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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Five writing prompt response scenes from history ranging from the Second War to the present, showing how Syarra Sunstrike has been shaped by world events. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Sunstrike Story
Trapped
It is the quiet that wakes her. Aszera stares up at the ceiling, tangled in bedsheets, and listens for her parents getting ready for the day, the sounds and scents of the morning. Nothing. Has she slept that late? It’s a process, disentangling herself, made more challenging by the draped semi-transparent silks from the night before. Really an evening look, she should change before she goes downstairs.
Aszera swallows as she finally gets her feet to the floor. Her throat is dry and the cloying taste of black lotus is still on her tongue. She rubs at an eye and curses idly when she sees the smeared mascara on her hand, and then runs her fingers through her hair. Straight, all the curls already fallen flat. Not for the first time, there’s a twinge of jealousy for Syarra’s waves. Her older sister isn’t even doing anything with them, her and her boring little braids. It’s not fair.
Her hand drifts down to her sternum and she catches her breath. Where is it? She spins, digging through the bedding, but her fingers find nothing but the usual linens. Her necklace. The one of gold with genuine star rubies. Had it fallen off last night? The evening had gotten pretty hazy, especially in the later hours, but surely she wouldn’t… surely…
Curling up on the bed, Aszera makes a soft moan, squeezing shut eyes that prick with tears. She wouldn’t have even worn it, except Thalessa had been so sneery about costume jewelry last time. The peasants and their cheap jewels and… it isn’t replaceable, not anytime soon, not by Aszera. And she can’t go back to the Summerwind house and ask them to look. Aszera clenches her teeth at the thought of going as a supplicant, begging for her own things.
“Just be more charming,” she murmurs to herself, pulling her knees in tight. “Maybe someone will give you something better…”
The hope is a faint one, especially next to the dread of having to explain how she lost something so valuable and why she can’t… wait. There is a way around it. She’ll ask Elivia. Elivia grew up with this shit, she’ll be able to navigate whatever social rituals are needed to retrieve the necklace without losing face. Or if it’s not possible, she probably knows the Summerwind house layout, so she can help in breaking in to take the damn thing back.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Aszera says, something in her heart easing as she finally gets out of bed and stretches.
Now it’s time to put her best face on, for whatever comes ahead. First, literally, washing off the wreckage of last night’s makeup and painting fresh. Brushing out her straight, waist-length hair until it falls silkily over her shoulders. Clothes in this season’s fashion – soft ankle boots and leggings under a purple and gold streamer skirt, topped by a matching shirt that covers little more than a bra. Then the jewelry, golden chains around her waist and wrists and neck.
By the time she’s done, she’s fully forgotten what woke her up in the first place. When she goes downstairs and sees the silent, undisturbed kitchen, she remembers. Weird. Did she sleep so late that her father’s at work already? But her mother would still be here…
Aszera tries to remember the night before. She’s pretty sure she came in by her secret window. She’s not a child, avoiding parents, but she does try to be respectful when she goes and returns so late. Were her parents here, asleep? Were they somewhere else? Syarra was out killing trolls or some other nonsense, in her strict little braid and her unfashionable armor.
“Good morning,” Aszera says to the empty house, and then heads for the door. Just in case they are somewhere out of sight, she calls out as she leaves, “I’m going to go find Liv at the Golden Bough and get some breakfast.”
Aszera makes it two steps out of the door before she falls still, staring up at the sky. Well, not exactly the sky, but rather the magical barrier that obscures it. Something strikes it, a flash of fire, and is absorbed, as a large shadow passes overhead. She looks around, confused, at the empty street.
“Sun above,” she says, a quiet curse, and hurries towards the cafe. It’s still open, and she grabs her usual honey pastry before looking for a table. Elivia isn’t there, nor are most of the daily crowd. Lani Rosewing sits at one table, and Aszera nods at her before sliding into the opposing seat.
“What’s happening?” Aszera asks without preamble. “Do you know?”
“We’re being attacked by dragons,” Lani says, staring at her. “You didn’t know? Were you not listening to Aelus last night? Did you not notice the…” she gestures vaguely at the sky.
“I was indoors,” Aszera says defensively. “And then it was dark, and I… that’s not the point. Aelus… he was the one raving about how the Amani had teamed up with monster ‘horks’ who came through a magic doorway? I just thought he was mixing too many things, honestly.”
“No, he was delivering news,” Lani shrugs. “Not much we could do about it anyway, so no reason to interrupt the party. I’m just a tailor, after all, and you’re just a…” there’s a subtle pause, enough to imply a reconsidering of her choice of word, “…dancer. The news was why Liv left the party, anyway. She’s probably at the border now, healing up the defenders as they make it home.”
“Liv… left?” Aszera says slowly. Did she know that?
Lani stares at Aszera for a long moment, and then laughs. “Honestly, Sunstrike, you’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I need to find her,” Aszera says, pushing back from the table, suddenly uninterested in the pastry, as well as the missing necklace.
“You can’t do anything,” Lani repeats, staring at her.
“My sister’s out in that,” Aszera says sharply, sweeping an arm towards the barrier. “Liv’s handling people coming back injured, like my sister. I’m going to find Liv, and then we’re going to find Yara, and they’ll be safe.” Whatever is in Aszera’s expression, it’s enough to make Lani draw back, an unfamiliar wariness in her eyes.
Aszera stalks out into the street again, and pauses to look up at the shimmering barrier. The barrier her parents have made for her, along with the other mages. Syarra is out there fighting to keep her safe. Elivia is calling on her Light to heal the wounded. And what is she doing? It is as if she went to sleep in one world and has awakened into another. A world where she is… irrelevant.
Aszera clenches her fists, fingernails digging into her palms. First things first. She will find them. They’ll be safe. They have to be.
Training Montage
Aszera tries to remember the footwork, like it's choreography, as she smiles hopefully at her partner. Her sparring partner. Her older sister. Syarra has clearly set herself at maximum intimidating, her hair pulled back in a severe braid, her expression as grim as someone facing a whole army of Amani and horks and hoggres, or whatever they were called. Aszera has done her best to look the part too, even though her own hair doesn’t tie up as tidily, even though she doesn’t really own sparring clothes. She stole some of her sister’s.
She watches Syarra carefully, and the smile grows more certain. This, she can do. She’s a professional dancer, a follow. How many thousands of hours has she spent on the dance floor over the last century, learning to read intention and action from her partner’s breath, the slightest tensing of a muscle? Letting the energy flow from them to her, becoming a part of it, entwined. Bodies in motion. Some are harder to read than others. Some are easier. And some are Syarra. Sun above, but she’s announcing every move, every strike.
Aszera barely pays attention as she lets herself complement her partner, moving in this dance that is apparently combat. Step, step, step, tap. No wait, not Amar’uel. Step, step, step, block. Just following, no thoughts. Block, block. And then Syarra pushes, not good for a dance partner, she’ll ruin Aszera’s balance. Syarra pauses and pulls back, just as Aszera starts to wobble.
“[You may attack],” Syarra says in Common, moving into a defensive position. “[You’re unlikely to hurt me, not with these weapons.]”
Aszera stares at Syarra blankly for a moment, and her sword arm drops, already a little tired. She’s fit enough from dancing, but there’s not a lot of upper body weight-lifting involved in her preferred styles. Then the words wiggle around to make sense in her brain. Right, language training, too. She nods and answers in Thalassian. “I don’t think I’ve ever attacked anyone before? Or at least not with the intention of actually harming them.”
Though it was fun, on occasion. A little violence wasn’t always unwelcome, in certain situations, as long as it ended in sweetness.
‘[Common],” Syarra insists, shifting her stance. “[Practice Common, for our allies.]”
“[Right, Common. I’m better at… to follow, following,]” Aszera says, the blade dropping further as her mind moves away from combat and towards conjugation. Conjugation and curse words. “Not that, I mean… [But our allies are not here now, the war fucking ends. Ended.]”
The word choice has the intended effect. Syarra winces, because of course [fucking] means sex, and Syarra is nothing if not so adorably shy about such things. Syarra was a little scary sometimes – Aszera might actually be afraid of her, if she didn’t know what buttons to push to make her sister blush and flounder.
Aszera swings an attack towards Syarra, maybe not her best styling ever. Still, it matches what Syarra taught her as a strike well enough. Syarra steps aside easily, and Aszera spins around to attack again. Faster is better, maybe. She keeps her center of balance beneath her. Step, step, step, tap, amar’uel.
“[Well, this war ended,]” Syarra says. “[We’ll be ready for the next. When our allies call, we will answer.]”
Slow, quick, quick, ban’dalare. Syarra isn’t following the footwork perfectly, like maybe she didn’t expect these kinds of weight transfers. Well, all the better.
“[Next war, in a hundred years,]” Aszera says lightly, and does a little cha-cha, using it to feint her weight in one direction and then strike from the other. “[We have time.]”
Syarra deflects the blade with her own, and then she seems to catch on. She asks, “[Are you dancing with me? Did you just… swish your hips?]”
“[What?]” Aszera asks, and she is not going to laugh. Sun above, but she can’t laugh into that serious face. Syarra really might kill her with that blunted blade. “[Maybe you do not see me clearly.]”
Slow, quick, quick, and cross-body step, and Aszera taps her on the side with her open hand. Syarra spins like she’s looking for a surprise enemy, raising her sword. Aszera is not going to laugh. This is serious. Syarra does everything serious.
“[If I had a dagger. Please say…]” Aszera starts. Then she frowns, trying to work out the grammar. She gives up for now, switches to Thalassian. “…please tell me you’re not going to let a hork kill you, just because they didn’t follow the forms you know.”
“Orc,” Syarra says in Thalassian, and now it’s time for another obvious attack. Aszera blocks it. “They’re called orcs. And of the two of us, I’m the one who’s actually been in combat before. I’m following the forms to help you learn, not because I lack creativity.”
“Sure, but I think I’ve already learned those steps,” Aszera’s levity evaporates, and she returns to her careful study of her partner. Following, following. She could do this all day. Or at least until her arms gave out, which actually might not be all that much longer now. “How long do we need to spar anyway? I’d like to get a little time to freshen up before we head to the Lynx and Laurel for drinks.”
Syarra pauses, lowering her sword, and stares at her blankly. “Before we do what?”
“You know, to meet up with your friends,” Aszera says, and there’s a petulant little sting there. Did Syarra not want her to join? She hadn’t meant for her to know about the meetup? “Kelranis told me.”
Syarra goes still, and her expression doesn’t change. “Ah. I… hadn’t heard.”
Aszera’s stomach clenches, and she doesn’t say anything for a moment. She is so good at following bodies in motion, and then people have to go and complicate things with feelings. Syarra can block every sword strike, but Aze hadn’t even realized her words were a strike until she saw the blow hit. Why would Kelranis do that, when Syarra is his friend? Her shoulders curl a little, as she realizes she can think of a few reasons.
If only Aszera could take back her words, but unfortunately conversation doesn’t work that way, unless one is a bronze dragon. Sympathy would be unwelcome, especially from her. But she can’t just…
“Well,” Aszera says, aiming for a casual tone. “If you’re not going, I’m certainly not going. We can stick together, find a better party.”
Syarra shakes her head, taking a step back and staring at her with a face like a stone wall. “I don’t think your parties are the kind you bring an elder sister to.”
“I mean, they could be,” Aszera tries to read something in that face, some kind of relenting. She steps towards her, careless of the sword. She wouldn’t bring Syarra to an orgy. She might send Syarra to an orgy, sure, but that would definitely be more of a solo adventure. “Not every party ends in a… I can find us a good one.”
“Can you,” Syarra says flatly, in a voice of cold steel. “You must realize the nobles don’t see you as an equal, not truly. I don’t like it, the way you let them treat you like some kind of amusement.”
That’s… fair. Hurt for hurt. Yes, some of the nobles are insufferable. Yes, some of them look down on her. But she does have an actual career. And she doesn’t just let them… she might not have love, but she has standards. She brushes all that behind her, shaking her head.
“What does it matter?” Aszera asks, trying to keep her voice light. “As long as I’m enjoying myself.”
That was, apparently, too much to say. Syarra attacks. Aszera manages to get her sword up in time, but this isn’t like before. Syarra doesn’t protect her balance, like a good dance partner would, but breaks it. Aszera falls backward, deliberately loosening her muscles to soften the landing. She doesn’t get up, just sits there, looking up at Syarra towering over her with a face somewhere between stone and a storm cloud.
“You can’t just reflect me,” Syarra says sharply. “We’re not dancing. In a fight, you’re facing an enemy, not a partner.”
“Except that we’re sparring, so it’s all fake,” Aszera says warily, staring up into the storm. She reaches out for Syarra, for her sister. “You and I are on the same side, aren’t we? Against whoever else.”
Syarra reaches down to help her to her feet, and her expression softens. She nods, and repeats quietly, “Against whoever else.”
Obedience
It’s a different world, one with a fel-tinged sky, where the light never really reaches the true brightness of day. A dark and alien structure rises at one end of the training courtyard, odd architectural shapes reaching high above. And yet, down here on the loose, poisoned grey dirt, the sounds of sparring are familiar enough to offset the strangeness. It’s enough to remind Aszera of the endless hours with her sister, and then with others, as she shaped herself, her skills.
Aszera takes a seat at the sidelines, next to a pale-haired sin’dorei woman, Maelith Dawnsteel, who watches the active pairings with avid interest. At the sound, her gaze flickers to the other woman.
“Aze. You might have won, if you’d been a little quicker, dodging that last kick,” Maelith says, turning to address her. “He was tiring quickly.”
“Sure, Mae,” Aszera touches her side, where the bruise will be later, and gives a weary nod. She’s not in her sister’s style of armor, but flexible leather, sized to fit her own shape like a glove. Her hair, cut to chin length, might be as sleek as always, but there’s not enough of it to be a liability in a fight. She gives a grimace of a smile and adds, “Just one more in the series of ‘Aze fights the biggest and strongest’. I don’t know if Varedis has it in for me, or maybe he’s just a sadist, or…”
“Or he sees you have potential,” Maelith points out, leaning in a little. “I’ve been watching, and I see it too. You’re good, obviously, but you could be better. He’s just sharpening you.”
“Now I know how a kitchen knife feels,” Aszera says dryly, and then continues, “Besides, he doesn’t see anything, or I don’t know how blindfolds work. Maybe he just likes the pleasing rhythm of my steps. You know, punctuated by my falling in the fucking dirt.”
“But less, each time,” Mae says with a faint smile, turning back to the sparring matches, her calculating gaze tracking strengths and weaknesses. “Oh, and did you hear the news about Shattrath?”
“What news?” Aszera asks sharply. “Tell me. Are the draenei planning something?”
Maelith shakes her head, and says, a little theatrically, “It’s a tale of betrayal. Ours, I suppose.”
“I… what?” Aszera blinks at her. “We’ve been here – we haven’t betrayed anybody in Shattrath.”
“Exactly, we’ve been here,” Maelith says with a wry smile. “And the news on the street, or I should rather say the grimy Shadowmoon dirtpath, is that the Prince attempted to invade. He was expecting backup from our side, but Stormrage didn’t provide it.”
Aszera pales, rocking back onto her heels. “What the… is he alright? What happened?”
“That’s the strange part,” Maelith says, turning to Aszera. “The Prince’s army defected. Voren’thal had them join the draenei, I heard.”
“No fucking way,” Aszera says, her gaze fixed on the ground. “How… why?” she shakes her head. “What are we even doing here?”
“What does that mean?” Maelith asks, her eyebrows rising.
“Does the Prince even have an army anymore?” Aszera says, her breath coming more quickly as she starts to curl her shoulders protectively. “We were supposed to help Lordaeron, and everything went all – I thought we were all following him. He said take the portal, so we took the portal. And then he said serve Illidan Stormrage, so we’re here, you and me. But if Illidan betrayed him, should we go back to the Sunfury? Only, the Sunfury also betrayed him, so… what… how do we…”
“Hey, look at me,” Maelith says, grabbing the sides of Aszera’s face and turning it to meet her gaze. “Stop it. You’re getting all tangled up. It’s not that complicated. Your last orders were to be here, to learn Stormrage’s special techniques. You’re here. We don’t have to figure any of this shit out, we just do as we’re told. Right?”
Aszera pulls in a breath, and nods her head with a touch of reluctance.
“Sunstrike,” Varedis calls, and the two of them pull hastily apart to look at the blonde-haired, blindfolded sin’dorei trainer. He gestures to a very well-built kaldorei woman, glowering in the arena, still breathing hard from her last victory. “I want you against Moonscar.”
Aszera smiles at Varedis and whispers to Maelith, “One of the kaldorei, again?! A-fucking-gain!? She has two feet and forty pounds of muscle on me.”
“Being sharpened,” Maelith says back, and her smile has an edge of amusement to it. “If you don’t like it, you could always see if Mother Shahraz has a position open.”
“No,” Aszera stiffens, and rises to her feet, already flexing her muscles, limbering up for the fight ahead. “You’re right. I’ll be faster. Sharper. If she doesn’t taste dirt, she’ll at least have a few bruises to remember me by.”
“That’s the spirit,” Maelith says, settling back in, ready to watch the show.
“Sunstrike,” Varedis shouts again. “Don’t make me wait.”
My Own Way
It is a lovely autumn afternoon in Nagrand, sunlight streaming over the healthy trees and grasslands, with animals peacefully grazing. All of this beauty is entirely lost on Aszera Sunstrike, a blindfolded figure in worn leather armor, picking her way cautiously along the path to the west. She’s alone with her thoughts. They are, as usual these days, very loud.
As she walks, arms crossed over her torso, her mind is occupied by ghosts. Not a real haunting or possession, nor a complete accounting of all those she’s slain or wronged. Just fragments, flashes. The achingly familiar quel’dorei dead, shambling through Eversong woods. Her father’s face, with someone else behind his eyes. Her sister, alone in an empty house. Maelith in flames, and the brief moment of recognition before the blade pierced her heart.
All the worst moments of her life, memories of loss and helplessness and shame. The instruments of torture the demon utilized, while she’d been unconscious and fighting for her soul. The demon’s message was clear: You have nothing, You are nothing, Give in. But she didn’t then, and she won’t now. Having nothing, being nothing, those are temporary states. She’s already moving on.
That’s what this is about. Finding the tools to move on.
Altruis spots her before she spots him. That’s expected – it’s still hard for her to make sense of the chaos of swirling energies that makes up her vision now. By the time she’s located the particular little swirl that means demon hunter, he’s waiting for her with weapons bared. She raises empty hands, puts on her most charming smile as she walks closer.
“Stop where you are, Illidari,” Altruis says coldly. “You’re not welcome here.”
“I’m not Illidari,” Aze says, pausing but not dropping her smile. “Left that bunch. Ideological differences, just like you. I thought since we’re so alike, maybe we could team up, share techniques and all that.”
“No,” Altruis says simply, and he doesn’t lower his weapons. “I will let you leave here alive, but only if you go now. You’re not the first that Illidan has sent this way. I respect the man for who he was, but he has become the very thing he hates. Tell him that, when you see him next.”
“I’m not going to see him, next or fucking ever if I can help it,” Aze insists, and she takes a step closer. “Look, I just… I just need a little help, alright? There’s a few things I didn’t pick up before I decided to part ways. Is there anything you need? I have friends, contacts, and I could see what I can do.”
“This is your last warning, Illidari,” Altruis says, shifting his stance in preparation for combat. “Leave, or face your end.”
“My end, really?” Aze says, and she draws her swords. She matches his stance, and mirrors his steps as he circles her. He flashes forward gracefully with a strike, and she steps aside, and then… falters to a stop. The smile fades, and she drops her swords on the ground. “My end, then. You can kill me now, or kill me by turning me away.”
That does give him pause, but only for a moment. Then he strikes again. Aze stands still, clenching her fists, gritting her teeth against all the instincts that scream at her to fight back with everything she has. The instincts that aren’t hers. His attack lands on her undefended body and she falls to the ground heavily, his glaive at her throat.
Aze holds her breath.
After a long moment, he steps back.
“You have self-control, which is a mark in your favor,” Altruis says grudgingly. “But any one of Illidan’s zealots would die at his command. I do not trust you.”
Aze lets out her breath, but doesn’t rise. “I told you who I am. I don’t know what else to say.”
“The truth,” Altruis says. “Not what you think I want to hear, or what will win me to your side. Speak the truth, and I will judge for myself.”
Aze sits up, rubbing her throat, and then she pulls her knees into her chest. She is silent for a long time, considering her words, but Altruis waits for her.
“It’s not that complicated,” Aze says first. “I left for probably the same reasons you did, but I left a little too early. I just need a few pointers, and I can give – “ she winces. “I said that already.”
“You did,” Altruis says, his voice oddly flat.
“Look, I never meant – “ Aze pauses, then tries again. “That’s not right. Everything that happened to me, everything I’ve done, I chose. But I was never the one who was false. Illidan Stormrage should never have – ”
Altruis stands there impassively.
“You didn’t ask me about Illidan Stormrage. Me, then. I thought…” Aze says, and she presses her hands over her eyes, over her blindfold. “I thought I was a part of something that mattered. Maybe you did too, in the beginning? However I ended up there, I could be loyal, obedient, shape myself into what was needed. But it wasn’t really…”
Altruis doesn’t speak.
Aze swallows. “It wasn’t new techniques to learn, new magic. It was me. That’s what he wanted me to sacrifice.” She holds her forearms, like she’s holding the bars of a cage, and continues. “So I did. Almost before I realized it. And then it was just… unbearable. The pain, and… the demon. I still tried to bear it, until I realized…” she pulls her knees tighter, and says, “Okay, maybe I can tell a story, one that explains clearly. We were sparring – I was on the sidelines. One of the combatants turned into a demon and killed his partner.”
Altruis nods, a spare motion, but does not interrupt. He does not seem surprised.
Aze’s shoulders curl inwards. “The winner returned to himself afterward. And then Illidan praised him for using his power, and they cleared away the corpse like it was… nothing. Worthless. It wasn’t the first person I’d seen die. But he hadn’t failed in the ritual. He came through with his mind and body as intact as any of us. He’d done everything they asked of him, and none of it mattered. Sparring is not supposed to be real, not between allies.”
“And what did you take from this?” Altruis asks dispassionately.
“That there was nothing to be a part of,” Aze says quietly. “Maybe there once was, but not by then. And that means I’d given my life, my soul… to nothing.”
Altruis nods again, and waits for her to continue.
“I… left,” Aze says, swallowing once. She doesn’t explain what happened in that particular pause. “But I’m still here. I left too early – there’s too much I don’t know. The demon crawls under my skin, in my soul. I don’t know how to live like this. But I’ve decided,” she tilts her head up to Altruis. “I still want to.”
Altruis waits until it is clear that Aze will say nothing further, and then he answers. “It’s about balance and control.” He doesn’t move towards her, but he doesn’t raise his weapon either. “If you are willing, I will teach you what I know of those. Balance and control, but not power. Not until I am confident you can be trusted.”
“That already sounds great,” Aze says, letting out a low breath as her posture slumps with relief. “My power doesn’t matter, if I’m not the one wielding it. And anyway, it’d also be wonderful to feel confident I can fuck safely again. There’s so much about pleasure that has to do with surrender and loss of control, and I just… I really don’t want to hurt anyone else, you know?”
Altruis stares at her in silence for another long moment, and then he says, “I will teach you, with one additional condition. You never mention anything like that to me again.”
“Sure, it’s a deal,” Aze says with a breathy laugh, and she climbs to her feet, moving over to re-sheathe her swords. “Just know, you have one deeply motivated student.”
Pieces of My Soul
Aszera Sunstrike is restless, but that’s nothing new. She’d realized that the first time she tried to return to her old haunts in Silvermoon. They were still there, after a fashion. Drinks still flowing, dancers still dancing. But the buildings were rebuilt, the people were unfamiliar, and none of it was enough. Even before she’d gone to Northrend, she’d been spending more time in the Plaguelands than the city.
Has she changed? Or is it the demon? Sometimes it’s hard to separate the two. She lets go of it as she rides under the gates of Stormwind, out into Elwynn Forest. Sometimes it’s better just to be, and not to question so much.
There are no demons in Elwynn, which would have been the best prey. Still, the people here have their troubles. Natalyah has taken her out to fight murlocs before, a nasty tribe with a penchant for snatching people and killing them. And eating them? Something like that. Weak individually, but they’re usually fun with the way they swarm a person.
The rented horse canters onward, and Aze feels like she’s getting the hang of this whole horse thing. She’d better, the Fallons love their horses. Not like that. Really, it’s the gait that throws her. Hawkstriders move in a certain way, and horses another. It takes a while to retrain muscles expecting one to accept another. Months. Years. It’s fine, she’ll find her balance eventually.
Aze does her best not to visualize being catapulted from the saddle until she sees the shore ahead, then she pulls the beast to a stop and dismounts. She doesn’t tie him up – she’ll just find him later. She doesn’t want to trap him, in case of predators.
And then… yep, there they are. The little swirls of life energy shaped like murloc. She draws her small swords, still the same cobalt blades Roper made for her up in Northrend – the ones he forced her to ask for.
“Hey!” Aze calls cheerfully, and it’s enough to send a murloc her way, and oh look! There’s another one. Perfect.
Aze rushes to meet them, and the faint breath of fel around her makes her wonder if this speed is from her demon. She pushes the question out of mind – she’s always been fast, anyway. She slashes out at both murlocs in a flurry of motion, her footwork beating a pleasing pattern against the dirt. While they’re staggered from the attack, she focuses on one, and brings both swords together in a strike that doesn’t only hit but fractures his life energy. Fragments shatter off his form before he falls in death.
The second murloc runs as Aze steps forward, breathing in the power. She doesn’t really know what that does to a soul. She’d only had a few months with Altruis, not enough to get into metaphysics. But if warlocks take fragments, surely this is no worse.
Aze raises a hand, ready to call on the fel to stop the fleeing murloc in his tracks, but then reconsiders. She could use more of a fight. Maybe there are more.
There are.
Over half a dozen murlocs bounce towards her, with the sound of webbed feet slapping awkwardly on the ground as they make their odd gurgle-gurgle sounds. Is she in over her head here? Maybe, but sometimes that’s how she likes it.
As she prepares to dive into melee, a darker swirl of energy comes into range. Aze tilts her head, like a hunting dog noting a new target. This one reads undead, and as it rapidly approaches, it solidifies into death knight. And then sister.
“Yara!” Aze calls brightly, waving a sword. “Looking for violence?”
“Looking for you,” Syarra says sharply. “I found your horse wandering. What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? Because I wouldn’t know,” Aze grins, and then the murlocs are on her.
It’s a pleasure, a complex melee of so many targets, forcing her to predict the movements of a larger dance. Targets in motion. She’s used to it now, reading different things. She can’t read faces, expressions, the little tells all sapient people have. But she can still hear breath, feel tension, see movement, and she’s always been good at this. So many hours of combat, piled on top of the dancing floor.
Her blades flash out as she moves, lightning-quick strikes, and then Syarra is there next to her, the rune magic of her two-handed sword marking its movement. Aze shifts to complement her, quick steps interleaved with Syarra’s firm ones, agile strikes above and below solid strength.
The murlocs stand very little chance against the duo, and they fall one after another, until only one remains. Syarra whirls around for a final attack… that somehow manages to miss anything vital and slices down its thin leg. The creature gargles its dismay and limps away, while Syarra steps after it with quiet menace.
“Hungry?” Aze asks, lowering her swords. “Or just looking for more trouble?”
Syarra makes a low sound in her throat, and a shadowy grasp yanks back the murloc into her blade. It cries out, and then falls silent.
“I would not, with you,” Syarra says.
Aszera flicks her wrists to get most of the murloc blood off her blades and shrugs. There Syarra goes again. Another lie, like I would never hurt you. She should’ve learned that the truth works better by now. But Aze doesn’t call her out, she just says, “You could, you know. It’s not like I don’t know about the hunger and torture and whatever. I wouldn’t turn away from you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Some things,” Syarra says, stepping over to the de-murlocked shore and staring over the water. “Some things are just for me and Roper.”
“Mm,” Aze steps up next to her. A brief smile trails over her face, as a dark voice says in her memory, to me, there’s only one woman in the world, and you’re not her. Thank light and darkness both. There’s something to be said for certainty, not having to worry. She can be Ace to him, and Syarra can be Sya, and she will never say the second part out loud ever again.
“Right, sure, I wouldn’t want to barge in on your marital torture,” Aze says lightly, nudging Syarra affectionately with her shoulder, but not turning towards her. “Roper does feel strongly about his things, after all. His people.”
“Yes,” Syarra says, and clenches her fist. That’s a weird reaction. Aszera’s brows lower slightly. Then Syarra adds, “And our family.”
Family, right. The four of them, counting Ally. Aze smiles, thinking of Winter Veil, Northrend, the memories they’re still making now. The Sunstrike family used to be four. Ally’s still a Lysander, but she can be honorary. She steps back and turns to Syarra. “Yeah. Our family. I see Roper more often than you these days – but I know, I know, I’m still establishing my reputation. Probably shouldn’t be out here, I just…”
“Hungry?” Syarra asks, with a ghost of amusement in her low voice.
“Not like you, no,” Aze says, and she turns away, trying to find the words for her restlessness, her need for violence. It’s probably the demon, in part, but it’s not only that. Is it? “It’s just… what I’m made for, right? To be a weapon.”
“A weapon,” Syarra repeats calmly. “You have always struck me as so quiet and predictable, like a weapon.”
Aze laughs. “I’m glad the Lich King didn’t cut all your humor out, Yara. But you know, there’s different sorts of weapons.”
“I suppose…” Syarra says, and Aze can hear the faint amusement in it. No hurt. Her sister is a lot harder to hurt these days. “A loose cannon is also a sort of weapon.”
“Exactly! And really useful, if anyone will tie it down and fucking point it correctly,” Aze says, and she heads back towards the forest. It’s about time to fetch her horse and head back. She’s not supposed to sneak out of the city to meet elvish friends, and she probably shouldn’t stretch her luck, not after Theramore and all the war that’s come after. Still… she tilts her head in invitation for her sister to join her. Syarra falls into step. “I thought they’d point me somewhere, the Alliance. You know, Siamus… or maybe Clara Aspenwood.”
“Or King Varian Wrynn?” Syarra suggests. “The one you swore an oath to?”
“Yeah, sure,” Aze says, waving a hand. The horse is… not nearby. Maybe he wandered a little more than she meant him to. “But I haven’t met him, so he’s not the one who comes to mind. Anyway, Siamus will get me in the war eventually, I’m sure. You, too, I bet – he knows what you and Roper and Mourn and everybody are worth, and what you need.”
“He is a valued ally,” Syarra says quietly.
“And a friend,” Aze says, turning toward her. “I miss him, sometimes. Yes, for the obvious reasons, but also I like talking to him. He and Em are both in Pandaria… I do have work here, with the orphans, the detective agency. But Natalyah and I might go over sometime soon. Just letting you know, in case you might be, too.”
“It is good that you have friends,” Syarra says, and it sounds a little like she’s speaking a foreign tongue, one she’s not quite fluent in, though they’re both speaking in Thalassian. “A place here, a purpose, and friends who will allow you the freedom to choose them. I am… Roper and I are… seeking something of the same.”
“I hope you find them,” Aze says, smiling distractedly. The horse… where is that horse? She reaches into her pocket to feel the time on her sightless watch. “I’d stay longer, but I’m supposed to be back in the office in an hour. Where is my fucking horse?”
“…the one you left wandering freely in the forest?” Syarra asks dryly. “I couldn’t tell you. That was a borrowed horse, wasn’t it?” She pauses. “The watch helps?”
“Mm, yes. And you should see the calendar Cressidha gave me for Winter Veil, it’s a thing of wonder,” Aze says with a grin. “I’m more punctual than I’ve ever been. But the horse, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell the stable where to find it, roughly speaking.”
Syarra stares at her for a moment longer. “You can ask me for help, you know. As you once used to.”
“What, you’re a horse tracker now?” Aze asks with a laugh.
“Not exactly,” Syarra says. She gestures, and the skeletal horse emerges from the dirt of the forest floor. “But I have a mount, and can move more quickly.” She pauses, a pointed silence, as she swings up into the undead horse’s saddle.
Aze reaches a hand to her. “Together, then?”
Syarra pulls her up on the saddle. “Yes, together.”