The Tale of Rynok the Just, called the Brave
As told by Arcendus the Wolf, Historian of the Shattered Pinnacle
Chapter 1 - In the Fire's Light
The wood in the fire crackled and popped, sending sparks high into the air, the flames dancing among the coals. The wood was brittle and dry, burning well, with little smoke. The fire had been well built, sheltered from the wind in a small alcove in a cliff wall picked with that intent. The flame was strong, but steady, burning the way only good oak could. The fire would be invisible to anyone in the dale beyond who was not standing in the trees directly below the cliff- also by intention.
The man who sat warming himself by the fire, stretched leisurely on a fallen log and polishing a battle-worn sword, had the look of a warrior about him. Cold grey eyes stared out of a hard, expressionless face. He was lithely built and leanly muscled, with no visible fat on his frame. His long hair, now more grey than black, was tied back into a foxtail by a dark leather cord, though a few loose strands hung about his ears and shoulders. When he moved, it was with the dangerous, deadly grace of a mountain cat. Though he was deep in the mountains, hundreds of leagues from the nearest village, he was not afraid- if anything, it was the local wildlife that was afraid of him. His name was Rynok, but people called him 'the Brave.'
He heard the soft sound of footfalls approaching the camp, but he gave no outward sign of having heard- if it had been an enemy that approached, the footfalls would have been lighter, and staggered. These were the regular, fairly heavy footfalls of someone merely out for a walk. He did not put away his sword, however- a stranger out walking where no strangers should be found did warrant some caution.
Rynok looked up from the well-worn blade he was polishing as a large figure became visible on the edge of the firelight. Standing head and shoulders taller than the tallest man Rynok had ever seen, Xanos, called Tyrael by most, wore an arrogantly lop-sided grin on his pale ivory face. Rynok allowed a small smile to cross his features- it had been several long years since he had last seen his only friend. He had missed the prideful, sarcastic Draenei far more than he would ever let on.
"Still trying to make that pig-sticker look like a weapon, I see." Tyrael's sense of humour had always been rather dry and disparaging. Of course, so was Rynok's.
"Still trying to pretend that it hasn't saved your skin on numerous occasions, I see." Tyrael laughed delightedly at the exchange.
"As if it needed saving!" Rynok sighed, but smiled and nodded. Tyrael seated himself on a rock, across the fire from his friend, settling back comfortably to watch Rynok over steepled fingers. Rynok, for his part, merely continued on as he had, losing himself in the task at hand- the oiled rag in his hand swept deftly over the surface of the blade, back and forth, back and forth. At length, satisfied with the condition of the blade, Rynok set the rag aside. Picking up the sheath from where it lay on the ground next to him, Rynok slid the now well-oiled blade expertly home. Resting it across his knees, he pulled his pack closer to him. Opening the top flap, he pulled out a small wooden box and a torn shirt. Opening the box revealed a small sewing kit, the kind travellers used when far from home. Using his blade as a laundry line of sorts, Rynok hung the torn shirt across the hard leather scabbard. Selecting a length of thread and a needle from the kit, Rynok began the slow, pains-taking process of mending the shirt.
Tyrael smirked slightly at the appearance of the needle and thread. "Taking up house-keeping then, are we? Perhaps we should find you a husband." Rynok's only response was to lightly tap the hilt of the sword lying across his knees. Tyrael's expression tightened slightly. He knew of Rynok's personal oath- knew, and did not approve. Truth be told, in spite of the fact that Rynok and Tyrael regarded each other as friends- so far as Rynok knew, neither of them had anyone else they called friend- and spoke to each other as equals, there was not all that much that they did agree on.
I see you're as silent as ever, came the expected thought in Rynok's mind. People often thought it strange that Tyrael and Rynok, when in the company of other people, rarely spoke aloud. Over the years they had received more than their fair share of odd looks when sharing an ale in the common room of an inn. They would be completely silent for minutes at a time, and then suddenly one or the other of them would chuckle- Tyrael might even forget himself enough to laugh aloud. People often regarded this as strange behaviour, but it was perfectly natural to the two friends- why speak aloud when one of you could read minds?
Did you expect to return to find me an over-emotional wreck? Shall I produce a blushing virgin for your entertainment, artless as I am? Tyrael laughed aloud at this response, not the least because of the irony of it- neither Tyrael nor Rynok had ever shown any interest whatsoever in the opposite sex, of any race. They were both dedicated bachelors, Tyrael because he found mortal company boring at best and Rynok because he had always had better things to do with his time than waste it on frivolous pursuits. The irony came in that wherever they went, women blushed and sighed and swooned; Rynok had long ago ceased wondering why.
A blushing virgin would be better company than you. Tyrael's contempt was plain in his thoughts. Rynok's lip twitched slightly, his only outward response to the thought, but he knew that Tyrael could sense his amusement in his thoughts. Tyrael's thoughts suddenly changed course. You always seem to find yourself in the most interesting of situations, my friend. Spend enough time around you, and one shall never stay bored for long. Rynok snorted, though his expression did not change, and Tyrael chuckled. What Tyrael had referred to as 'interesting situations' Rynok almost invariably called 'near-death experiences.' Rynok quite vividly remembered their parting almost three years ago, Tyrael's customary white robes singed and dirty, Rynok's armor battered and covered with blood, not a little of it his own. They had been part of the group of daring- some said suicidal- adventurers who had been brash enough to attempt confronting Illidan. With the help of powerful allies and one of the fabled figures of legend, the huntress Maiev Shadowsong, they had succeeded, and gained a small measure of respect from a few of the Alliance's leaders. Tyrael did have a point, however- there was something exhilirating about walking the blade's edge as he did, living moment to moment, battle to battle. It made each breath just a little bit sweeter to know that the next one could very well be his last.
Finished with one tear, and satisfied that his stitching would hold- at least until the next time he was stabbed in that particular spot- Rynok turned the shirt over to start on another.
What news from the front? There was no need to specify which front he meant. Rynok cared little for the wars of men- he was concerned only with the fight against the Scourge. Tyrael cared even less for the doings of the mortal races, but he glanced at the shield that was propped up against one wall of the small alcove, a knowing look on his face. That he had seen, Rynok had never been farther from it than the length of a short corridor; it was far more than just a shield to the aging warrior. It bore the Royal Crest of Lordaeron.
You know I do not concern myself with such things. Rynok merely gave his friend a blank stare. Sighing, Tyrael nodded. But if you must know, it is the same as ever. The Scourge advances slowly year by year, and the mortal races are too busy squabbling amongst themselves to do anything about it. It was Rynok's turn to sigh. His face remained expressionless, but inside he was burning with frustration. Year after year the Scourge advanced southward, and year by year the mortal races of Azeroth continued to do nothing. Sure, they sent the occasional troop of infantrymen to the front, but only with great provocation and even greater pressure from the brave men and women who, independent of any faction or throne, were sacrificing their lives to hold the Scourge at bay. There was still some honour left in the world, even if the rulers he had once defended unquestioningly seemed to have forgotten it.
The Light bless them. Rynok was not a religious man- the mantra was more a general well-wishing than a literal prayer. Tyrael grunted- he thought the actions of mortals beneath him. Do you think I should be with them, old friend? Tyrael snorted aloud at this.
I said I enjoyed interesting situations, not suicidal ones. Rynok had to chuckle slightly at that.
As opposed to challenging Illidan, allies or no? Tyrael looked away, thought for a moment, then shrugged.
At least he did not come upon us in wave after endless wave of undeath. If this is the direction this conversation is going to take, Rynok, then so be it. I shall admit that I prefer you alive. That brought Rynok up short. Still, he had a stubborn streak, and it was beginning to show itself.
So I'm supposed to sit on my ass and do nothing while-!
Your life is too valuable to waste in such a way! Even the dragons you've started to do the odd bit of work for recognise that. Eonar's Herald is not as other men. Rynok snorted again, this time in anger.
You know I don't believe that particular bit of foolishness. I'm just a man like any other. Tyrael looked at Rynok with a no-nonsense look painted clear on his features.
I may not hold with most of their trash about the Light and good-will between the mortal races, Rynok, but even I can see that you are far from an ordinary man. Rynok forgot himself enough to open his mouth in angry protest, but Tyrael was not finished. Who else would time and time again throw themselves into the most dangerous situations they could find? Who else would have not only the courage but also the strength to stand before hordes of felspawn and enraged quasi-demons as if they were simple roadside bandits? Look at what you have already done with your life, my friend. How many men have accomplished half as much as you, and while still in the thick of your prime? Rynok could not meet his friend's steady, piercing gaze. Not because he was ashamed, but because his friend was right- and Rynok had too much pride to continue denying it any longer.
Rynok sighed. His entire life he had been fighting down the feeling, buried deeply and rarely surfacing, that he had been born to be more than the bastard son of a minor Knight. He still thought of Lordearon as his home, but it had been many years since any but the dead had claimed the ruined city. The first time Alexstrasza, the Life-Binder herself and queen of dragons, had laid eyes on him, she had forgotten herself enough to name him for what he was. Herald. One of those quasi-immortals who, while possessing no real gifts beyond a longer lifespan than that of normal men, always managed to live more fully than others of their kind, and whose birth always heralded the end of an age. Up until recently, Rynok had wanted nothing more than to prove Alexstrasza wrong- he had not believed the world past saving. He was not sure that he did not still. But Rynok was a rational, logical, practical man- Tyrael's logic could not be denied.
Is that why you came here, then? To convince me to take my 'rightful place' among the heroes of our age? Tyrael chuckled.
I rather thought I'd try to convince you to rule them. Rynok eyed his friend darkly, but Tyrael raised his hands in a gesture of good faith. Before you do that, however, I would like for you to break your self-proclaimed 'exile' to these mountains. There's someone I want you to meet. Rynok sighed. Tyrael's requests of Rynok almost always seemed the simplest things in the world- until they landed both of them in the cooking pot, directly in the middle of one of Tyrael's 'interesting situations.'
Who? was all Rynok asked, however, but Tyrael saw the almost invisible light in his friend's eyes.
What do you know of a man called Xalocient? Rynok stared blankly at his friend.
Not a fel thing. Tyrael chuckled. Who is he? Tyrael's eyes gleamed the way they did when he had won a victory he wanted more than most.
Someone I find interesting. Rynok sat up a bit straighter, now curious. Anyone that Tyrael admitted to finding interesting, was, to put it plainly, either powerful beyond belief or mad off their rocker. His name is Malkor, and...
The fire had burned down to little more than ashes by the time Tyrael finished speaking. Rynok was silent, lost in thought. At length, Rynok looked up at his friend, now only partially lit by the dying fire's glow.
"All right," he said aloud, "I'll go."