And we’re back.


Illithias by *JRinaldi on deviantART


Illithias has been flirting with joining the Wildfire Riders for months–but the difficulties of trans-oceanic guilding have added levels of difficulty to a long process. In her second, we discover more on what Illithias wanted out of confronting the Lich King…

A simple munitions crate, once adorned with a sheepskin, makes a serviceable seat for man or beast. As long as one does not particularly dwell on the likely explosive nature of the materiel beneath. The half-faced elven girl sat on such an improvised chair, in the middle of the encampment that the Riders had marked out as their own.

Illi had found the Riders’ camp as dusk was making itself known in the corners of the landscape, and the howling wind stirred up the loose snow into hazy flurries. She passed by the seated Ulthanon, who made no attempt to get up as he watched her approach, just nodding to her and winking once. She nodded back to him as walked – she didn’t return the wink. He laughed to himself, just once, before settling back down and watching the approach.

The first thing the kal’dorei had done, after showing Pinion where he could stable with the rest of the accompanying menagerie, was to look for the human Danwyrith. She found him in a discussion with his wife and the other human Thenn’, the Bittertongue wife. Their murmuring slowed and died and they turned to watch Illithias approach. She neared with soft crunches as her boots sunk into the shallow snow. Tarquin raised an enquiring eyebrow as Illi stopped, smacked her ankles together and gave a mock human salute.
“Corporal Illithias, reporting for duty, Danwryth.”

As Elune graced the night sky with her face, a roaring bonfire attracted most to the centre of the motley assortment of tents and cargo and ne’er-do-wells. A makeshift circle surrounded the blaze, each face illuminated in warm reds and orange. Illi has placed a saddle blanket on a crate sitting near the fire, dragging it slightly closer. She sat there, crosslegged, forcing herself to sit close enough to be considered “joining in”. The light threw shadows in stark relief over the left side of her face. Just outside the line of the loose circle, she found herself slightly behind the paladin called Fingold, watching the merriment and raucousness. Instruments were handed to one another; Illi was offered a drink of something strong and burning in a pewter mug – she made the effort and accepted the drink. Her legs ached from the difficulty of sitting crosslegged.

The arrival of a contingent of proper Alliance conscripted soldiers interrupted the merrymaking slightly, all uniform armour and conforming uniforms, dour expressions all. Illi glared at them as they looked at her, their glances flitting over everyone in attendance equally. Ap Danwyrith met their officer, handing his rustic looking fiddle away and leaving with the soldiers, the Jolstraer human in tow. The music resumed, a child’s or gnome’s ditty, flighty and insignificant. She rolled her eyes and let her head drop and chin rest on the collar of her breastplate. She didn’t realise the music was slowing into a diminuendo until the tune had changed completely. It took her a few seconds, but she recognised the piece. And old song, her father had taught it to her inbetween studies in order to broaden her understandings of her race and culture. A hymn for battle. A dirge of resignation, but also the promise of selling one’s life for a dearest price.

She realised that tomorrow held the promise of death, that she may in fact get the chance to die. Forgetting where she was, or who she was with, Illithias opened her mouth and began to sing the hymn.

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