Arcane Manipulation

Okay sooooooo I decided I want to do a different ‘face’ for my other nightborne, and gave a new astromancer I made this one instead… if that makes sense

Lady Anarah Lummeth brought the panflute to her lips as she walked barefoot through the large entertaining garden of her family’s estate. The moon rose in full, visible through the slowly flowering trees that marked the central alcove. The estate was not as large as some; though incredibly old, the Lummeth’s line was not as prosperous as other families. They bartered in wine, magic, and secrets - commodities equally powerful and rare. Yet most of that wealth and power vanished when her dear father turned Felborne and Elisandre fell from grace. Now she fought tooth and nail to regain even a small amount of what had been.

The notes from her panflute turned sour and she took it from her lips. She fought, and fought and fought, because she’d been left the responsibility of the house, by the one person she was sworn to protect. She felt no ill will to her sister for her choice, but Anarah did not feel joy either at her name.

She stepped under the Moon Gate, hand touching the ancient stone in greeting. A long lost relic of their Highborne roots, layers and layers of runic wards had protected the sanctum within for millennia. Her touch flared magic through the stone and allowed her passage. The gate shimmered as her hand slipped from the stone.

Anarah shared almost all of her features with her elder sister, save the runes scarred into Sildre’s dark skin, and Anarah’s white feline eyes. They were so close in age, they were treated as twins. A paultry five years separated their births. She was the Heir’s Protector, her Nightprowler (though -that- title was saved for their lost sister Lyewen) and she would do anything for her sister.

Even becoming the head of the family.

She stepped out from under the small ivy covered path into the sactumn proper. Moonlight lit the small space with an ethereal glow. The sactumn was about thirty feet across and round, barriered by hedges of starlit roses. A fine carpet of moss stretched from side to side, broken only by the white stone statue at the North end of the space. Standing several feet taller than Anarah was a perfect replica of her mother.

In front of the statue was a small altar and plaque. The plaque read

‘Blessed be is our Mother Moon,

She who lights the way in the dark.’

Anarah crouched by the altar, lighting a candle at the East and West sides of the altar. The flames flickered and steadied, two beacons of light against the dark. The common story of her mother’s death was that of withering. That her father cast her mother out of the fold for not taking the Fel and left her to die. That was the story Sildre had been told.

That was, however, not the whole truth.

She settled between the candles in front of an offering plate. The druidess bit her thumb, drawing blood. She drew a rune on the plate in broad strokes of red. The stone hummed as she finished the sigil of the Lummeth House.

“Blood to blood I call to thee,

Mother Moon, show thyself to me.

Blood to blood I summon thee,

Mother Moon, shine thy light upon me.”

Anarah thrust a dagger into the middle of the sigil, finding home in a hidden slot in the stone. The sigil flared to life, shining bright with moonlight. She stepped back, the moonlight beginning to coalesce in front of the statue. Panflute to her lips, she began to play a soft tune. Magic hung on the notes and the air felt heavy with it. Gathering this much energy in one place was always a risk, but Anarah was not who she was by chance.

The music steadied the magic, brought order to it, and the light solidified into a woman the mirror image of the statue. She was one solid color, except for the dark runes covering her white skin. Like Sildre, she too bore the weight of her magic upon her skin, and like very true Mother Moon before her.

Their mother did not die as the stories suggested. She and every other Matriarch before her became one with the Leylines upon their death. Though, she had not died. Not truly.

“My Crescent Moon…” said her mother, voice echoing and full of power. Anarah bowed deeply.

“Mother Moon, I thank you for gracing me with your presence this eve. I bring—” Power touched her chin, guiding her up until she looked at her mother’s glowing face. It unnerved her, the sheer force of power humming against her skin. Her mother had always been a power magistrix, but this was… unheard of. Had she really gained so much power in the few short years she’d been gone? How had Anarah not noticed the other times she’d called upon her mother for guidance?

Her mother had never touched her before, she realized. Never felt the touch and power seeping into her veins and mind.

“My dear Crescent Moon, you need not be so formal. Now… tell me what has happened,” said her mother with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Anarah took a small step back, if only to disable the connection between them. Her mind cleared; she hadn’t even noticed it was clouded.

“Our Wandering Star has gone dark, my Lady. Moreover the whole of Quel'thalas has gone dark. I cannot scry in, nor find the leylines connecting it to the rest of the world. It is though… it’s vanished.

Yet we know that forces moved towards the home of the Sin'dorei, and more still move north via the sea. I fear she and the company she is keeping is in danger.”

Her mother was silent as she spoke, the only indication she was even real being subtle changes in her brow and lips. Once, Anarah could read her mother like a book; now it seemed the Leylines had changed beyond even that.

“… Yes,” said the Mother Moon after a moment, refocusing on Anarah. “I too have lost connection with our Wandering Star. I believe it is time we remind her of her place in the cosmos, Crescent Moon. You are to find her and bring her back into the fold. You have done a commendable job, but you are not the Heir.”

If she’d expected the words to sting, she was mildly surprised. They rolled off of her like water, and Anarah felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Her mother understood that much, at least.

“It is time our Black Moon reclaimed her birthright.”

Power thrummed in the air and Anarah shivered.

“Find her, and if she does not come willingly, make her. By any means necessary,” commanded her mother. A hand of power pressed against her face. Magic poured into her, setting her nerves on fire. It filled her up, up up until she felt like she would burst. She cried out in pain, and her mother let go.

“… I forget how fragile we are as flesh…” said the Mother Moon. She floated back and smiled again, not reaching her eyes. Anarah fell forward, body still humming with power. Stars it felt like she was burning.

“May the Moon guide and protect you, my Crescent Moon.”

Light flashed and Anarah found herself alone in the sanctum. The moon drifted behind the trees and left her in darkness before she could rise off the mossy ground. Her body ached with one purpose.

Find her sister.

Remind her of her duty.

They would all die.

Original Inspiration

“Did you know them well, sir?”

“No. I can’t say that I did.” “You mourn them like family.” “Of course I do. They’re Oathsworn.” “Would you mourn any of us the same, sir?” “Bereal, is there a point to this or are you just having fun needling me?” “Of course not, sir. I’m not fond of needles.”

Had he the energy, Ethalarian would have shot Bereal a dirty look. As it stood, though, he could offer little more than a stern frown from behind his desk which seemed to amuse his otherwise stoic Knight-Sergeant. If that was the big man’s effort to bring some measure of levity to an otherwise increasingly sour situation…well. There could have been worse efforts. Probably. There should probably be some credit given for making the attempt at the very least. The same could not be said, however, for the Sunguard’s current forays afield in their campaign to defend the Kingdom against the invading Alliance.

In the span of less than three weeks they’d suffered no less than two absolutely crushing defeats. The total loss of the Crimson Fleet was a devastating blow to be sure, but not an entirely crippling one. Firestorm and his family putting their own homes ahead of the security of the Nation and their subsequent capture was another staggering loss. Indaris’ betrayal was just icing on the cake. All of southern Quel’thalas was now firmly in the grip of the pretender King and his lapdogs as a result. Each of these events, combined with the rapidly encroaching winter, had compounded on top of one another and the result was palpable in the air; morale had sunk to a low Ethalarian had yet seen of the Sunguard and he was genuinely becoming concerned about the potential for desertion. If all of that wasn’t bad enough…

Rumors had been spreading at a wildfire’s pace throughout the camp of something terrible unfolding in the north. A rider had broken into camp late in the night, his steed run ragged and on the verge of death, and made immediately for the Archon’s tent. What reason was there for such urgency? The whispers seemed to believe it was catastrophe, that Sunstrider Isle remained in the hands of the enemy, that the enemy had numbered in the tens of thousands, that everyone who had journeyed north had perished in the fighting. On the other hand those same whispers also claimed that a great victory had been won, that the Alliance had summoned a host of terrible demons, and that Dame Everleigh busied herself bathing in the blood of the defeated. The truth was nobody knew what to believe. Ethalarian’s stomach was left twisted in knots and he felt like someone had a death grip on his chest.

He couldn’t allow this to stand, not with such an important battle on the horizon. But what could be done? Head in his hands and unable to shake the sense of impending doom that hung over him, Ethalarian was left with few options…until an idea hit him like a thunderbolt. He shot to his feet, chair skidding several paces backwards, and turned to his Knight-Sergeant with a wild look in his eyes.

“Bereal!” “…sir?” “I don’t suppose any of the knights carry war trophies with them.”

Bereal arched a quizzical brow. “You know they do, sir.”

“I have a list of things we’re going to need.”

Early in the pre-dawn hours of the morning, a large group had gathered in the vicinity of Dawnward Dawnstalker’s tent. What a strange sight it must have been to see such a number of Blood Knights, many of whom were shirtless even as the snow began to fall, gathered in one place in absolute silence. They had arrayed themselves around a roaring fire and covered themselves in roughly drawn runes and sigils which seemed to be made from a combination of ash and some sort of blood-red paint. A ring of enormous drums, surely Amani in make repurposed to serve the needs of the Children of Blood, had been arrayed around the fire and each was attended to by the most strong-armed of those gathered.

All at once, the relative calm morning air was shattered by the deafening thunder of drums accompanied by the stomping of feet and rhythmic pounding of weapons either against the hard ground or across the broad shields the Knights typically bore on horseback. There was no sign of the austere nobility typically associated with the regal Sin’dorei here. They had traded that away a long time ago and instead chosen to embrace the more primal hostility of their Horde allies. These Blood Knights had spent their childhoods fearing the sound of the very drums roaring in their midst and, like the man who led them, had grown up far from the proper manners of their city-dwelling kin. To them, this was another weapon and they held no qualms about using it.

A voice cut through the din, calling out to his comrades in a grave and guttural tone. They replied in kind and with a terrible fury.

No anore'surfal no tolan’din siil’fin ser’dino’enfala- Anoredu’an no thoril’din Sin’dorei! Anoredu’an no fin’ann’belore- No fin’ann’belore! Tar ala sina dah thero’din’na anu alah no shal’anor’bin’felo -  An’thanal felo’bela’tolan!

Then, at once, the drums fell silent. A woman’s voice, lone and haunting, rose from the ranks.

Shindu fallah na-

Her comrades responded as they had before, furious and proud.

Selama ashal’anore!

Shindu fallah na-

In unison, each Knight snapped to attention and raised their weapons to the sun that had just begun to crest over the horizon. Among them were five ranseurs, brilliant crimson and gold, each adorned with a rough approximation of the colors that had flown above Sunstrider Isle. Whether in victory or defeat, each of those assembled knew in their hearts that at least some of their own had fallen the previous day. Their voices rose again in unison.

Shorel aran, Sin’dorei!

This was not a lament, nor was it a droning aria for the fallen. No, this was a challenge to all those who dared tried to take what even Death itself could not wrest from the Children of Blood and a promise to those that had been taken from them:

Bring your swords, bring your spears, bring your death and your savagery. You will burn in the glory of the Sun.

( So this is my kind of farewell dealio for @retributionpriest and @thepilgrimofwar. I never got a chance to really spend time with Lirelle or Sederis in character, but I adore both their players and can’t think of a more fitting way for my character to see them off to the afterlife. As posted at the top, the inspiration for this is a song from the Republic Commando soundtrack titled Dha Wherda Verda or Rage of the Shadow Warriors. The lyrics have been modified a bit by me and roughly translated into Thalassain by @jonathan-nevermore-smith who is a very cool dude. The rough English translation will be below the break. )

With one fell swoop, the Alliance has come to Quel’Thalas and in their fury, they have dispatched an entire fleet of Thalassian Warships, taken a province of the Ghostlands, nearly taken Sunstrider Isle, besieged the Sunwell, and locked Quel’Thalas in a barrier of magical nullification. Armies from Stormwind, Kalimdor, Gilneas, Kul Tiras, and even reclaimers of high elves and void elves have landed to bring Quel’Thalas into submission. 

Just as the ink was signed for the Sunguard to become a fully fledged regiment within the Royal Thalassian Army was the battle called. An army of Three Hammers moves onto Silvermoon City and the Sunguard moved to intervene. Thane Fergus Mountainbeard and regiments of dwarves position themselves to fight head-on with the elven host. The Sunguard, moving to the fields south of Silvermoon make into battle array for a pitched battle while Gilnean forces close in on their rear and ready to reave into the Dawnspire.