have seen the darkness that lurks in the mid of my nights, as I yours.

Trace the script and read it aloud, when it becomes hard. In addition to it, I grant you one favor, to call upon my talents or resources as you will it.

@shampoocommercialelves

Westel is sent a box of pies, professionally made and still-fresh through some minor spell settled over them. In addition, a hunting knife that comes sharpened, its hilt carved and wrapped with artful patterns evocative of woodland beasts, with leafwork embellished along the spine of the blade.

Westel,

You were one of the first to show me friendship among the Sunguard. Three months ago I would not have called it that, but times seem to be changing. I thank you for the kindness, however small it may have been to give.

Where the hell have you gone? I miss Ithruiel. How dare you keep him from me.

@westelfirewing

Nuellen receives a strange, enchanted necklace -- a raven’s skull formed of blackened, petrified wood, attached to a thin, sturdy cord. A note explains its purpose to give the wearer resistance against ambient fel energy or exposure.

Swiftstrike,

Not a week passes that I do not think of my grandfather and how fortunate I was to have him. I have wrestled with feelings about his death for a very long time -- I don’t believe that I am yet done mourning, or that I ever will be -- but I am infinitely grateful to know that I am serving alongside some of the few Farstriders who served alongside him. Thank you.

@thedragonisaprincess

To Thanidiel is sent a cloak of brilliant, blood red fabric. Through some workings of alchemy, the cloak seems to be a remarkable insulator, despite its light weight. Some of the warlock’s sorcery is bound to it as well, and upon investigation it is revealed to be fireproof -- and furthermore, made to deflect magical flame and heat. The underside shimmers against the light with hues of orange and gold. An attached note reads, “This one won’t burn up. Use it well.”

Highdawn,

It has been some time since we have spoken, regrettably. I am still bitter that we did not get to face off at Shadowsunder’s tournament. Though through battle I have regained familiarity with my sorcery and its limits, I would still test it against you when you are available. Consider this a challenge.

@thanidiel

Caelinda is given a pair of boots, sturdy, stylish and well-crafted. Enchantments scribed onto the seams ensure that it will last an eternity of travel -- in addition, the monk feels a little lighter on her feet, when she wears them. To accompany the gift is an ornate brooch fashioned out of gold and ruby to affix to a cloak or scarf, and a batch of festive cookies that are still warm and fresh through some minor spell.

Caelinda,

There are few words to describe the depth of affection and fondness I have for you, however much I may loathe to show it around other people. You have given me a sense of peace and welcome that I have not had in such a long, long time, and I am grateful for your love. I will strive for all my days to be worthy of it.

@superspicedinosaur

Tyleril is sent a piece of everburning coal, infused with sorcery. It is warm to the touch, and a note explains that it can be activated and deactivated through a command word. When active, it effuses strong heat and flame, presumably to be used in the forge or a fireplace. The note warns not to hold it at inopportune times.

Silversword,

Thank you for hosting me in your home the night of the bonfire party. I know that I can be abrasive at the best of times, but it is appreciated, and I wish your business good fortune.

Keep the coal out of Samiel’s hands. That boy has fire in his eyes.

@tyleril-silversword

Vaelan receives a bottle of fine wine, Suncrown vintage. This brand is only seen on shelves practically once in a blue moon -- she must have been holding onto it for some time.

Vaelan,

You’re a fine man to work and drink with, though I fear I tend to grow only more abrasive when inebriated -- but I appreciate your friendliness, and our banter. Put this wine to good use. It’s far too damn fancy for me to drink it myself straight from the bottle, and I’m less inclined to put myself into a stupor on a regular basis, nowadays.

@greatmaulsoffire

A book, old and ornately bound, is sent to Veleth. It appears to be an in-depth study and analysis of extraplanar phenomena, as well as the planes themselves and how they intersect with the material world.

Ashcaster,

I had never expected to find a kindred scholarly mind among the Blood Knights. You are a steadfast ally in battle, and I appreciate your respect and curiosity for my studies. I hope that we both might benefit from learning into the future, with Argus on the horizon.

@veleth95

To Synthiel, a Reliquarian’s sanction for the regulated study and use of alchemically-synthesized anima.

Cloudseye,

It is refreshing to speak with another pyromancer on a level of exchanging knowledge and technique, and for that I thank you -- I have not enjoyed the privilege for a very long time, different as our disciplines may be. My expertise in commanding Wrath hones sharper by the day, and I have you to thank in part for that.

@spiral-seeker

For Ka’ese, a potted Thalassian plant, with delicate leaves in hues that range from scarlet to gold -- it is bright, and fragrant. A piece of home, preserved through magic that is clearly not the warlock’s own.

Brother,

Past our twenty-fifth year I did not think I would ever write to you and say ‘Merry Winter’s Veil’ ever again. I’m still not certain on how to feel that I am doing it now, but I know that I should, after everything. So much has changed since our reunion in Azsuna. Argus yet looms in the sky, and you should know that I intend to see this war to its end. I hope for your health, through it all.

One day we shall spend this time of the year together again, as brother and sister.

@turalyon

The Magistrix Starshard’s gift arrives on the wings of a strange raven with eyes like embers, bearing the warlock’s distinct aura of magic. In a small leather case strapped to its back is a token -- metal fashioned into the emblem of the Sunguard, with its reverse face inscribed with Thinariel’s unique sigil -- and a message of rolled and sealed parchment.

Thradia,

I cannot even begin to presume what you may believe of me at present -- I apparently have an unfortunate habit for disappearing off the face of the world. You have the deepest apologies I may give, and the greatest hopes for your health and success. You are beautiful and strong, more than I could have ever taught you to be.

Know that I survive, and that I had no choice but to take my leave of the Black Harvest when Vataan abducted my brother from Dalaran (yes, I have a brother). Through his hand and mine, no trace of my tower remains in the Twisting Nether. Without my refuge, I serve the Sunguard. So much has changed that I cannot put to words.

Argus looms high in the sky; you know where I must be.

Stay the course.

@tyleril-silversword @trained-trainwreck

Tyleril,

Shahin is a man who prides himself on his skill with a broadsword. I’m sure you’ll understand that it took me a considerable amount of time to figure out what, exactly, you should craft for him. I really liked your idea about fashioning the pommel into a phoenix -- obviously any sword you make for him should match the Blood Knight colors, as I doubt he takes that tabard off even when he bathes.

His fighting style is fast, almost impossibly so for someone with plate armor and a broadsword. He moves to make the first strike and get into the defenses of his opponent  before they have a chance to even consider striking back. His strokes are fluid, dexterous -- they speak of many years of fighting considerably larger opponents and knowing that to win he has to be not necessarily faster, but more clever than they are.

[ The letter goes on to describe a style full of precision and rather swift moves chained together into deadly strikes. It is described in such detail that it’s clear that the writer sat there and watched for some time before penning the missive. ]

As for the style of his light magic...

Shahin is a person full of anger, and his magic reflects that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him heal anyone -- I’m not even sure if he can. All of his feelings of anger and rage are channeled into his magic, and by extension, his weapon. That weapon is going to need the ability to withstand both temperature and sheer strength of will.

I think his magic may have been beautiful, once. Born to protect, not to kill; but now...I’m not sure if it could ever recover from what’s happened to him, or it. I’m sure you understand.

Blood Knight, you are. A true Master of the Light.

Remember that. You are more than Paladin. You are an Innovation; The Strength of the Sin’dorei; The Fist of Quel’thalas. Reach out.

Take it.

It’s yours.

It’s always been yours.

This joke of Divinity is nothing but a wind-chime snapping underneath our Storm. Yes - yes, it will bite. Bite like a cornered rat. Like shards of broken glass.  You are stronger. You will heal. It will not.

Go on, reach out. Just like I told you.

Do you feel the way it recoils? Like a scared animal? It is weak. Frightened. What are you?

Strong, we hope. Brave, we hope. Merciless, we hope.

Enough to take from it. It resists you, you are the antithesis to its very nature. Are you strong enough to make iron bend? To turn away the hound’s bite? Make fire chilled? To turn something against its nature?

We will see soon enough.

When the first of our kind siphoned from M’uru, it was ecstatical and empowering. It did not come without its costs. For once our celebrations died, we found the weak in the darkness. Their temples were streaked with blood like riverstone. The ground of the Hall earned it its moniker heartily.

They were not worthy Blood Knights.

They were not true Masters of the Light.

Are you? We hope.

Curl your will around it now, like a fist. Dominate. There’s a blade in its hand. Like a desperate enemy. Squeeze its wrist. Turn it around. Bury that blade into its heart. Sup of the spilled blood. It is warm on your tongue, yes? Swallow. Push it down. Do not choke. Choke, and it will scorch your insides like fire in your gullet. Force it down into your gut.

Breathe, Blood Knight, BREATHE.

MAKE IT YOURS.

IT IS SEPARATE NO LONGER.

BEND IT.

CONSUME. CONSUME.

IT IS YOURS.

BREATHE.

Do you feel it now? You’ve struggled with it, wrestled with it. You’ve taken your prize. Your trophy. It churns within you like blood. Different, yes? Quieted. Tamed. Dominated. It comes to your beck and call like a hound now, yes? Go on.

Try it.

Call upon it as you do your own voice. Do you see how easily it comes to you? You’ve cowed it. Do you not find it laughable on how we once groveled to this? Do you see it for what it is now? This Light?

It is a tool. This is no icon, no divinity.

Divinity would not bend to us as this does.

We are beyond worship.

We are Blood Knight.

Masters of Light.

Rise.

My name is Thanidiel Highdawn, Knight-Master of the Order. I will be your benefactor from now on, Initiates. Do not disappoint. Your first order of business? Gather the weak. Dispose of them. There is a corpse-cart awaiting you in the Square.

Move.

Thanidiel awakens to the sear of Light in her vision, her blood. It is reminiscent to the overwhelming of the white flash of a mana-bomb going off. She’s used to it. Too used to it. The frequency of which her Light shot through her body, pulsing hot like a heartbeat, has increased since her enlistment into the Guard.

One. Two. Three. Big inhale. Count to ten. Big exhale. Count to ten.

Her head lolls to its left-side, eyeing that standing spear burrowed into the powdered earth. Her eye draws down to the shadow left at its feet from the light that enters through the open center of the tent-roof. Six hours into the new day.

Her head lolls to its right-side, greeted by thick tresses of black hair. A crushing moment after, affection blooms through the Blood Knight. Circulating through her body. It does not derive so much from the other woman herself, but of the more base stir for touch between oneself and their companions.

Before she rises, Thanidiel buries her face into that dark mass, her draping forearm braces gently across the other’s collarbones. A chagrined husk of a groan meets her ears a second later even as the Emberward is already rolling out of bed. She readjusts the furs.

Fire has died down to a mass of hot, red embers. The Knight-Champion is already striding to the opposite side of the large tent. Wood, split apart the day before, is brought and cross-hatched loosely. Dried plant is shredded fine into kindling in her hands, stuffed into the slowly heating spaces in between.

Bindings, socks, trousers, tunic. Gambeson, boots. Hauberk. Breastplate, faulds and tassets, vambraces. Gloves. Tyleril’s sword to left-hip. Fur-cloak.

….Eye-patch. Twist hair into a bun. Wet her mouth with a swish of flasked coffee.

There.

Her boots crunch into a thick layer of snow when she exits the tent, She makes sure to secure the flap well. She needs to do something. She needs to act. Her blood is throbbing with Light.

She makes for the training grounds. Thanidiel makes for the most scarce region of it – where spellweavers fling their magicks. She can feel the way that the air goes stagnant and warm from the saturation of arcana when she steps through runic borders. The chill of Northrend bites no longer.

It doesn’t take long from her passing into the warded area for the Emberward to call upon the energies roiling so violently with her. The floodgates open. Fury pours out of her. Torrentous and lashing, like belting waves of the ocean thrashing ships to pieces. The relentless heat of the flames she beckons makes her think of the foundries of Ironforge. Sinuses fill with the scent of ozone as the violet ward buckles – again and again – against whips of Light, the caustic air of scorched earth and the organic matter within.

This outpour of her choler provides no liberation. Instead, in the fashion of a wildfire eating through a forest, her exercise only serves to stoke the blaze to higher and ever-higher intensity. A pyre, a stake. It is consuming.

She can’t tell if its the smoke that makes her lungs spasm so violently in her chest or the rage within her. This wildness clutches her heart like a vice. There is no sanctuary for the Blood Knight in this ferocity.

How did she get like this? So tempestuous and out-of-control?

—Stop, that’s a foolish question. The answer is there.

The question… is the answer.

Fuck, she’s sounding like Ithanar.

She was always like this, will always be like this. Less elf, more brazen bull waiting for a gust of air to stoke the trembling coals inside.

This reintroduction to her Light, so wroth, fitful and ever-stirring, hasn’t made anything better.

She can feel the air grow inhospitable to life, slowly and surely, as she continues to thrash her flames into the magical barrier around her. Her eye catches the shining glint of steel in the haze of acrid smoke.

This Lightforged blade.

“A cold mercy.”

All poise and control. The submission of both metal and Light through will and hammer-beat. The thought turns in her head then, like key within lock. She had lost her way. Had forgotten what it was like, over the last five years, to bring Light under her heel, hold its collar in her grip. Calling upon these energies after such dormance, Thanidiel had wandered like a babe into forest - lost.

She can hear the vague surge of a growl, her?, in the din of the roar of flame and the crack of force striking the runic ward-shield around her. Something new churns in her, then. She recalls the lessons of old.

She squeezes the nerves of the wrist.

She turns the blade ‘round.

Breathe, Blood Knight, BREATHE.

Do not choke.

BREATHE.

It is separate no longer.

It is mine.

The last lash of her Light billows out different: no longer wild and dispersed like flame, but like the searing cut of a blade. Controlled, powerful, more deadly than one would ever think. The way that a pin penetrates cloth with ease.

“The delayed feeling of pain when a sharpened blade cuts through your flesh. A cold mercy.”

The shimmering barrier holds. One… two… three. And then tranquility shatters. Wind, so powerful as to drag the Knight-Champion to her knees like a rag-doll, pours over her frame as two systems become whole, and the universe asserts its need of equilibrium. The smother of smoke and dead air is replaced by the freezing chill of Icecrown.

The Emberward is almost keenly aware, then, of the glossy sweat that has poured in rivulets down her face. The cold is working to crystallise it already. She disperses it with the wipe of her leather gloves.

Blood Knight, you are. A true Master of the Light.

Rise.

Time seemed to crawl, each day longer than the previous as Razail waited with a gift to be given.  It was simple, perhaps that is what bothered him, besides the fact it has been many days, nearly weeks, since he has last seen whom this gift is intended for.  His heart starts to hurt each time his eyes catch sight of the small bag within his pack, each time his worry grows: Are they alright?  Will they like it?  I miss them.  Do they think about me as much as I have about them?

Finally he grew sick enough of wanting to give his gift in person that he was going to deliver it to their home, even if he doesn't get to hear or see how it would be received.  Deciding to put on his old armor, black with gold trim that was mostly patchwork now, if you looked close enough.  It made him feel more confident that he could hand his gift over into the hands of another that would surely deliver it to the person he wanted.  Grabbing the small bag, Razail leaves the apartment of Tyleril Silverwood, without a word.

The rogue runs as fast as he can, remembering where he needs to go with ease.  Getting closer to the beautiful tree, he slows down, admiring them as he passes over the old wooden bridge.  The sight of the enormous mansion causes him to pause and grip the small bag tight.  Razail debates on heading further, if his small gift is even worth the time to bother another with.

Hours pass with no one noticing his presence, and noticing someone move past the windows closest to the main door gives him a reason it would not be bothering them too much.  His emerald eyes keep a close watch on the door as he runs up to it.  A swift knock, and a hope that this can be handled quickly.

It took him literally minutes to cloister himself back in his bunk and tear open the unexpected mail.

There was a moments pause where he stared down into the mess of paper and twine before slowly reaching out and picking up one of two bracers. He marveled at its make, at the curve and design, at the bits of white glass embedded into its face. Fingers found the moonstone in the center, caressing over the gem before jerking back to his neck to pull out the pendant he wore. He glanced back and forth between them before a smile slid across his lips.

Excitedly the blond clasped the silver bracer to his arm, turning it this way and that to admire the look. A soft huff of a giggle escaped him and he glanced about the empty barracks before diving into the bundle to retrieve the bracer's twin.

It’s a good weapon. She loves it. It’s spartan to its core, well-crafted, and its capabilities are augmented further by the Light energies infused into it by Tyleril.

As I showed a bit in my P-Class story for Bloodsworn, it’s not only a very reliable weapon, but it is starting to serve as a reminder to her as well - to keep her wits sharp and to not be consumed by the wild, furious nature of how her Light magicks naturally manifest.