#varistus

((What follows is the introduction for an Week-long Open-Participation RP...))

Luminess stood before the portal to the Exodar with a modicum of trepidation. This was, by no means, a frightening or even daunting task before her... but nonetheless, she could hardly bear the anticipation of finally executing a plan that had been in arrangement for quite some time already...

-

I should have been around more.

Freiha can't help the guilt squeezing her mind in a vicegrip.

If I had, this might not have happened. If I had only—

"Stop," she firmly says aloud to a quiet, mostly empty room.

Varistus still lies unconscious on the infirmary bed, Klement and other medics having retired for the night. Even Orynthia is gone, off to get rest herself; Freiha had assured her with a wordless nod that she would be fine here alone for awhile.

Although she knows deep down that she is not to blame for this particular situation, she is correct in that she hasn't been around much. Most of it has been a result of their individual duties keeping them apart for long periods of time. However, some of it had been due to her own attempt to handle her issues alone, not wanting to burden Varistus when he was going through his own troubles. It hadn't even been until recently that she had finally dismissed her pride and gone to him about it.

And just as she had promised herself then, Freiha now resolves to be there for him in better capacity. She knows he has endured many horrible things, but it doesn't diminish how deeply she worries for him; his well-being is very important to her, after all.

The blanket around her shoulders feels more like a hot, oppressive weight now than the comforting warmth of earlier. She shrugs it off and drapes it over the back of her chair, then leans forward and runs her hands over her face. It's been nearly two years since she'd endured a similar experience: possession and corruption by the Void, forced to attack her comrades while under its dark influence. This had been all too familiar for her, scratching open a wound she had only just begun to mend again.

To think now that he had almost been lost to the same thing that nearly took her is overwhelming.

She looks at him on the bed again—really looks, not just a tentative glance—and lets out an exhausted sigh.

We Will Not Fall Again

Guild illustration I did to celebrate the beginning of The Sha’tor’s BfA plot!

A lot of time, energy and love went into this piece, and I can’t even express how much I enjoyed working on it. More than 30 hours of work, almost 140 layers, and now it’s here. This might be the biggest and most detailed illustration I’ve ever done. It feels almost unreal to see it finished, haha.

Huge thank you to our GM @hoganlegdrop for commissioning me and being so patient with me! 

Also tagging everyone in the picture:

@wineandsalt @rangari @samiesan @roll4d20s @karabored @nessacity @light-and-magic

The night was cool and breezy in Azure Watch. Purple and blue leaves blew in the wind all over the island, swirling and twirling around before getting picked up into the air and blown into the sea. As he often did, Exarch Varistus sat at the top of a large hill outside of town, looking down on the bustle of it, watching the people, travelers, and merchants come and go. He was surrounded with the few belongings that he owned: his armor and weapons of course, but trinkets and mementos throughout his long life. He wasn’t a materialistic man, but there were a few items that brought him joy to have. His tent rustled against the wind behind him, and he reached back to pound one of the stakes further into the ground with his robotic fist. This prompted him to stare as said hand for a lingering moment, wiggling his fingers around absently. He scoffed at it as he turned it over and over, looking at it as he had a hundred times. Shaking his head he let his arm drop and took another sip of tea as the fire illuminated his tired face. Though he enjoyed the moment of peace he had, not long before it was mired with terror, bloodshed and frustration…

The previous day… Exarch Varistus rode alone up the path from Azuremyst to Bloodmyst Isle. Though the draenei had settled these lands for nearly a decade now, Bloodmyst remained a dangerous and unpredictable place. The citizens of Blood Watch were a hearty, courageous people and the peacekeepers that kept the area safe were proud of the work they did. Nonetheless, dangers still lurked in the dark corners of the island and sometimes, those dangers reared their ugly heads. Today was such a day: a report that three peacekeepers had been murdered while on patrol, mangled almost beyond recognition. Varistus took every lose of draenic life seriously, and decided to answer the call personally. 

It did not take him long to identify the bodies. He knew them from time on the Genedar, Draenor and Zangarmarsh. They had been good men, devoted to the Light and to their people. They were among those that took pride in their duty to protect the people of Bloodmyst and now, they were torn to pieces by some unknown terror. Varistus shook his head and clenched a fist in anger; how many of us need to die to this chaotic, hateful world? He thought to himself. Truly, if it was not a war with the ravenous Horde, it was some other world-ending crisis that Azeroth barely scraped through, and he was growing tired of it. 

Leaving his elekk behind in Blood Watch, he proceeded on hoof into the wilds of Bloodmyst. Following the trail of blood was not easy, as it had been several hours since the peacekeepers were found, but he had been trained in how to track by both his deceased wife and former partner Freiha, so he had an idea of what he was doing. The trail led, unfortunately, to Nazzivian - a haven for dark magic to linger and one that attracted even darker beings. Prior to the draenei’s coming, the island was considered kaldorei lands, and where there are kaldorei, there are satyr to harass them. The draenei inherited the hatred of the satyr with their coming, and the corrupted elves skittered out of their hiding every so often to sow chaos among the draenei’s towns and caravans. They were vicious creatures, ones that Varistus did not wish to fight, but it seemed this was what fate deemed for the Vindicator. 

Knowing the dark and twisted history of the satyr, Varistus wasted little time blessing himself, and his spear with the Light. His golden glow was sure to give him away, but that was what he was planning on, as he had little patience to try to coax the demons out of hiding. Spear in hand, the vindicator walked slowly through the ruins, looking at the various banners and markings of the satyr that still littered this place. It was written in another language, one that he could not read and did not want to learn. He held little interest in what the demons’ markings said anyway: he was here to exact revenge for his fallen brethren and nothing el--snap. A branch snapped behind him and he spun around quickly, his cloak fluttering in the air behind him. In the darkness were two red eyes, low to the ground until coming into what small amount of light this area afforded. A satyr, nearly eight feet in height, stood up and slowly crept toward him. Another branch snapping turned his attention again, then scraping on the stone walls turned it yet again. Varistus knew he was quickly becoming surrounded, and the satyrs had grown bold with their recent murders. He would not share his brothers’ fate.

In a split second, the Light surged from his right hand into his spear, traveling up and down the weapon like a wave before Varistus hefted it above him and launched it like a javelin. It caught the first satyr square in the chest, the wound itself fatal but the Light that was imbued in the weapon burned the demon and caused it to screech in agony before falling backward. Taking this as an act of aggression, the other two satyrs charged. He held his hand up, palm outward, at one of them as a bolt of Light snapped out of it, colliding with the abdomen of another. As that demon hunched over from the blow, Varistus charged at him with a surprising amount of speed for his size. As the vindicator neared the reeling demon, he brought his plated knee into its head, sending it onto the ground, motionless. The remaining demon moved in while the vindicator was pre-occupied and using its clawed hand, jabbed into the weaker part of Varistus’s armor and piecing his skin below. Varistus exhaled sharply as he reached behind his back to grab the satyr’s hand, squeezing hard enough to hear bones snap, amplified further as he twisted its arm and brought it to its knees. The satyr hissed in defiance in the draenei’s face moments before Varistus roared back, slamming his crest into the demon’s soft skull and it too, fell to the side. His breaths heavy and labored, he winced as he held his hand behind his back again, this time hovering over the puncture wounds the demon had given him. After a few moments of channeling the Light through his hand and into his body, the wound closed up with a quiet hiss. 

The vindicator stood in the middle of the three dead demons, their dark blood covering the front of his armor. He looked around again, making sure he was not about to be ambushed, before turning to each one of them and setting them ablaze with a snap of his fingers and a spark of the Light. Not that he was concerned about them coming back, but possibly out of spite. He walked with a slight limp opposite to his wounded side back to Blood Watch after ripping his spear out of the first demon’s charred corpse. The deed was done, the peacekeepers were avenged… but he did not feel any better. The town thanked him, the peacekeepers praised him, but he still did not feel any better. He gave the town a farewell, and atop his elekk, made his way back south. 

The Swamp of Sorrows. A dismal, dreary, drank hole of a place. The air itself is thick and hot, rank with odors that one would rather not ask the origin of. Even the surroundings areas of Deadwind Pass and the Blasted Lands seemed more inviting than having each one of one’s senses attacked in a place such as this. 

But on this day, two particular Lightforged draenei could not be swayed by any of the horrid things that the Swamp threw at them. No - Varistus and Vol’iru, son and father - were traveling to the Harborage. This was where Xeruul, brother of Varistus and Vol’iru’s youngest son, now lived among his fellow Broken. 

Vol’iru was nervous. He had seen the Broken on Argus, of course - but Varistus had told him that the Broken that came from Draenor were not exactly the same. These Broken had felt the warm embrace of the Light and had it stripped away from them. Some were still recovering from the mental wounds that they endured. Others were exhausted from defending the camp, or from helping the others. They were not the freedom fighters on Argus - the Harborage served as a home for the truly Broken. 

Outsiders were usually regarded coldly, but Varistus had made a point in his time on Azeroth to help the Harborage when he could, so the two were accepted into the camp and led to Xeruul’s home. It was one of the larger buildings in the camp, but it also served as an infirmary. Varistus looked at his father, leaning against the building.

“You are sure you are ready? Xeruul is not the same as he used to be, father.” Varistus explained with a frowned expression.

“Your mother would tear off my tendrils if I didn’t take this chance, Varistus. I-” Vol’iru began to respond, but was cut off. 

The flap door of the building, made of hides and leather, was slowly pulled open, revealing a Broken man in dark brown robes, and a mask hanging around his neck loosely. The three of them looked at each other for a long moment - it was the first time in millennia that the three of them had been together, but no one knew what to say. Vol’iru stammered to say something, anything, but Xeruul saved him the trouble by holding three-fingered hand out to him.

“I know, father. While I...” he glances at Varistus for just a second. “...may not be the same as I used to be... I have missed you too.”

Vol’iru bursts out emotionally, both in a sob and a laugh as he moves closer to Xeruul to wrap the Broken in an embrace. It was clear that Xeruul had not had this kind of physical affection for a long time, as his first reaction was to recoil. But the familiarity of it, even after all these years, calmed him almost as quickly. He wrapped his own arms around his father for the first time in thousands upon thousands of years. Tears streaming down his face, Vol’iru nodded for Varistus to join them, and he did. The three of them stood there, at the threshold of Xeruul’s infirmary, wrapped in embrace for a long moment before Xeruul finally moved away. He looked up at both at them as they stood a good two feet over him, tears in both of their eyes. He smiled at them.

16. What does your character do for a living? How do they see their profession? What do they like about it? Dislike?

Varistus is pretty much full-time Exarch of the Sha’tor. He sees it as an honor and a privilege to serve his people to such a capacity. There are some aspects he dislike, such as disciplining unruly members of the Order, or removing them from it entirely. He wishes there was more he could do for wayward folks, but understands there is only so much he can do. 

26. What does your character’s home look like? Personal taste? Clothing? Hair? Appearance?

His home, or rather he and Freiha’s home, is kept clean, though that’s mostly because both of them are out and about, doing their own thing. Since Rokhaan was reunited with his family, the home sits empty for much of the time. Clothing and hair is also kept clean, and when he gets an opportunity to not be in armor, he enjoys clothing that is loose fitting - likely to enjoy not being in armor to its fullest. 

28. Who is your character’s mate? How do they relate to him or her? How did they make their choice?

Freiha. They made their choice after being traveling companions for over a year, and growing closer over time. They are both hard workers and independent, so the relationship took them both by surprise. While they aren’t always around each other or overly affectionate, the overall feeling of the relationship is “We are stronger together.”

39. What do they like to ridicule? What do they find stupid?

He doesn’t really ridicule anything, it isn’t the kind of person he is. He finds the idea of putting the Order at risk for personal gain stupid, goblins (just... in general), and the draenei people trying to become more “human”, when he feels like draenic society has much to offer Azeroth by itself.

49. What about voice? Pitch? Strength? Tempo and rhythm of speech? Pronunciation? Accent?