(( Haven’t written in a while. Quick status of these three ladies. ))
Idella
Surrounded by fires and screams, Idella struggled to regain her footing. The more experienced combatants swirled around her, moving as if driven by unspoken command. Without orders, they took up the high ground and rained hell upon their opponents. Scrambling back onto her feet, the young warlock did the same. Finding a fellow caster within the harrowed crowd, Idella matched her target with theirs, even conjuring fire at the same rhythm. Hers in comparison was a volcanic red with flashes of sickening green. It was hotter flame than what the mage summoned with arcane.
With the lesser demons vanquished, their greater lords appeared. Stepping onto the ground nearly out of thin air, the ground shook as muscled legs stomped closer. Four-legged, its torso reared upwards, a massive spiked tail lashing down buildings, and a gaping maw filled with fel flame, a Pit Lord roared down at them. Idella felt her face go numb as if with cold. It took her several moments to realize she was mere seconds from fainting. Clenching her fists, she planted her feet and screamed. Her terrorized scream masked itself as a battle cry, swallowed by a raging chorus of heroes as spell and weapon turned on their latest foe.
—-
Dralia
The smoke of Stormwind’s braziers and stagnant stink of its canals was acrid in her nostrils. Yet Dralia prowled, walking openly in cobblestone streets. Human passerby stared, their eyes flickering to the twisted tattoos across her stomach and wickedly curved glaives at her side. The Illidari paid them no attention, her veiled face turned ever forward. In her restless patrol, she strove forward until, with a sudden sharp turn, she diverted from her current path and sprinted down a tunneled street.
“The end is nigh!” A doomsayer encased in an almost comical picket sign yelled into the night. He was surrounded by murmuring onlookers, speaking to one another behind cupped hands. Picking him from the crowd, Dralia drove towards him, her glaive at the fore. Scaling the stone side of a storefront, she leaped. Webbed wings sprouted from her back then tucked in close, allowing her a controlled dive toward her opponent. At first, the man threw up his hands and screamed, the very image of an innocent paralyzed by death coming upon him. Then his face grinned and twisted, horns sprouting from his forehead, his legs snapping with a new joint, him elongating to his full height. A dread lord loomed in place of a humble human man moments before, snarling a challenge to its opponent.
“Bandu Thoribas!” Dralia snarled back. Her dive was leveled at the dread lord’s head, her Illidari clearly familiar with the height of such a foul creature. Her glaive struck, cleaving its clawed hand in two. The dread lord opened its eyes in surprise. Before it could rage in its pain, Dralia struck hard and deep into the demon’s chest.
With a hiss, she whispered: “Tor ilisar’thera’nal, Nathrezim.” She spat the final word and yanked her glaive from its chest. It slumped, green blood spilling the cobblestone streets.
Only then did the Illidari pause, her ears perked toward the gathered crowd. Many had ran. Most had screamed. Others looked on with gasps of shock and horror. Wiping her glaive, Dralia sheathed her weapon and resumed her patrol, passing fevered guards on her way as they responded to the panic in the streets.
—-
Arialynn
Blossoms floated by her window. The Justicar sat in silence, a paper held in her hands. Outside, a young boy chased a paper kite, its angles folded into a colorful serpent with a trailing tail. The boy laughed, clapping his hands together. Nearby, a smiling Pandaren watched him. Arialynn Dawnfield looked on, three letters clearly written beneath the lion letterhead clutched in her hand, their mere presence an iron weight: KIA.
Finally she stood, crossing the room. The letter still clutched in her hand. Her feet were clothed in slippers and body in soft silk. The deep curve of her pregnancy advanced and clearly uncomfortable, she nevertheless walked smoothly. Her hands were steady as she poured a cup of tea. Taking it to the doorway, she watched Taran Dawnfield play, the child oblivious to the news that changed his life forever. The warm aroma of the tea rose like an anchor, keeping her steadily in place.
Feeling the caress of a breeze on her cheek, she allowed herself to exhale. Her free hand opened, releasing the crumpled letter to the wind. She watched the wind carry it across the courtyard, the crumbled ball laboring across the stone as if the words upon it tethered it to the ground. Then it thankfully rose, its edges unfurling and catching the breeze much like her child’s kite. Taking on a folded shape of its own, it lifted above the carved monastery wall and was joined by a swirl of blossoms. Together they were plucked by current and carried away to places unknown.
Comments
No Comments