Chapter 3

Crys'annadath drew in deep, regular breaths as he ran, the morning air cool enough to keep the humidity from smothering the island city, cool enough for the labor of the morning run to bring welcome warmth to the surface of his skin. No longer did parts of him jostle freely with each impact of his foot upon the ground, did it feel he was carrying water sacks beneath his skin. It was glorious. Toned muscle shivered with each stride instead, barely resigistering each pace, his lungs operating with the efficient gusts of well-tended bellows. It appeared as if the elf was running alone this morning, the truth of the matter, however, was that the other recruits were far enough behind that even Crys's sharp ears had trouble hearing the leather soles of their boots thumping against the soil. Humans just couldn't keep up with his light frame, long legs and running techique perfected centuries before any of their grandparents were brought screaming into this world. It was the sort of stride the rangers of Silvermoon adopted as they ate the miles patrolling their forests, barely disturbing the undergrowth as they strode. Some of them had tried to keep up, burning up too much energy all at once before being forced to drop back, often clutching their abdomens as cramps developed. The elf allowed himself a slight smile, thinking about those days nearly two months ago where he always lagged behind, sweating profusely and gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Still smirking and relishing a body that no longer felt like it was trying to drag him to the ground the warmage took the time to run a couple of wide circles in an open lawn before continuing on with the normal route, the breathing and footfalls of his fellow recruits growing more distinct after his detour. Ahead, the sergeant waited, pacing slowly in front of the mess hall, looking up to the clock tower as he marked the time they were taking to complete the run. They had not been forced to wear the sand-filled packs for over a week, each recruit now in suitable enough shape that they could the sergeant's ever-shrinking deadlines with a comfortable margin to spare. A dour look over-came the stout man's face as he once again spied Crys well ahead of the others, shaking his head and likely cursing under his breath as the elven wizard came to a halt, running on the spot while they waited for the others. The human looked to the sacks of sand, as if contemplating punishing Crys for some imagined infraction if only to wipe the self-satisfied look upon his face off. Before long the others arrived, winded but not overly so, each of them having grown accustomed to the exertion demanded of their bodies on a daily basis. Crys stopped marking time when the last foot came to rest, controlling his breathing and calming his heart while waiting for the dismissal to break their fast. The sergeant stalked along the line, eyes scouring each of them for anything he didn't like, but they had become quite proficient at keeping him happy and avoiding additional chores. With a silent toss of his nearly bald head the recruits filed into the long building, Crys taking up a position at the back of the line.

The elf sat apart from the others, had he always had, eating the simple faire of roast ham, thick slices of toasted bread and blended eggs in silence. The food was filling, if a little heavy for his constitution, though years of living with humans and eating their food had given him a larger tolerance than most elves would have. His fellow recruits chatted comfortably with each other, having formed partnerships, alliances and hatreds alternatively amongst their future fellow guardsmen. Crys had thought it would be interesting to try and study and predict whom would pair up with whom, but he quickly grew tired of the petty favor-mongering and gossip. It didn't really matter, he figured, since if everything went really well he would likely never see them again...or if things went very poorly. Even with these sobering thoughts washing down upon the fire of his growing anticipation he felt a confidence in himself and his objective he had never guessed himself capable. Just look what he had managed to accomplish in such a short time. He was in as good physical condition as he had been in his prime, nay, ever, and with a healthy body his mind had sharpened as well, his spells springing more readily to his mind, even the ones that after years of neglect he could barely remember how to channel. The magical addiction still haunted him daily, needling him with its icy fingers, but as with his breathing, heart rate and abstinence from alcohol he could control the effect it had upon his physiology. His body and mind were finely crafted tools now, as they had been what seemed a lifetime ago. He would pass this test the ruling council had given him, be deemed worthy of traveling across the ocean to the eastern kingdoms, and after accomplishing whatever task they wished of him, would make his way north at best speed. Quel'thalas, whatever remained of it, awaited him.

Near the end of the day as the sun was dipping below the west wall the recruits were once again training in armed combat, this time wielding blunted metal blades instead of the wooden ones, their skill sufficient by now that they could wield the heavier, more dangerous weapons without fear of anything more serious than a bruise or shallow cut. The human long sword was heavy and cumbersome in Crys's grip, but the principle of using it was the same as lighter elven blades, the steel ringing against hasty parries and wooden shields as it darted this way and that, seeking unprotected flesh. He had cast aside the shield days ago, instead relying solely on the lone blade for his defense, which he used with enviable skill. He ducked, spun and stabbed, using his whole body to baffle and confuse his opponents, creating opportunities where he could finally land a telling blow. He wasn't untouchable, of course, he never had been, but in two-thirds of the sparring matches it was he who struck the lethal blow.

Something unusual caught Crys's attention out of the corner of his eye, a uniformed courier approaching the training grounds, scroll in hand. The man began to speak to the sergeant, then both their gazes moving to land upon the elven wizard. Crys'annadath almost missed parrying what would have been a painful strike such was his focus upon the meeting between the two humans at his periphery. The sergeant opened the scroll and began to read slowly, perhaps trying to make sure he understood its message correctly, or perhaps reading was not his strong point. In either case his reaction was the same; grudging compliance and sharp whistle and a beckoning gesture towards the elf confirmed his own hypothesis that the missive involved him in some way. With a twirling of his blade Crys released it into the air and began to stride towards the pair, his sword falling point down into the soil and wavering there.

" This arrived for you, " the sergeant said simply, holding the scroll out like it were something that offended him. Crys took the scroll lightly and unfurled it, eyes picking up on the neat script easily.

To the elf Crys'annadath Skychaser and his immediate superior,

The wizard Skychaser is hereby relieved of his current duties and is to report to the north gate by the chiming of the bells for the second watch tomorrow morning for a special assignment. He is to bring accruements for battle and make any other preparations necessary for an extended leave from Theramore. Once this missive is read and understood by all parties concerned it is to be destroyed as soon as possible.

Crys read over it carefully one more time to be sure there wasn't anything he had read simply because he had wanted it to be there, but the missive was quite clear. He was done with this training, obviously there were agents noting his progress and decided that he could be better used elsewhere rather than wasting his talents on the last few days before he shipped off to Azeroth. The elf couldn't keep the slight smile off of his face. It was if the last almost two months had been a test, and this letter represented his passing grade. Crys passed the scroll back to the sergeant, who stuffed it hastily beneath his belt, still regarding the elf dourly.

" You will make sure the letter is destroyed properly, " the page said more as a statement than a question before leaving the human and elf alone on the edge of the practice field.

" I guess this is good bye, " Crys finally commented, his tone neutral and matter-of-fact.

" And good riddance. You're still an elf and still not worth my time, at least now you won't be useless on top of that. Get out of my sight, " the sergeant snorted dismissively, turning away from him to bellow at the remaining recruits. The words stung Crys, but not nearly as bad as they might have had he not become accustomed to the burly man's insults. The warmage turned his back on the training grounds and never looked back, the path to his destiny was no longer linked with the small-minded prejudice of those behind him.

Crys entered his apartment atop Greymere Tower seized with and almost frantic energy, unlike so many days over the past where he could barely place one foot before the other as he trudged up the long, winding flight of stairs. While it was true he wasn't exactly treading upon the planks of the ship which would take him across the ocean, he knew that day was not far off, and he could handle whatever it was that the ruling council had in store for him. It was a vote of confidence in his prowess, one that all but guaranteed his passage aboard the ships headed to Azeroth. His evening meal had just arrived, still piping hot beneath its protective metal dome and the now unnecessary uniform for tomorrow folded neatly by the door. Striding over to the platter he lifted the top and let the steam wash over his face, carrying with it the scent of broiled rockscale cod filet and a side of potato fritters sprinkled with fried sweet onions. Replacing the lid Crys'annadath, ensuring the door was properly locked, stripped down and rid himself of the uniform befouled with sweat and dirt before stepping into the prepared bath.

The water was still warm enough it needed no magical heating and Crys washed quickly, pine-scented soap ridding himself of the dust and grime of the training grounds for the last time. Finishing, the elf paused before letting his gaze fall upon his reflection in the full length mirror beside the door. A grin parting his lips smiled back at him as this time there was nothing he wanted to hide from his own eyes, nothing that filled him with shame and self-loathing. This was how he had envisioned himself all those weeks ago, and where all his sacrifice, back-breaking labor and sheer willpower had gotten him. He swung his arms about slowly, watching the play of muscles beneath the glistening skin of his shoulders and chest, something he was unable to do the month previous. Crys had never been particularly vain in his youth, physical beauty well beyond the human norm just meant a higher standard amongst the Quel'dorei, and while he had never been striking compared to others, he hadn't been starved for female company either. Shaking his head at his juvenile posturing he toweled himself off and dressed in a grey woolen robe and padded sandals, still unable to completely smother the smile on his lips.

Plopping himself down in the green leather chair he usually occupied Crys turned his senses to the meal while his giving his thoughts free reign as he ate. He still had no idea what the assignment was, if he would be undertaking it alone or how many he would have to work and likely fight beside. Theramore was in a state of constant wariness, isolated and surrounded by ocean, constantly fighting against the native creatures of Dustwallow to maintain their trade route with places like Bael Modan, Ratchet and the sparse trade with Horde caravans and settlements. He could be doing anything from slaying black Dragonkin to setting fire to some of the Southsea Freebooter ships that endlessly prowled the waters along the coast looking for merchant ships to plunder. In either case he would be prepared, fit, and well-armed magically, just as he had in his fights against the Scourge before the fall of Dalaran. He remembered the almost manic zeal back in those desperate days, beyond the relative safety of Dalaran's walls, living in a tiny one-person tent, eating the same meals day-after-day, leading good men and women in flanking and harassing attacks against the Scourge's support elements. He had watched those same good men and women fall and die in many horrible ways, only to rise up again seconds later and raise their stained weapons against their former comrades as the necromancers worked their foul enchantments.

It was difficult, taking the fight to them on their own ground, for where ever the Scourge and its sepulchral buildings went the Blight flowed, turning green healthy vegetation dead and grey. The cracked, tainted ground held residual dark energies that healed the undead defenders, gouges in their withered flesh slowly mending the moment they were dealt. They were lucky if they inflicted enough damage to even call the raid a success, often retreating with the dead bodies of former comrades shuffling after them, clawing the air hungrily and the screams of the other deathless horrors ringing in their ears. Back they went to the camp, exhausted, shaken, wept for fellow soldiers who had fallen, ate their rations, and went to sleep in their tiny tents, knowing the orders to go out and do it again would be waiting for them when they woke. Each time they wondered if they would come back from those dangerous missions...or if they died, if they would remain so. Fighting flesh-and-blood enemies was horrible enough, but at least you knew the enemy bled, felt fear and pain, needed to rest and eat like you did. The Scourge was no such enemy. Day or night, on sunny days or in downpours the undead reacted and fought with the same alertness and ferocity. Crys had tried to push himself to be like the Scourge, to never rest or give a moment of pause in his destruction of their troops, anything to stem the tide battering against Dalaran's walls, his mind always divided between his duty there and what might have happened in Quel'thalas. There had been no word from the elven kingdom for weeks and the fact that the Scourge had changed its target from Quel'thalas to Dalaran meant they had either been successfully rebuked, or they had taken what they needed and left the proud country in ruin and decay.

In the end it was his determination that forced him from the fighting altogether, Crys'annadath leading a hastily thrown together raid against a target they had little information about. The commander had assured them it was a Scourge outpost that had recently had almost all of its forces pushed to the front, leaving it ripe for attacking. What the human commander had failed to mention, however, was that the scouting report was a week old. Confident that the information was accurate and hungering for a telling blow against the invading undead Crys did only a brief scan with his Sorcerous Sight of the cluster of charnel houses and profane temples before leading the assault. What he had failed to notice however, was the horde of ghouls harvesting lumber half a mile away. Within minutes of their attack a wave of ravening ghouls washed over them like a tide of bony claws and snapping teeth, dragging down soldiers and tearing them apart under a mass of decaying bodies. Crys'annadath himself nearly fell under the vicious counter-attack, and would have had a fellow mage not managed to teleport what few warriors remained back to the safety of the camp.

The disastrous raid proved to be the twig the broke the mule's back. The camp no longer had the forces to make any sorties against the Scourge and was forced to pack up and join with a refugee outpost along the shores of Lordamere Lake. There Crys limped about uselessly as the war went along without him, his mind having little to do other than feed upon his guilt for failing to take proper precautions before the raid and wondering what had become of Silvermoon, Quel'thalas, and his family. He had watched aghast as the Scourge breached Dalaran's defenses and swarmed over the magus within, watched as the violet-roofed spires and towers containing thousands of years of arcane knowledge crumbled and fell to rubble.

It was probably the darkest time of his life, that day following the destruction of Dalaran. He had failed in his duty to protect the city-state and had no word from or way of reaching Silvermoon. Eventually a tide of ragged survivors dodging Scourge patrols passed by and spoke of ships leaving the doomed continent and traveling west. Seeing elves amongst the survivors Crys followed along, hoping that his family had somehow escaped the destruction he learned about from the refugees. He heard tales of vast acres of verdant forest turned as grey and dead as the undead who assaulted them, told of Sylvanas Windrunner's stubborn resistance and ultimate failure to protect the precious Sunwell just as the first pangs of what would become the magical addiction stabbed at his gut. He remembered the haunted, grim faces of his fellow elves and wished for all he was worth that he could have been there, even if it would have done nothing. It was then, only a day's journey from the coast when they met up with another group of survivors in a tiny abandoned village that he would find his sister.

They had embraced and wept bitterly, a hundred questions burning on his lips but afraid to ask lest the truth be far worse than he had imagined. It was that night she had told him what she had seen and done, what had happened as they undead rampaged freely through the residential areas, of screams and flames soaring up into the skies. She had spoken with a group of elves who had heard of Prince Kael'thas surviving the attack and rallying his people to try and take back what remained of their home. She asked Crys to come with her, and focus the hurt and pain he felt into righteous mage fire and burn away the corruption that had seized control of his beloved homeland.

Crys paused there in his recollection, raking his teeth over the iron tines of his fork as he downed the last morsel of his meal. Even with all this vivid pain and emotion being brought to the fore he couldn't remember her name or her face. Of course he couldn't, why should this time be any different from the countless other times he had relived those horrible last days on Lordaeron? The warmage blinked rapidly and belated realized warm tears streamed down his cheeks. Setting his fork down roughly he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and suppressed a sob, remaining that way for long moments more, his breathing grown heavy with grief. Finally, sniffling and dragging his fingers along his cheeks Crys managed to regain control of his emotions and push them back down to a manageable level. He would not succumb to that which had ruled him for the past two years, not now when he was so close to being able to return to what remained of his old life. He would find her, somehow, and they would work something out between them. He had to believe that he would, or all that he had accomplished thus far would be for naught.

Pushing aside the table that had held what he belated realized was an excellent meal Crys rose to his feet, feeling the customary stiffness in his joints after a hard day's training keenly. Moving over the massive oak table the warmage perched himself atop the wooden stool he had used for the past weeks when he practiced his sketching. Another smile crossed his angular face as he leafed through his most recent works, as pleased with his progress here as he had been by his physique in the mirror. Detailed, instantly recognizable faces looked back at him from the pages, their features refined and lovingly captured upon the vellum. His parents, Ranger Brightcrown, instructors from Falthrien Academy, even that troll he had brutally killed were present and portrayed as best he could remember them along with those faces from his present life. Recently he had begun to use his Sorcerous Sight to study a random guard or citizen in Theramore for several long moments before sketching his or her face out upon the paper from memory alone. It strengthened his grasp of details and his speed at drawing, both things he had needed in the past acting as a magical scout for Dalaran commanders. Crys had little doubt that such skills would serve him well in the weeks to come.

The elf's smile became a little embarrassed as he flipped past a few portaits of Jaina Proudmoore that would perhaps be a little scandalous should anyone but Crys set his gaze upon them. Since building himself back up after years of self-pity and drunkenness Crys found himself wondering if he could catch the arch-wizardess' eye, having shown that he was capable of beating the odds and once again had a strong sense of purpose. The elven wizard was one of the most experienced magic-users left on Theramore, with a long history of fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with other troops against all sorts of foes. His records within the Dalaran army were long and marked with numerous successes brought about by prudent application of his magical might and was considered, prior to the city's fall, one of the primary liaisons between the Kirin Tor and distant Silvermoon. She had likely had this in mind when a year ago she chose him to head the investigations into the mysterious murders happening on the island nation, and, even after slipping back into a rum-induced coma, she thought to give him yet another chance to redeem himself with this trip overseas. Perhaps she was just working with the limited resources what she had, came the sobering thought, and if there were others to take his place she wouldn't have spared him a second thought, letting him drink himself into oblivion.

A deep sigh slipped through the elf's nostrils as the coy images of Jaina slipped past his eyes. What could he do to woo a woman such as her anyways? Even if he had somehow managed to build a rapport with the distant governess when would they have time for one another? She was perpetually busy with running the city-state and he was about to head across the ocean, possibly never to return. These were the thoughts of a love-struck boy, not the sensible wizard he was supposed to be, that he needed to be. Crys doubted that he would ever see her equal, though, both in flaxen-haired beauty or in her iron will and determination to carry on regardless of what fate threw her way. She had experienced the destruction of an entire continent, the turning of a childhood friend and ally into a remorseless monster, condemned her own father to death because she didn't believe what he was doing was right and stood her ground against Archimonde himself with the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Crys'annadath felt blessed to even have shared the same room as her, spoken to her directly. Romance? Impossible.

Turning his mind to more productive matters he gathered sheaves of fresh vellum before him and lined up sticks of charcoal to be used. Sketching lightly as he worked the basic shape of two figures began to take focus, facing one another, tightly embraced. Elegant, draping clothes of the Quel'dorei variety covered their forms, trimmed with intertwining knot work that Crys painstakingly reproduced from memory of popular styles. The one had longer hair than the other, the only part of that same figure's head that was visible to the viewer of the picture, resting upon the other's left shoulder. Hands tightly gripped one another's backs as they enjoyed the simple contact of the embrace, yet if they were lovers or kin was not immediately apparent. One was armed, a sword at his hip, and his clothing began smudged and torn as the elf continued to work, as if he had endured much to get to the other figure's arms. The one he embraced was more slender, with a distinctly female curve to her back and arms. Crys'annadath felt the strain of the past day beginning to cloud his eyes and cramp his muscles, but he pressed on.

Finally the elven wizard's own face appeared on the male figure, his eyes closed in surrender to emotion, the faintest trace of a tear flowing out from under his lashes. Eyes drooping, his hand sketched out the bare outlines of majestic, soaring towers and buildings around the two. All of his sketching, his sacrifice, his training, it would all lead up to that moment. That one pure moment where all of the world would slip from his mind as he once again embraced his sister, would hear her voice call his name, and at long last he would be able to fill the void not only left in his mind, but in his heart with the sight of her face. Swaying upon his stool in an effort to keep himself upright the elf gently blew away errant bits of charcoal and gazed sleepily at what he had accomplished in a few hours. Carefully setting the picture aside the warmage slipped from his wooden seat and shuffled over to his bedroom, hoping his dreams would be of her.

Crys'annadath's leather boots clomped in a swift, regular cadence upon the cobblestone street as he walked, the majority of his attention upon ripping hunks of steaming sourdough bread and pushing them into his mouth. Occasionally his left hand would trace down to the water skin slung around his shoulders for a refreshingly cool sip of water he had conjured minutes before. Theramore was just waking up, the sun a red and orange smear on the eastern horizon barely visible over the ramparts of the fortress city, the elven wizard having purchased the loaf just minutes after it left the stone oven it was baked in. Conjured bread had nothing on the real thing as far as taste, texture and tantalizing warmth that came from that which was freshly baked. Today was the day, and to be perfectly frank with himself the elf was glad for it. The sooner he began this assignment, the sooner he could be done with it and prepare for his journey across the sea.

A brown leather cloak trailed behind the warmage, its borders decorated with a leaf pattern burned carefully burned into the prepared hide, the hood down for now but was voluminous enough to accommodate the long, tapering ears of elves such as him. The hem of the long tunic of thick green silk he wore stopped just above his knees and was split up the front and back to just below the waist, every hem and cuff trimmed with a broad band of supple leather cut to look like leafy vines weaving their way inwards. The acorn-shaped buttons up the front and along the cuffs were made of steel overlaid with unpolished copper, as was the broach pinning the cloak in place, resembling a cluster of oak leaves. From the leather belt fastened around the elven wizard's trim waist hung a leather scabbard, and in that scabbard a finely wrought yet still insufferably human long sword rested, the twisted wire grip terminating in golden spheres on the pommel and ends of the hilt. Two leather pouches also hung off Crys's belt, one with three stiff leather compartments for holding glass tubes filled with potions, the other slightly larger with a compact book filled with arcane notations inside. A leather-covered metal scroll case about a foot-and-a-half long sat strapped to the back of the belt, filled with rolls of blank vellum and a bundle of charcoal sticks for sketching. Lastly, he wore snug fitting leggings of finely-stitched brown doeskin over his legs, covering what little skin would otherwise show between the curled tops of the boots and the hem of his tunic.

Rounding a final street corner the north gate revealed itself to the warmage, as well as two figures standing on the cobbles otherwise empty of traffic. One was dressed in a flowing robe of black and gold, bejeweled rings winking in the dim morning light upon his fingers, hair black as raven's feathers pulled back into a short ponytail, much like Crys's currently was. The other was nearly a head taller, roughly the elf's height, and clad in imposing silver plate armor trimmed with braided gold, helm with its blue plume tucked in the crook of his arm, the other holding a shield while he chatted with the robed man. A few paces closer and the cleanly-cut sandy-blonde on the armored man's head confirmed that this was Edward Strongshield, one of the very few Knight of the Silver Hand left alive and a man who, a year ago, had brought the elf back from the dead.

Tossing aside the rest of his loaf for the ever-present gulls to find and tear into Crys swallowed the last morsel in his mouth and dusted off his hands. It wasn't long before the peripheral vision of the pair caught sight of the elven wizard's direct stride towards them and they ceased their conversation, turning themselves toward the new arrival.

" Good morrow and well met, Magus Skychaser. It's been quite awhile since we last shared words. I had heard the last year had been rough on you, though I am glad to see you in good health, " the paladin called to him as the elf closed the distance, a polite smile upturning the corners of the armored man's mouth.

" And in even better company, Sir Strongshield, " Crys'annadath replied crisply with a nod of his head in greeting to them both, " though I don't believe I know the gentleman you are standing with, " he finished as he came to a halt several paces away from the pair.

The raven-haired man bowed his head slightly to the warmage before he spoke, his words quiet yet compelling.

" Archmagus Tervosh, special aide to the Governess and your humble servant. "

Crys was unable to fully keep the surprise from his face as he heard the other's introduction. Archmage Tervosh was an instrumental part in the founding of Theramore and the many battles that Jaina Proudmoore had fought in since the Alliance's exile to Kalimdor, said to be only second to the governess herself in power and influence. Her majordomo, as it were. Crys had met the man several times over the course of his stay in Theramore and inwardly cursed himself for not having recognized his visage earlier. The drink really had wiped away years of his life.

Seeing the wizard's discomfort at realizing who he was Tervosh gave a reassuring smile and a sympathetic incline of his head.

" Do not trouble yourself with the past, Master Skychaser, I have heard the last few years have not been kind to you, something involving a banshee…? " the archmage trailed off, as if unsure if what he spoke were true or not. Crys merely gave a tight smile and a nod in response, knowing full well that Tervosh likely knew every minuscule detail about the murders the elf had investigated the previous year and what had happened to him then and since.

" So, what will Sir Strongshield and I be doing for Theramore this time? " Crys asked, quickly changing the subject.

" Sealed orders, to be opened when we reach our destination I'm afraid, " Edward responded, moving the battle-worn shield bearing his family crest aside to show the roll of parchment, sealed with Jaina's distinctive wax tucked under his broad belt.

" And our destination? " the elven wizard pressed, a small amount of unease creeping into his mind and tone.

" Desolace, to an outpost named Nijel's Point. Are you familiar with the place? " Tervosh replied this time.

Crys rocked back on his heels as his mind scrambled to assimilate the information he had been given. Desolace was a vast region of ash wastes and bleached kodo bones west of Mulgore, the grassland home of the Tauren race. Nijel's Point, however, was a complete mystery.

" That's…a week-and-a-half travel away through Horde-controlled territory. Far to the west, " the warmage responded slowly, realizing the implications.

" Correct, a hard and difficult ride if… " Tervosh began, but Crys quickly interrupted him.

" The ships to Azeroth leave in a week, how can I be expected to….? " he blurted out, throwing his arms wide in a display of incredulousness.

" If you would let me finish, " the archmage stated firmly, cutting off Crys's tirade.

"If you were riding, but I know the location well and will be teleporting the three of us there momentarily. We have not forgotten about the ships, good magus, please have more faith in us. "

The elf clamed up immediately, lips pressed into a firm line as he admonished himself for reacting so hastily.

" Now, I assume you had all that you will need for the mission ahead? " Tervosh asked Crys in his polite tone.

Crys'annadath nodded once.

" Very well then. Brace yourselves, " the arch-magus warned, though Crys was no stranger to the powerful magicks and he was sure Edward was not as well.

Chanting while sweeping his right arm out before him in a slow horizontal arc Tervosh intoned the spell, a vibrant rune-etched circle of power forming on the street around the trio. Spheres of the same brilliant blue light and arcane symbols appeared in the air above them as well, slowing rotating as a deep thrumming noise filled their ears. A few moments and words more and the fortress city around them disappeared in a flash of white light, and ground beneath them feeling as if it had suddenly been pulled out from under them. Crys swayed but kept his feet, more used to teleporting when he himself was in control of the incantation.

The smells of sea air were replaced with the odor of hot dust as the world gradually came back into focus for the three of them, the buildings that once surrounded them having vanished to be replaced with ruined, weather-eaten columns of white stone, hillocks of grey, sandy earth and faded green grass. Figures that quickly became armored footmen to their eyes walked to-and-fro across the ashen soil, stopping in their activities to regard the new arrivals with wariness.

Once the last vestiges the spell left him Crys swept his long-eared head around for an over-view of the immediate area, more than a little puzzled by the ruined structures present there. The puzzlement was rapidly replaced with understanding as he realized the outpost was situated among one of the many sites of ruined kaldorei cities, broken towers, columns and ramps betraying a grand style of architecture no longer widely practiced among their people these days. To Crys's right was a cliff face of moderate size, a large night elf building constructed of wood dominating it, purple-tiled roof worn and faded by the harsh sun and sweeping winds. Closer to the elf's front was another smaller wooden structure at roughly the same height, no doubt overlooking the plains below. Other than that, little else caught his attention structure-wise, though what was…..

Crys's hand suddenly went to his gut, pressing against it as his mind whirled. Warmth, but from where?! Glorious mana rushed to fill the aching void in his belly, warming him like a cup of hot cider slipping down his throat after hours spent in the cold. Twisting his head around frantically for the source his wide eyes set themselves upon a stone structure behind him and to the left.
A moonwell!

Tendrils of energy as blue as a summer's sky flowed upwards from the pool of condensed moonlight, casting a soothing cerulean light upon what few trees were able to grow around the wondrous construction. Without even thinking about it Crys turned towards the moonwell and took a step forward, hand moving from his belly to reach out like it were a rope to a drowning man. The gaze of several night elf warriors falling upon him snapped him back to reality, however, realizing he must look like a needy drunk reaching for his bottle yet again. The analogy was disgustingly apt. Curling his fingers into a fist Crys'annadath calmed himself, tearing his eyes from the cornerstone of kaldorei life and turning his back on the sight of that sublime energy radiating from the basin. Edward and Tervosh looked on, brows slightly wrinkled in concern at the elf's sudden, bizarre reaction.

" I'm…sorry, its presence took me by surprise. Please, lead on, " Crys explained distractedly, a slight, content smile on his face as for the first time in years he felt whole again. The elf didn't need to see or hear the night elves whispering behind his back to know that was exactly what they were doing, but right now he didn't care either.

" Yes, well though this is primarily a kaldorei outpost because of our mutual interests they have allowed a contingent of Theramore regulars to stay here in four month rotations as well. Desolace is a place ruled by marauding centaur and they welcomed the additional measure of security. As you can both see, however, there is slightly more troops here than a tiny outpost such as this can support for long periods of time, " Tervosh explained, gesturing before them.

The archmage spoke the truth, for there were hundreds of white tents set up in neat rows to their immediate left with just as many men milling about, sharpening swords, checking armor and the like. There too, further down the line were dozens of dwarves in their smaller brown tents, hands idly stroking beards as they talked in groups. It was quite the force, which in turn made Crys wonder what his part in all of it would be.

" You may now open your orders, Sir Strongshield, and once you have digested its contents, pass it on to Magus Skychaser, " Arch-mage Tervosh instructed. Edward, helm already upon his head, set his shield down to rest against his leg while he broke the seal with a swift motion of his gauntleted hand and unfurled the parchment. His eyes traced back and forth along the lines of script while the two wizards waited. A look of astonishment slowly crept over the paladin's face, his gaze switching several times from the page to Tervosh and back again. As absorbed as he was by what secrets the missive might contain Crys quickly spotted the lightly-armored scout running from somewhere beyond the elf's sight towards the camp, his face full of urgent concern.

Crys watched the breathless man's progress as he passed the three of them to stop before a female night elf, salute, and hastily deliver his report. The kaldorei warrior nodded several times and began to walk away from the scout, loudly issuing orders both in Darnassian and the common tongue, Crys understanding both.

" A large Horde force is heading directly towards us! Make yourselves ready for battle! Standard formation at the mouth of the slope! "

" Belay those orders! Stand down! " Edward suddenly roared, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot, which, judging by the number of eyes upon him, was a lot. Looking to Crys with a half-smile twisting his handle-bar mustache the paladin spoke, lifting up the scroll slightly to draw his attention to it, Tervosh beside him smirking at the words he knew would follow.

" Looks like the other half of our forces have arrived. "