![](http://cobalt-company.wdfiles.com/local--resized-images/writing:2023-03-26-summoned-by-the-seventh-legion/style="margin:/medium.jpg) |
| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Last Sunday, Lena Coit joined Zath Tyrrell and his 7th Legion team to investigate the efficacy of the Kirin Tor's attempts to stabilize the ley lines. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Season 9
Lena Coit rides smoothly on her actual living non-demon horse across the snowy ground of Dragonblight, her eyes intent on her destination. Before long, she draws up outside a stone keep, the horse sidestepping irritably until she pulls it up short. She looks around for the group of 7th Legion she's meant to meet here.
Seven people in blue, gold, and red armor stand just outside the keep's gate, some looking more patient than others. Four humans, a night elf, a dwarf, and a gnome. One of the humans looks somewhat familiar. He raises a hand as she approaches.
Lena raises a hand in return, with a smile, and dismounts. She leads the horse over to the group and says, "I do hope I'm on time."
Captain Zath Tyrrell gives a shallow, formal bow, then gestures to the other six. "This is the 6th Expeditionary Unit of the 7th Legion. Unit, this is Averlena Coit, who will be assisting in today's exercise.”
"Pleased to meet you all," she says, dropping a quick curtsey without letting go of her horse's reins.
Tyrrell gestures to a woman with light brown skin, dark brown hair and eyes, and a peculiar smirk.
"This is Lt. Keiley Boles,” he says. “She will be our first volunteer today. Would you like to explain to her what we are doing, Miss Coit?" He is using his Teacher Voice. Without waiting for Lena’s reply, he turns to look at the white-haired night elf woman and gestures toward Lena’s horse. The kaldorei rushes off, presumably to fetch a stablehand.
"Oh, sure," Lena straightens, and looks at Keiley. "So… the mages have been working on the whole cats-play-yarn-ball that the blue dragonflight have made of the ley lines," Lena says, very seriously.
"I loike this one, cap," says Boles in what Lena would certainly recognize as a heavy Gilnean accent. "Good use of me'aphor."
Lena grins at Boles. She continues, "And they’re seeing if they can stabilize the ley lines in this area. They've got where they can portal inanimate objects short distances without them turning into beetles or crumbling to dust, so all looks good so far."
"We also ran a summoning test on a cat," says Tyrrell. At this, Lt. Boles scowls. "The cat is fine," Tyrrell clarifies dryly.
"See? All good signs so far!" Lena says cheerfully. "So what we got to do is try it out with people, and shorter and longer distances, and measure a thing what's got to do with the ley lines, right?" She looks at Tyrrell brightly. "Cosmic arcane background or some such."
"That's right." He inclines his head slightly to Lena. "I have the orbs we will need to use to capture readings, but they'll need to be primed first. I presume you have an available soul shard?"
"Oh, of course," Lena says, fishing a purple crystal out of her pack. "I've been working as a mercenary, you know. So. Lots of souls to shard."
“Creepy,” says Boles cheerfully.
The night elf woman returns with a stable boy, who immediately sees to Lena’s horse, leading it a short distance into the keep and murmuring about giving it some rest and a snack.
The other five members of the unit are just loitering with varying degrees of boredom or interest in the proceedings. The balding ginger gnome in particular looks very interested, and he is in fact furtively taking notes.
"You’re not just any mercenary," speaks up a blonde woman with a crooked nose. "Cobalt Company, yes?"
"Mmhmm," Lena nods. "I'm on their White Squad, as it happens. You all know Cobalt pretty well?"
"Doesn't everyone?" speaks up a nondescript man in a robe. It’s possible that until this moment Lena was not aware he was present.
"Soooo fancy," Boles concurs.
Lena snorts a laugh. "That's me. Fancy."
"My former scout was Cobalt Company’s former accountant," Tyrrell puts in, "and is now, in fact, working for the Company again. As a scout, I am told." As Lena already knows this, it may be for the benefit of the others. There is also something a bit like disapproval or disappointment in his tone.
"Isn't that just a neat kind of circle," Lena says, smiling. "Okay, so how'm I priming this?"
"A straightforward energy transferrence," Tyrrell says. "From the shard to the orb."
"Oh, alright," Lena nods. "I can do that." She reaches out one hand for the orb.
Tyrrell reaches into his bag and pulls out a deep blue-violet orb, which he passes carefully to Lena. He is visibly careful not to touch her hand as he does so.
Lena tilts her head at Tyrrell a little curiously, but accepts the orb without trying to touch him. She steps back with the orb in one hand and the shard in the other.
Taking in a deep breath, she draws the magic out of the shard and it crumbles in her hand, flowing into the orb. When the shard is gone, she looks up to Tyrrell as if for approval.
The blonde woman folds her arms, looking between the two of them intently. Definitely a Vibe there.
"Well done," he says in Teacher Voice. "Now, how far away would you like to go for the first experiment? I will leave it up to you."
Now Boles is looking between the two of them, with a slightly different Vibe.
Lena hesitates. "If distance is a factor… maybe something short, for the first attempt with a human. 30 yards?"
"Very well," Tyrrell says crisply, and pulls out a second orb, rolling it around his palm a little. It appears to be primed already; it glows softly as Lena's is now doing.
Lena holds up her matching one. "A nice pair of ba… orbs." Clearing her throat, she turns to pace off the yards.
Boles follows her, snort-chortling ungracefully. She murmurs quietly, "I like your style." Or at least that's probably what she says. It sounds more like OI LOIK YO STOIL.
Lena darts a grin at Boles, and then looks back over her shoulder at Tyrrell.
Tyrrell is watching her with a cold, steady gaze.
"Am I the sender or the getter?" she calls back at him.
"As Boles seems to have trailed after you like a mongrel pup, I suppose I shall be summoning her back."
Lena nods and turns to Boles, counting off the last of the yards. "And you're sure you're okay with this? I mean, the cat was fine, but…"
"If I die, Snowdrop'll jus' bring me back. Don't worry your pretty head over it."
"If you say so," Lena says, pausing at the thirty yard mark. She holds the orb up in one hand and waves the other to Tyrrell in the distance.
Tyrell raises his hands, and a blue glow suffuses them. A dark shadow in the air leaks a fel green at the edges. The blonde woman and the dwarf join in the spell, and their hands take on the same bluish glow. A structure made of shadow and flickering lights rises out of the ground, and Tyrell uses it to now link a summon directly to Boles. The summoning portal appears… and Boles vanishes.
For a heart-stopping moment it seems that she may not appear, but then she steps out of the summoning portal with a cheeky "TADAAA! Not dead!" and a grin.
Lena focuses intently on the orb as it sparkles unevenly, and she counts under her breath. Tyrrell is also staring at his sparkly orb.
As it stops glowing, Lena takes out a notebook and quickly takes a few notes down in what seems to be shorthand. That, or it's a warlock thing.
"You're up, Master Sergeant Hall," Tyrrell says, without looking away from the orb. The blonde woman nods grimly. Master Sergeant Hall has a plain face, dominated by her lopsided nose, and she wears plate armor.
"Go on then," Boles says tauntingly to Hall. "Go to the pretty lady." She emphasizes pretty in a very rude way.
Lena waves from her distance away, oblivious to the insult.
"Farther, now!" calls Tyrrell, raising his eyes from the orb to look at Lena.
Lena nods. She calls back, "Don't see too many fluctuations so far."
He nods and beckons Boles over to where Hall was standing. Hall marches obediently over to Lena.
"Let's do 60 yards," Lena says, as Hall approaches. She looks up at Tyrrell once again, and then turns almost reluctantly to pace out the rest of the distance.
Hall follows her quietly, gravely, without any of Boles's banter. Her mouth is set in a grim line.
"You alright there? You don't seem so happy about this as the other," Lena asks as they walk. "He wouldn't ask you to do it if he didn't think it was safe, right?"
"It's fine," says Hall, folding her arms.
"You want I should use a soul stone on you?" Lena asks, as they come to the end. "It might keep you safer."
"It's fine," says Hall irritably.
"Okay, whatever," Lena says, waving her orb to signal Tyrrell in the distance.
Tyrrell lifts his orb in a sort of salute.
He, Boles and the dwarf do the ritual again, and once again, after a brief pause, Hall appears in one piece at Tyrrell's side. She stumbles a bit, and he reaches a hand out to steady her, but she avoids his hand so violently she almost stumbles more. He retracts it. Tyrrell murmurs something to the dwarf, who has long black braids. She salutes him and starts to trot over toward Lena.
When she arrives, she thrusts out a calloused hand. "Pleased t'meet ye! I'm Siege Engineer Umalda Blackale! How far we goin' now?"
Lena is busy counting fluctuations for the first bit, and misses Hall and Tyrrell's interaction. Then she looks up to see the dwarf.
"Lena Coit, but I reckon he already said,'' Lena reaches out to take her hand. "I think ninety yards. Got to see the shape of it. If it's lineer or more poly-like."
"Aye," says Blackale, seeming to understand. Possibly because engineer. "So, Tyrrell as a teacher, aye? Ye must be made o' stern stuff."
"Mm, well," Lena says. "We go back a ways, in a sense. He's not a marshmellow or anything, but he's fair." Lena starts pacing out the yards. "You all do alright with him? Some of you folks seem to like him more than others."
"Oh ach, we adore 'im. Ye get used t'his ways after a while, an' underneath it he's warm as anythin'."
"Oh, for sure," Lena says, smiling briefly at the dwarf. "If he had a bad heart, he could've made things a lot harder for me."
"I think our new scout's been cryin hisself t'sleep a' night though. Cap's tough on the new ones.*
"Just 'cause he doesn't trust 'em yet?" Lena asks. "Or is it like a hazing thing?"
"Bit o' both maybe? I never thought t'ask. I’m so used to it! I was in the unit from the start. Me an’ Hall an’ Boles an' Crowley the mage, we're all originals."
"Oh wow," Lena says, then gets a bit of a guarded look on her face. "How long's that, exactly?"
"Since the Seventh was founded!" she says proudly.
"Huh, well how 'bout that," Lena says, and then looks up and waves her sparkly orb at Tyrrell, even smaller now in the distance.
"Most o' the folks in the Seventh have been in it since the beginnin', as we're not prone to die. But we had an accident with two of ours. I — mm, I shouldna talk of it. Anyway, time to leap through the Nether or what have ye!"
Lena looks curiously at the dwarf but nods. "Accidents happen."
"Not today though!" Blackale winks at her and vanishes. In the distance, she can be seen appearing through Zath's Evil Closet. Boles high fives her.
Lena counts fluctuations, notes them down, and then walks back towards Zath and the others.
"Shall we try for farther?" inquires Tyrrell coolly as she approaches. He bounces the orb lightly in his palm. "I do have three more volunteers."
"I didn't volunteer!" squeaks the gnome. The kaldorei shushes him.
As Lena approaches, she flips to a page in her notebook and holds it out to Zath. "At least on the sending side, it's getting worse with distance, but not, like… a lot worse. Trend looks lineer?"
He peers at her notebook. "Hmmmm, yes. Linear." It's possible he pronounces that a bit correctively. "By my calculations it should still be safe at — well, you tell me your calculations first; let's see if we agree." Again, that feeling that he's testing her.
"Yeah," Lena says, nodding, maybe with a touch of pink on her cheeks from the walk over, or something else. "Lin-ee-ar. I think we could go at least three times that without any danger. But if it's really just this region they've stabilized, we might hit a…discontinue… at some distance."
"Discontinuity," he says crisply.
“Right,” Lena nods. “Where it goes bad all sudden-like.”
“I suggest, based on these readings, that you fetch your horse from the stable and take Sgt. Crowley here some distance north, taking the route around to the west of Wintergarde. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to go around Wintergarde to the east.”
“Big ol’ necropolis,” Boles informs her cheerfully.
“Indeed,” says Tyrrell. Then, sharply, “Crowley! Fetch horses.”
“Yes sir,” says the nondescript robed man. “If you’re sure, sir.”
“All you need to do is ride with her, Crowley; it could not be simpler. I will send an Eye with you so that I know when you have arrived at a sufficient distance. When you’ve reached the appropriate distance I will call the Eye back. And do try not to stare, won’t you?”
At what? Tyrrell doesn’t say.
“Yes sir,” says Crowley again, turning beet red, and then rushes into the keep, returning before long with Lena’s horse and another. He mounts up, going to ludicrous lengths not to look at Lena. So that was what Tyrrell meant, apparently.
"Yes, sir," Lena echoes. She mounts up and does not make any particular effort not to look at Crowley. In fact, watches him with some curiosity.
As they get underway, with Tyrrell's fel green eye following behind, she asks, "You got a problem with staring at girls?"
Crowley’s face takes on a very clear This Is A Trap expression, a mix of panic and calculation. He looks back over his shoulder as though to make sure Tyrrell’s out of earshot - the Eye does not have Ears, thank goodness - and says, in a very bland nondescript sort of voice, “Only pretty ones.”
Lena giggles, guiding her horse slightly closer to Crowley’s. “Thanks for that, but sounds like there’s some sort of story to it? Seems like everyone but me already knows.”
“We have a lot of stories like that,” Crowley says blandly. “Mine is the least interesting. I like girls. Who doesn’t? Besides most girls. But it’s always like that with us, inside jokes and jibes. We’ve been together a long time. All but the healer and scout. I think Snowdr– er, Sergeant Lazal’dris is going to stay with us for the long run, but we can’t seem to keep a scout. Flipswitch is on loan from SI:7. I don’t know who it will be next. It’s a bit disconcerting.”
He is still, obediently, not looking at Lena. And for all her curious examination, there is yet to appear any feature of his face or hair that she would be able to recognize if she ran into him in another context. Honestly he should be in SI:7, with a look like that. Just… so… unremarkable. The kind of person you use as filler to make a scene in a play look crowded.
Lena finishes looking him over and shrugs, turning her attention back to the horse. Still, when she speaks, it’s clearly directed to Crowley. “It bothers you, then, meeting new people? I knew some folks like that before. I’m pretty okay with it, myself, but… do I disconcert you?”
“I am uncomfortable with change in general,” he says, hedging. “It was an appeal of the Seventh Legion. Our people are rarely permanently killed in action. I thought it would stabilize my life, as compared to the chaos of losing half of the Kirin Tor. I was wrong. But… I have committed, and I see my commitments through.”
“Oh,” Lena says sympathetically. “Gosh, that must’ve been rough. If it helps, I’m a survivor too. I don’t reckon I’m actually joining the 7th Legion, at least not today, but I’ve been pretty good so far at being the one left standing, when things go wrong.”
“Not today?” Before he can help himself, his head swivels toward her, but then he quickly looks away. “You might join the 7th? I… we don’t get many warlocks. Captain Tyrrell is a bit of an oddity. He was a mage when High Commander Wyrmbane tapped him to lead a unit. I’ll bet you can guess his specialty.”
“Well, I mean, people in Cobalt have before…” Lena tilts her head, thinking. “Hmm, Captain Tyrrell’s specialty. As a warlock or a mage? If it carried over I’d have to say fire. If you’re not talking about magic then I’d say being in charge.”
Crowley looks gently astonished - or at least his profile does. “Fire? Captain Tyrrell? No, he was a frost mage. Rather an infamous one - his Blizzards were terrifying. He may use felfire now, but you have to admit a room cools a few degrees when he walks into it. But I think that’s fitting in a leader. You don’t want a hothead.”
On that note, Tyrrell’s Eye, which really hopefully is just an Eye and not an Ear, reverses course back toward the Wintergarde gate, implying that they have reached sufficient distance.
“Then what was his easy-to-guess specialty as a mage?” Lena pulls the horse up to stop and swings down. “Telemancy?”
“No,” says Crowley, blinking once. “Frost. Really and truly. But he saw what the warlocks did at Hyjal and… had a change of ambition. He was a frighteningly quick study, but I don’t think Master Sergeant Hall has ever quite gotten over it.” He hesitates. “I think there’s something–”
He vanishes, horse and all.
“Oh!” Lena pulls out the orb hastily and counts fluctuations, her eyebrows furrowing. After taking notes, she swings easily up onto her horse and canters back towards the others.
When Lena arrives, Boles holds out a hand toward Hall, palm up, without looking at her. “Pay up,” she says smugly.
Master Sergeant Hall sighs and slips Boles a few silvers.
Crowley is leaning against a wall looking somewhat limp with relief. There is also a new addition to the little gathering: an enormous frostsaber with its pale blue eyes fixed curiously on the newcomer.
“Sergeant Lazal’dris, you’re up,” says Tyrrell crisply.
The white-haired kaldorei rises from where she was seated in a meditative posture against the wall near Crowley, and pads silently over the frozen ground to vault herself onto the frostsaber’s back. Her violet ears are alert and upright, but she gives no other sign of tension despite the increasing danger of the experiments.
“We’ll ride until the eye stops again?” Lena asks, eyeing the frostsaber. “And I reckon that one’s trained to pace with a horse? I could call a dreadsteed if it’s easier.”
“We are the Seventh Legion,” Lazal’dris says coolly, sounding slightly insulted. “All of us can succeed and thrive under any conditions. Including An’Finel.” She seems to be referring to the saber.
“Same procedure as before,” Tyrrell confirms, perhaps to deflect the kaldorei’s wounded pride. He sends his Eye of Kilrogg in a lazy, almost playful circle around Lena’s horse. Very much at odds with his grave, forbidding facial expression.
Lena grins at the Eye, though she doesn’t look back at Tyrrell himself. Then again, she would know more than most that this is the correct place to meet his gaze. Then she brings her horse about and rides off with Lazal’dris and An’Finel.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Lena says, looking down at her own horse. “Penelope here’s just on loan from Westguard. I reckon she’s battle-tested, though. There’s a scar on her rump looks more like a blade than horse teeth. Still, I picked her because she seemed sweeter than the others. More like a farm horse? I’m used to farm horses. Anyway.” Lena trails off, her cheeks a little pink. “What was the bet about?”
Lazal’dris glances skyward. “Boles will bet on anything. In this case whether you would wait at the spot Crowley left you for your next volunteer, or ride back here. I expect such frivolous behavior from Boles, but one would think that a paladin of the Light such as Master Sergeant Hall would have more dignity.”
The Eye continues to follow them, though its movements are erratic and somehow mischievous; it always tries to stay out of Lazaldris’s eyeline, sometimes making little darting movements when she turns her head quickly. Playing with her, albeit one-sidedly.
“But I needed to,” Lena says, only half her attention on the horse as she watches the eye dart around them. “What if he’d suggested we ride in the other direction? Would’ve been a pain to have to send someone to fetch me. And I dunno, but paladins seem to come in a lot of different types. Some are all uptight, but some seem more like regular folk.”
“Master Sergeant Hall is an admirable young woman,” Lazal’dris says thoughtfully, “but troubled. During the qiraji conflict she attempted to save the corrupted red dragon Vaelastrasz, but in the end he killed her. I was able to resurrect her, but she has not been quite the same since. There used to be a … certain warmth between her and the Captain - perhaps to an inappropriate extent, given chain of command - but now she is strangely cold to him, and he is quick to return the favor. He wept when she died, though; it is the only time I have seen such a thing in the months that I have known him. I wonder sometimes if I know him at all. The others, who have been with him since the beginning, seem to know him, and one another, much better than I understand anyone else in the unit. I was beginning to bond with our new scout, but then she left us. Hall and Boles are very close in particular. Perhaps Hall taking part in her friend’s foolish bet today is a sign that she is beginning to untie whatever knots her death and resurrection made in her soul, and enjoy life once again… if only in small, childish ways.”
“A good sign, then,” Lena says, shooting a smile at Lazal’dris. “I can only imagine what that might feel like, getting killed by someone you’re trying to save. I reckon the dragon died, too? Wonder if part of her problem with the Captain now’s something to do with corruption. How warlocks are basically doomed, eventually. Maybe after seeing how it comes out sometimes, she’s a bit more wary of it. But then, what do I know? Just met her today. Pretty cold to me, too, though, and I’m a warlock.”
“I wish I could enlighten you further about her,” the priestess says sincerely. “But most of the group remains mysterious to me. I like them well enough, except perhaps for our new scout. Sgt. Flipswitch isn’t truly one of us and has no intentions of becoming so. I think he is simply holding the spot so that Sgt. Slipshank may return in time. I am told she gave birth while on leave, and is now attempting to regain an appropriate level of physical fitness. The news was baffling to me. I find it… difficult to imagine her as a mother.”
The Eye speeds ahead of them once they pass the last spot they used for summoning, weaving back and forth, almost dancing, as it leads them further north.
Lena looks away from Lazal’dris and urges her horse to follow the playful eye. “Don’t think I really know your Slipshank much. Guess it was a rough birth? Why wouldn’t you think she’d be a proper mother?”
“She is… not particularly nurturing. Her tongue is nearly as sharp as the Captain’s, which may be why they got on so well. But perhaps motherhood will bring out her softer side. She called me Snowdrop, after a flower she says grows in the colder parts of the Eastern Kingdoms. Boles still calls me that from time to time, though more from love of informality than any affection for Slipshank. She refuses to be civil to either of the new scouts, as she was deeply attached to the original. A kaldorei, they tell me, and universally beloved by the unit. So much so that when the other Sgt. Crowley failed to resurrect her, he was discharged dishonorably and I was called in to replace him.”
The Eye continues to lead the way, picking up the pace a bit and requiring them to spur their mounts to greater efforts. This has the effect of making conversation more difficult, and so Lazal’dris/Snowdrop ceases her generous flow of exposition for the time being.
Eventually they find themselves at a small camp, just a few ragged tents and a few weary-looking men and women in Argent Dawn tabards. The Eye makes a large circle around the camp to highlight it, and then begins to zip back toward its summoner.
Lena raises a cheery hand at the weary-looking people. “Hello! Don’t mind us, just doing warlock things. By which I mean useful, portal-related things.” She points to Lazal’dris with one hand as she reaches in her bag for the orb with the other. “Don’t be startled when she disappears, please. She’ll most likely be fine.”
One of the Argents starts to protest, but then gets an eyeful of Lazal’dris and her 7th Legion colors, and shuts his mouth again. He turns and mutters dourly under his breath to one of his companions, but no one attempts to interfere.
“Are you ready to take the reading?” Lazal’dris asks calmly, despite being about to be yoinked an unprecedented distance through stormy arcane waters. “I suspect Captain Tyrrell will not delay long in beginning the–”
Aaaaaaaand she’s gone.
Lena watches her orb, counting quietly, and then pulls out a notebook to document the event. She frowns at the numbers for a long moment, biting her lip. She traces a line, then squints, and traces a slightly different line. With a sigh, she tucks the notebook and orb away.
Then she glances back up at the Argent Crusaders, and the concern on her face melts away into her usual amiable smile. She nods at them, and says, “Keep up the good work out here!”, before she turns her horse and canters back in the direction of Tyrrell’s team. The smile slips off as she urges the horse faster.
When she arrives back at the entrance to Wintergarde, Lazal’dris is sitting against the wall once more. Tyrrell kneels next to her, a hand bracing her shoulder. “It shouldn’t hurt, no,” he says to her calmly. “Are you still in pain?”
Lazal’dris shakes her head. “No, it’s faded now. But sometimes I have pains in my chest when I become anxious, and it may have been as a result of that rather than the summoning.”
Tyrrell strokes his beard with the hand not on the sergeant’s shoulder. “The data suggest that the summoning shows slight signs of instability at that distance. We may not want to push it much farther. Instead, I think for our final test, Miss Coit will take Sgt. Flipswitch approximately the same distance, but south this time instead of north. Is that acceptable to you?”
He turns his head toward Lena and raises a single inky brow.
“I…” Lena looks down at Lazal’dris in concern, and then meets Tyrrell’s gaze. “I’m not sure. Maybe that point was an outlier? That, or something changed in the trend. But… I think we should see if it’s in all directions the same. And if it’s anxiety.” She shoots the gnome an apologetic glance. “I think we should try it.”
“I didn’t volunteer for this crazy test in the first place!” The ginger gnome folds his arms across his chest. “But I will do it on ONE condition. I want to see ALL the data you’ve collected and I want it all explained to me in detail.”
Tyrrell narrows his eyes. “I have no idea what sort of circus Shaw is running down south, but I must remind you that you are now in the military proper, and when a superior officer gives you an order, you follow that order and do not bargain.” He holds Flipswitch’s eyes until the gnome finally shrinks an extra inch or two, looking contrite. Then he adds casually, “But I see no harm in sharing the data if you’re interested. I’ve nothing in particular to hide.”
“It’s a deal then!” Flipswitch straightens again. “Uh, I mean, yes sir! Or whatever. Let me just run and get my strider.”
He dashes inside the walls of the keep, and Tyrrell rises and crosses the frozen ground toward Lena. “May I see your data?” he asks. (He might as well, he’s seen everything else of hers, amirite.)
Lena nods. (Yes, he has.) She reaches out one hand as if expecting him to help her off the horse, but then hastily shifts it to grab the pommel as she dismounts.
She pulls out her notebook, and moves close beside him as she flips open to the latest page. She traces along a very carefully drawn graph with one finger. "See here? This last one didn't fit the line, but it's not so far off. I hoped maybe I just counted it wrong, though I was careful. But if you saw it on your end… can I see your end?"
Tyrrell pulls out a black leatherbound journal and opens it to the latest page, in which he has jotted down his readings in a neat, slightly jagged hand. He holds the open book for her without letting go of it and watches her face as she looks over the numbers, which paint a similar picture to her own. She can likely feel his gaze on her profile, so intent is it.
Lena brings her finger to hover over his notebook as she goes over the numbers, though she doesn't touch the page. She turns slightly, shifting her gaze up to meet his. "It's real enough, then. But we'll need to try again to be sure. The mages will need the information, or they won't know what to fix."
“Agreed,” he says, and snaps the book shut with a sharp report. He tucks it back into his bag as Flipswitch comes creaking and clanking out of Wintergarde Keep on the back of a garish red-and-gold mechanostrider.
“Mount up and let’s gooo already!” the gnome says in a shrill voice, as though it were he who had been waiting for Lena all this time.
"If your robot can go on its own, you can look over my notes on the way?" Lena offers, stepping back from Zath and swinging smoothly back onto her horse.
“How very kind of you!” squeaks the gnome. “Yes, yes, hand them over, I’ll be an expert by the time we arrive!”
Zath’s glacier-blue eyes glance skyward, but he says nothing further to Flipswitch. He lays a hand on the flank of Lena’s horse and looks up at her.
“Last one,” he says, “and then you’re free to head back to – Westguard was it?”
"Mmhm," Lena looks down at him. "Or Fort Wildevar, if they've got it ready. Westguard's a bit close to a… corrupting place. I'm eager to move on."
Tyrrell nods seriously. “I’ll send my Eye with you again. I’m going to lead you straight south through the hills to avoid the necropolis, but I’ll stop you before you get to the Forsaken settlement. Do be cautious, as you won’t have your usual squad with you to back you up if you get into trouble, and I’m not certain how much help Sgt. Flipswitch will be.”
“Hey!” says Flipswitch, scowling.
“Off with you,” Tyrrell says gruffly.
"I'll be careful," Lena nods. "I'll call the demons, if I need. And anyway you'll see, if anything happens."
She sidesteps her horse over to Flipswitch and hands him her notebook, then urges the horse south. She keeps an eye on the gnome as they ride, just in case he gets too into the data and falls.
He seems to be very good at keeping a grip on the mechanostrider with his short little legs while he grasps the (to him) large notebook in both of his four-fingered hands. “Hmmm,” he says to himself. “Yes, yes, makes perfect sense, of course.” Something about his manner seems to suggest that he’d say the same if the notebook were upside down. Nonetheless, he remains absorbed in the notebook through most of the ride.
Tyrrell’s Eye is leading them more sedately now, swiftly but in a straight line, all business. Perhaps it’s the more generally foreboding feeling about this section of the landscape. They can’t help but glimpse the looming shape of a distant necropolis off to their left, and before long they come in sight of the Forsaken settlement Tyrrell mentioned, which looks far from welcoming to the living.
The Eye comes to an abrupt stop, then drifts over to hover directly in front of Lena’s face. Slowwwwly, slowwwwly, it comes closer, and then abruptly it gives her nose a boop and sails away northward. It felt a bit like having one’s nose booped by a swarm of ants, disturbing but not painful.
Lena makes a surprised and undignified squeak before the eye sails away. Then she giggles, one hand over her mouth.
Flipswitch clanks over, extending the notebook back to Lena to take. “Fascinating reading!” he says. “Though your handwriting could use some improvement.”
"So says everybody," Lena shrugs, taking the notebook. "Not something I really worried about much till the warlocking started. So many diagrams and they all got to be just so perfect. Or you get killed by a demon, or some such."
She glances nervously at the Forsaken settlement, and then back at the gnome. "We've been real careful about the summoning though. I mean, blue dragons and all, but it's as safe as it can be, right?"
“Personally I think this is just Captain Tyrrell’s way of–”
Lena never gets to find out what Flipswitch thinks Tyrrell is actually trying to do, because he abruptly vanishes, mechanostrider and all.
Lena hastily pulls put the sparkling orb, watching it and murmuring under her breath. As she watches, her face pales.
This time, she puts the orb away and turns her horse immediately toward the camp. But then she hesitates, and reluctantly flips open her notebook.
"If I forget before I write it down," she murmurs, "then it's for nothing."
The data recorded, she tucks the notebook safely in her bag. Then she twists in her saddle and urges Penelope directly to a canter with a sharp kick. The horse takes off like a bolt, surprised by this behavior in her usually-gentle rider. Lena falls into the rhythm of the horse's stride as they fly over the distance to Tyrell and his team.
When she arrives at Wintergarde Keep, she finds the entire 6th E.U. huddled in a circle around something on the ground.
“It’s no use,” Lazal’dris says tensely. “Even if I bring him back, I cannot – I cannot undo what’s been done to his form. It is… not a type of injury the body naturally recognizes. We should let his soul move on.”
“Presuming ‘e ‘as one,” says Boles.
“Lieutenant!” snaps Tyrrell. “For that profound disrespect for a fallen comrade, you will be the one to write to his family. And I will approve the letter before it is sent, no matter how many tries it takes you. You’d best get started.”
Boles narrows her eyes, but stands up and gives Tyrrell a smart salute before heading into the Keep.
Tyrrell turns away from the center of the circle, rubbing at his eyes wearily with one hand. When he drops his hand he spots Lena, and moves toward her swiftly to intercept.
“You’d best not look at what became of Flipswitch,” he says. “It seems there is more work for the Kirin Tor to do.”
“I said I thought we should,” Lena says, breathing shallowly, as she looks over towards the huddle of 7th Legion. “Lazal’dris got through alright.”
Tyrrell reaches out to take her horse’s reins, running a palm over the white zigzag line down the bridge of its nose. “The responsibility is mine,” he says calmly. “If I’d had any doubts, I would not have gone through with it. Neither of us could have foreseen that a change in direction would make a difference; the previous data were sensible and predictable enough. It seems that summoning will be impractical until the Kirin Tor can make a more permanent end to the cause of the ley line disruption. The only distances at which it seems predictably safe are easy enough to traverse on horseback.”
He raises his eyes to study her for a moment.
Lena takes a deep breath, blinks back what might be tears, and sets her mouth into a grim line. She looks into his eyes and says in an even tone, “It’s not only yours. But we got the data, so maybe they can find a way to keep this from happening again. Even if that’s only by stopping the dragons.”
He continues to study her. “Would you like me to ride back with you? I did not intend for this experiment to leave you so shaken.””
Lena shifts back in the saddle, looking at Tyrrell in surprise. “I know you haven’t got a lot of time.”
“I had already allotted time for the experiment and to deal with any… aftermath,” he says. “It shouldn’t be a long ride, hm? Lt. Boles is going to write to the gnome’s family, and the others can prepare his body for transport by ship while I see you safely back to Westguard.”
“I say we burn et!” Blackale has wandered up within conversational distance, her normally ruddy complexion rather pale. “Better fer his family t’get a jar of ashes than that abomination.” She gestures behind her; there is just enough gap in the huddle now for Lena to get a glimpse of– oh dear. Flipswitch’s bones appear to be on the outside now, and inside them is a muddled gory mess.
“If you wish,” says Tyrrell calmly. “Please do it in as respectful a manner as you can, however, and have Lazal’dris… say a prayer of some sort. I do not know what if any gods he revered, but some amount of solemnity seems appropriate to his sacrifice.”
“We’ll take care of it, Cap’n,” says Blackale with a crisp salute.
Lena makes a small ‘oh’ of dismay when she catches a glimpse of the body, but then settles back into something similar to calmness.
She turns back to Tyrrell and nods. “Then I’d thank you for it. Might be difficult to ride back alone.”
Tyrrell nods and almost absently summons his felsteed, which materializes with a deeply evil scream. Unperturbed, Tyrrell vaults himself into the saddle and takes up the accursed reins.
“Lead on,” he says to Lena. “I will stay beside you until we arrive safely.”
Lena urges her horse to head to the east, on a path that will avoid necropoli and Forsaken, unless they’ve moved since she came out to meet the 7th Legion.
“I do still summon my felsteed,” Lena says, as they head off, as if she feels she owes an explanation. “So I’m not out of practice. It’s only, you know Cobalt Company’s a bit wary of warlocks. Most people are a bit wary of warlocks, to be honest. They seemed relieved when I took Penelope on loan one day, so I just… kept her. She’s a good horse.”
“It is prudent,” says Tyrrell reflectively, “for most warlocks to avoid alarming others when there is no need to do so. I rather take the opposite approach, as it suits me to cultivate fear and uncertainty. It takes time for my colleagues in the 7th to develop affection and loyalty toward me, and so in the interim it can be useful to leave them feeling terrified of my wrath.”
He slants her a smile, keeping his felsteed paced alongside her horse. Something in his gaze suggests that he has more to say, and is trying to sort out exactly how to say it in the silence.
“So we are … colleagues now, hm?” he says finally. “If not precisely equals. You haven’t a command of your own, but you are in illustrious company, for certain.”
Lena thinks before answering, then turns to look back over at him. “I think so. I’ve been on the forward squad for months now. And I rather got the sense you didn’t think I needed lessons anymore. At least, not on the basics, I’m not saying there’s not lots more to learn. But isn’t that just life? So colleagues, yes, though I’m not in charge of my team.” She smiles back at him, and tilts her head. “Why do you ask? Is there more up in Dragonblight you might want another warlock for?”
“Oh, quite possibly,” he says. “We shall see.” He rides in silence for a moment, again with that quality of sorting out his words in his head before saying them aloud. “It didn’t seem right to discuss certain matters of your history while I was your instructor,” he finally says decisively. “Especially given my… involvement in them. But I wanted to say that… I am sorry. That you were forced into such a position by your circumstances, and that I took advantage. It was a difficult time. For both of us, I imagine. I appreciate your putting it behind you and giving me respect as an instructor despite my – less than gentlemanly previous conduct. But you may be honest with me if you would prefer we did not interact further. If it reminds you of things you would rather leave behind.”
“No, that’s not…” Lena starts, then falls silent, taking her own turn to sort out her thoughts on this unexpected change of topic. Then she turns slightly to look at him as she answers. “I’m not ashamed of having been a whore. I play it down the same way I play down being a warlock sometimes, because people react a certain way. And you know, I learned that bit back then, that you’ve got to keep a hold on how people see you. Like for you, fear and uncertainty to hold over till they respect you. For me, I try to be harmless and sweet, till they forget the parts of me that aren’t. I think I ought to change that a bit now, but habits are hard to break.” She rests her hands on the saddle, holding the reins loosely. “You didn’t take anything from me that I wasn’t offering.”
He slants her a sidelong look. “I hate myself for even asking,” he says dryly, “but curiosity compels me. Did you… enjoy your work? You can’t have, surely, or you would still be in the trade. You must have been treated poorly. Not by me, certainly, at least not intentionally. But do the memories… trouble you?”
“There’s a lot of memories that trouble me,” Lena says evenly. “Some from then, some from before or after. But they’re all part of my life, right? Troubling or not. And it’s not like anyone who knew me back then is like to let me forget it, anyway. But as to your first question… I wouldn’t say enjoy. I don’t think that’s the right word. I didn’t mind it so much, usually. There were…. some pretty bad times, but that wasn’t the norm. And there were some times I just didn’t want to… well, it doesn’t matter. But I never meant to do that forever.”
Tyrrell nods, and looks away, ahead onto the path. “Well, I feel sorry for my part in it. Especially now that fate has thrown us together in another context. I agree that you have no reason to feel ashamed. But I suppose I do. For not… engaging with the reality of you, for projecting onto you what I needed at the time. You and I were simply means to one another’s ends. Not uncommon, in transactions with people, but sometimes fate forces one to see a person in a different light, and that light reflects poorly on past choices.”
He says all of this in the same cool, haughty, slightly sardonic tone that he says almost everything, so much so that it’s a bit jarring to realize he has just admitted to feeling shame.
Lena watches him in profile as he speaks, like she’s trying to piece together the incongruent tone, body language, and meaning. “Back then, I would never have guessed half of what was ahead of me, so I don’t blame you for not paying me much mind. But… thank you, for not using all that to think less of me. I made my choices, same as you, even if I had fewer to choose from at the time.”
“No man who uses a whore has the right to think poorly of whores,” Tyrrell says with more than usual venom. Then, more lightly, he adds, “Besides, I have so many other valid reasons to think poorly of you. Your grammar is atrocious, and it most certainly isn’t from a lack of hearing proper speech. And let us not even begin to discuss your dreadfully coarse sense of humor. You’re a solid warlock, though, I’ll give you that. You must have had excellent teaching.”
Lena gives a brief laugh of surprise. “I’m so pleased to hear you’ve put time into thinking through my qualities, or lack of them.” She turns to him with a too-innocent smile and adds, “Who do you credit with the excellent teaching, Captain? Calduin Bennett?”
“That limp dishrag? He’s a child afraid of his own shadow. No, no, I was referring to that most distinguished gentleman who truly inspired you to the greatness you have achieved. The terribly handsome, charming genius who haunts your girlish dreams. I refer of course to Pippinlopper. Women do love pink, don’t they?”
Now he tries to give her an innocent look, but he’s very, very bad at it. He turns it into a slightly demonic smile.
“And yes, I have put some time into thinking of you,” he says in one of his typical swerves of subject. “But I doubt you would approve of my thoughts, as they are tawdry and terribly trite. I shall endeavor to find trains of thought more worthy of us both, unless of course you’re secretly yearning to pull over the horses and repeat history in the freezing cold and without pay. No? Ah, such a pity.”
He turns his gaze forward again and gives his felsteed a nudge forward so that he’s riding just a bit ahead of her.
Lena falls a little further behind, as Penelope concludes that her rider is not paying attention and it’s time to slack off. It’s true that she’s not paying attention to her horse, but it’s only because she’s staring after the dark-haired man riding ahead of her, trying to figure out what exactly just happened.
After a few minutes pass, she urges her horse to pick up the pace, and pulls up beside him. Casting a sidelong glance in his direction, she says lightly, “In the freezing cold? I heard you were a frost mage, but damn.”
“Ah, have my underlings been gossiping about me?” he says just as lightly. “I shudder to think what else they might have told you. But yes, I was a mage at one time, quite a celebrated one - with the Kirin Tor, in fact, which may be one reason they trusted me with this little experiment, more the fools they. I did leave on relatively good terms. But I would venture to say I found that life as tedious as you must have found your former profession. It similarly involved pretending to endure or even admire too many people I found revolting. Wyrmbane scarcely batted an eye when I changed my vocation, for all his usual high principles. I think he may have a soft spot for me. We go back quite a long way.”
“Sounds like it,” Lena takes a breath. “When I decided to be a warlock, I had to justify it to pretty much everyone. Would be nice to have folks just accept a thing, for once.” She smiles faintly and adds, “As for what else they told me, I think I’ll just let that be a mystery for now. If you want to make a guess, you’re welcome to.”
“You think you’re clever don’t you,” Tyrrell says, glancing over at her with an arched brow. “You and I both know that an incorrect guess will tell you something you didn’t know already, while costing you nothing at all. If there’s something you wish to know, your best bet is to ask me straightforwardly. Allow me to show you how it’s done, since you seem unfamiliar with the process.” He turns his head to meet her gaze directly, eyes as blue as a death knight’s. “Why did you decide to become a warlock? Surely it wasn’t the only alternate career available to you.”
Lena draws back from the intensity, but doesn't turn away. "It was the only one at hand that was likely to give me what I needed. A livelihood. The power to keep myself safe."
“At hand?” he echoes dubiously. “The powers of the fel were just… lying about, waiting for you to pick them up?”
"Well, in a sense," Lena says, with a faint smile. "A library was at hand, and I can read. A library owned by a warlock who never considered I might have that kind of determination. Or ability. Or intelligence. Otherwise I reckon he'd have kept it locked."
Tyrrell frowns and looks ahead on the path, clearly deep in thought. His expression suggests that he might be doing some sort of complex math in his head. Then an answer-found light goes on in his eyes, and he says, without looking at her, “Kade Morrow.”
"Yeah, that was him," Lena glances at Tyrrell in surprise. "Did you know him well? Or that I was… that we were a thing?"
“I did not know him well,” Tyrrell says coolly, “but I knew of him, and I had enough information to wonder if you were the ‘fallen woman’ who was linked to him in gossip… and now I’ve prompted you to give confirmation. You see? Two can play that little game.” He seems less than pleased with his victory, judging by his slightly sour expression.
Lena shifts back in her saddle, glancing forward on the road. "Anyway, that's long over. Should've been over sooner, maybe. Does that answer your question well enough?"
“It raises a number of other questions,” he says dryly, “but there’s no need for me to lay your entire sordid history bare in a single afternoon. The conversation has, at the very least, been a welcome diversion from thinking about the poor gnome I managed to turn inside out.” He lets out a little sigh, as though he were discussing having broken a fishing pole. “Shaw is going to be rather put out with us, which means Wyrmbane may be put out with us as well. Pray for me, if you’re the praying sort.”
"Prayer's not usually my thing, but I'll hope for you," Lena says, her face falling a little at the reminder of Flipswitch. "If it helps, we've got some good scouts in Cobalt. I mean there's…" Lena frowns. "…at least there's Sil, up in Westguard. Can't think who else nearby."
Westguard itself is ahead, the familiar buildings coming into view. Lena turns to Tyrrell and says, "Thanks for riding with me. It helped to get my mind off things, too. If we… talk again, I'm sure I've got plenty more sordid history to lay bare. Though I suppose I still only know a little of yours, too."
“Have we not bared more than enough to one another?” Tyrrell asks airily, gazing at the structures of Westguard as though addressing them. Before she can answer, he changes the subject yet again. “We could use the services of a temporary scout, though the position does seem to be cursed. Have your ‘Sil’ forward along paperwork if he enjoys curses. It would not be a recruitment into the 7th Legion, mind you; he’d simply be keeping an open position warm until Slipshank returns or they train someone new for us, whichever comes first. Try to stay out of trouble, or at least out of the sort that is whispered as a cautionary tale for new warlocks. You know where to find me.”
With that, he wheels his felsteed around and rides away without an actual farewell.
Lena turns to see him go, raising one hand halfway in farewell before she rests it wordlessly back on the pommel. She watches for a while after he passes out of sight, deep in thought. Then she turns back to face forward, ready to ride back into Westguard.