Wrathgate Wednesday: Two Mages and a Sharpshooter
By Bricu | October 28, 2009
Three more entries from the Wildfire Rider’s long running RP story. First, we have Laurus Drachmas writing his last Will and Testament. “Laz” is a powerful wizard, well known by his Kirin Tor colleagues as he is wanted for murder.
More on that later.
Corspilla, better known as Pill, a Forsaken Mage, has a long history of working with, and against. the Wildfire Riders. When her friend Davien Stonemantle agrees to work with Darrows and Crownsilver, Pill makes sure she can be there to protect her friend.
And finally, we have Beltar. Some of you may know him as PANZERCOW. Beltar is a one shot-per-customer mercenary whose preferred partner is a boar named Squealer. There may be a heart of gold underneath the stink, the beard, the cynicism and the gruff attitude, but only Squealer truly knows.
Laurus
Laz is the bloke with the funny hat. To his right his Fells, to her right, their adopted daughter, Precosia
He’d brought everything he could have possibly carried on his back and at his waist. Sealed containers of herbs, vials, dripping needles, flasks of powder, scrolls, alchemy kit, occult trinkets, assorted runes, magical gems of every quality and even a lead slate intended as a makeshift work bench.
The bulk of the weight, however, was in the section of his library. Books beyond number slotted neatly, perfectly packed to make use of every cranny the backpack possessed. They made him a very squarish sight trudging beside his comrades, some hunched, snarling figure more material than man.<
Even with enchanted pockets Laurus had quickly learned the error of his ways. If he’d been on his own, it wouldn’t have been near so laborous. He’d normally move at his own pace. What he didn’t feel the necessity of carrying Baccalou would, with a growled objection, be unable to refuse.
Despite his pain, Drachmas couldn’t bear to part with a single bauble. When the effort finally became insufferable he resorted to coin, and one man’s burden became a three person convoy under his watchful, jealous eye.
Bricu was right. Laurus was not a campaigner, and marching in unison was different than moving on your own. Hell, he’d never even seen a pitched battle before, not really, not in the way of two large, organized armies clashing and tearing at each other on the open field.
So, here it all was at last, stacked and spread about his shelter hodge-podge and helter-skelter. Bubbling vials, open books, brewing plans. When events of great severity were at hand, Laurus had never been able to sleep. It was not a matter of insomnia; it was compulsion. Laurus was preparing.
Three times the candle perched on the simple stool in the center of his tent had withered itself down to a puddle, and three times he’d set one anew. Such a meager light for his quarters, especially when one considered the clouded, dreary weather which shrouded the Dragonblight. When the third one gave up the ghost he finally let it rest, setting his left hand alight with brilliant, angry flame and scrawling on the parchment with the quill in his right.
By the time he finally stopped, panting with sheer mental exhaustion and lack of sleep, it was already early morning. The only reason he could tell was that the blackness had given way to dusk outside his tent, and a military reveille could be faintly heard blaring from somewhere down the mountain.
“Heh, let’s see. Hastened invisibility potion…stoneskin. Healing potion, detect undead, potion of detect invisibility, shadow protection potion, arcane powder…”
“Runes. Got the backups, too.”
He found his thoughts drifting and his head drooping down to his chest. Fortunately, he noticed in time and jerked it up again violently. Falling asleep now wouldn’t do any good. It’d just make it harder to stay awake later.
Shit. He shouldn’t have spent the whole damn night awake. He’d manage. It really came down to this. Now, Laurus Drachmas stopped running, turned and fought tooth and claw. He hadn’t really expected to be on the side pursuing him-it was pretty ironic when you gave it a second glance.
“Of course, the goal isn’t to win. The goal is to survive.”
Alright. I’m going to give you a tentative “yes”. This isn’t a commitment!
…But frankly I haven’t got a whole fuckload of options.
“Aheh.”
I still think this is suicide. So, you can count on me to bring the portal.
“Likely, Laz, thit’ll be the handiest thing ay all.”
That’s when he remembered he’d forgotten the most important part. It was also going to be the most difficult. No, no, it wasn’t the portal.
An icy cold gnawed on Laurus’ gut as he lifted his pen this time.
What does a dead man say to his wife and his brother?
What does a dead man say to his unborn children when he has to tell them why he died?
To my only love, my brother and my children I’ll never know…
If you are reading this, it is likely or inevitable that I am dead or worse…
Too cliche. His words didn’t mean anything. The mage snarled with contempt and pressed his thumb into the paper’s center, reducing it to ash. Best try again.
“Not like I’m really going to die, anyway. I’ll take the rearguard. First sign of trouble and they’ll be thanking me for saving our skins.”
All their reasons were really the same to him. Glory? Discretion was the better part of valor, and this offensive was anything but discreet. Revenge? Yes, Arthas had taken everything from him too, once, and he’d built himself again from scratch. He wouldn’t mind being the one to watch the bastard burn. But this wasn’t his fight in the strictest sense. Did he give a damn about these colors? Laurus blinked down at the black and red which adorned his chest. He wasn’t sure. The fact that they were his right now was enough.
The official reason was redemption. That was a lark. Laurus burst out laughing and fetched another parchment.
He tried again:
This is the last will of Laurus Drachmas, third son of Heth Drachmas, noble of Lordaeron. All of my non-magical assets are to be liquidated and the sum total of the coin to be given to my wife, Callide Fells Drachmas. Take my books, my notes and my baubles and place them in secure storage. I want my children to know their father’s legacy, the whole truth, and if they should take it upon themselves to follow in his footsteps my collection is to be delivered to them. Otherwise, save it for a time of more enlightened arcane minds.
I leave behind no regrets save the fact I could not live long enough to see my children. I’ve been a free-thinker and have given myself wholly to everything I’ve done. I’m proud of it all and anyone who disagrees can shove it.
If my body is recovered in any form, I wish to have a funeral pyre built on my wife’s estate in the Hinterlands. Bury my ashes there and give me a headstone I’d like. Preferably with my face on it. Solid marble would be nice, but make sure that it has some onyx in it (that’s my birthstone you know). Make sure it reads “Lord Laurus Drachmas-Father, Noble, Husband, Mage, and Unrepentant.”
“Yes,” he nodded to himself. That would be a fitting end for the great Laurus Drachmas. Picture of Pill, copywright by Baji 2009
–
Corpsilla
Lemme go, Lemme go, lemme go!” Pill twisted around, flailing at the large man in plate as best she could. She had her precious hat in one skeletal hand, using it as a weapon so she wouldn’t lose it. “I ain’t doin nothing!”
“Yeh raight, yeh damn well ain’,” Jol grunted, his face as emotive as a slab of granite.
She thought she knew all the Riders, but she didn’t know this hulking one-eyed meanie. Finally, realizing that the only way to get let go would be to do something that Davien would definitely not approve of, she just went limp, hanging from the hand wrapped in her robes, seeking to look pitiful. Which, she reflected with a barely stifled cackle was actually not as easy as it might seem for a dead girl.
“Oi, Flames.” Hah! Someone she did know! She tried to turn around to look at Bittertongue, but the human mountain was not cooperating.
“Hi!” She waved in the direction of the voice, still clutching her hat in one hand.
“Och, what the fuck are yeh doin ‘ere?” Finally, she could see him, cheeks red in the cold.
“Davien’s here, ain’t she? I’m here too.” She tried to look at the person still holding her. “Down!” Nothing happened. The mage added a meek little “please” and squawked as her butt hit the ground. “That one’s a menace, he is!” She hissed.
Bittertongue just laughed at her. “Stonemantle’s o’er there.”
“I know where she is! I ain’t goin over there! Yva’s over there. Don’t like her none. Davien’s too nice. Won’t let me burn her none… No riders either. Been a borin morning. Lost my knitting in the snow cause of the metal mountain man!”
“I’ll just stay here n wait.” She pulled large satchel into her lap and started to get comfortable. She peered up at the paladin. “Ghaar’s being all spiritual and leadin, but he’s workin with them pale skin elves… The Prophecy of Light, they call themselves. Don’t like them none. That Keltyr bastard, he owes me booze. His missy, she’s crazy. Ghaar’s good at keepin people safe. If Yva goes all crazy, ain’t no one keeping Davien safe but me.”
Thros frean. The words still echoed in Beltar’s mind long after they’d quit echoing off the mountains around them. He wasn’t used to battle cries, of great armies on the march with banners flying. His century of wars–none big enough to call that, really, but bloody nonetheless–had been fought in merchant wagons repelling bandits, or perhaps in the woods being the bandit. Or on a rooftop waiting for one clean shot to end a life and escape to receive his pay. His work had kept him from all three of the Wars that had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms. Now, as a fourth one began, there was no getting away from it this time.
He’d chuckled while watching Ulthanon carefully prepare and stock his fighting position, with its frozen parapets and huge supply of ammunition. That was too much work for an old dwarf. A memory, distant through time, a voice he barely recognized as his Da…the mountains, son, they’ll give you everything you need. True words, but they took, too, took Da a year later in a mine collapse.
A few minutes’ slogging through the snow had found Beltar a handy outcropping of rock to use as cover. He had excellent visibility down the hill of the right side of the Riders’ line, and beyond onward to the marching host below on the valley floor, while giving him concealment from anybody trying to flank them on the left and a solid wall on his right. Perfect. He dropped his pack and began arranging a few things within easy reach…two boxes of Mammoth Cutters that Aelflaed had been nice enough to make him, a couple of flasks, a roll of frostweave bandage. Idly, he wondered if he’d been better indulging his childhood fascination with machinery instead of turning in his middle age toward the most un-dwarflike pursuits of growing plants and brewing potions. “Could wish fer a few bombs ’bout now,” he muttered to himself. “Oh well.”
Satisfied with his new temporary home, he reached around and picked up his precious gun, slowly unwrapping it from the lined oiled leather that protected it. It wasn’t the simple deadly design of his old Black Death, now safely in the Dalaran bank; nor was it the cobbled-together monstrosity the Alliance Vanguard had thrown at him after he’d been their assassin and errand boy so many damned times. It was a big, heavy, ornate mess of walnut and titanium and the magical elements of fire and shadow, topped with a precise little sighting scope. It was, so the story went, designed by Hemet Nesingwary his own damn self, who used it to save his expedition after it went a-cropper in Sholazar Basin. Beltar’d found it on the auction house and had paid a dragon’s hoard for it, and had never regretted it since. It didn’t have a name yet. Maybe it would after today.
With nothing else to do but wait, the old dwarf pulled out a flask of bourbon, unstoppered it, and raised it to the north, in the direction of Angrathar. “Here’s t’ya, Arthas,” Beltar yelled. “See ya in Hell, y’fuckin’ bastard.”
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