The whipping winds and booming thunder enveloped the sinister and looming darkness; creating an ominous and menacing night. The harsh winds the storm created filled Silvermoon with a constant deafening noise; the frequent claps of thunder and pang of lightning interrupting it. Raids of rain and hail would ease in and out, as if sharing the ferocity of the storm with the lightning. Only an occasional arcane guardian would stroll down the tempest and gale streets, the masses of citizens tucked away safely in their homes.
Lying on his side, a lone elfling clutched a stuffed animal in his arms in sheer terror and fear while the threatening storm loomed outside his window. Slamming his eyes shut and burying his head further into the toy, the winds only increased their fury. Though the large windows were enchanted to protect the room from the outside elements, the hanging silks still swayed with as much vigor as the storm. His room on a corner of the house, the elfling was subjected to hearing the harsh weather all the worse.
A great bolt of lightning lighting up the sky, Deimos snapped his eyes open at the booming thunder he knew would follow. Squeezing the stuffed Pandaren in his arms as if to seek security from the toy, the young elf of nearly seven years old sent a silent prayer for the cruel weather to ease up. Glancing around himself, he knew his pleas were in vain; he had overheard his father speaking of the ill weather lasting through the following day. Lying in the middle of a bed far too large for his small size, Deimos' room was void of any indication an elfling inhabited the space. Instead, a desk and chair, both unable to accommodate his small size, rested on one side of the room while the bed was situated in the other. Two well-polished swords hung on pegs on the wall, their sharpened blades shining when the lightning struck.
A piercing thunder resonating through his room, Deimos' wits had had enough. Waving his hand swiftly in the air, the elfling was relieved when the room was filled with an arcane-infused light. Sitting up in his bed in fright, Deimos knew the small reprise would only be temporary. If his father was to find out that he was awake, it would prove to have ill consequences not in his favor. Biting his lip nervously and dreadfully, the elfling looked around his room in an attempt to seek a sense of security. Part of himself felt silly and ridiculous for fearing something as mundane as a thunderstorm. Having commenced his training as a warrior several years ago and only recently taking up lessons as a paladin, Deimos had been subjected to far worse than lightning and thunder. Nine months prior, the elfing had been brutally injured while accompanying his father on a campaign; the battalion raided in the midst of night. However much the waging war around him was frightening, the elfing had found comfort and ease of mind at knowing his father resided only feet away from him.
Whipping his head to the side as a bright bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, Deimos braced himself for the harsh clapping thunder that he knew would follow. Instead, however, he was rewarded with a much more menacing response. The small arcane powered chandelier in the middle of the ceiling erupting in a ball of heatless fire, the elfing watched in horror as the fixture was consumed by a mighty inferno. As fast as it began, the flames were doused; leaving the room in pitch darkness and the chandelier void of any power. His breathing seemed to come to a standstill as much as his movements did; his entire form unmoving. Though he could hear the loud thumping of his blood resonating through his head, Deimos didn't dare move a muscle. Instead, he sat rigid and frozen in fear. His grasp on his beloved toy never faltering, the elfing futilely darted his eyes around the room enveloped in darkness. Attempting to seek the source of the fire, his young mind began to wander; only creating all the more menacing conclusions.
Feeling and hearing his heart rate increase with each embellished thought, Deimos was unprepared for the daunting bolt of lightning that filled the room with a brief flash of light. His mind and wits no longer dominated and listening to reason, the elfling sprang from his bed in pure terror. While a minute part of his senses told him to seek aid from one of the blades resting on the walls, his instincts dictated otherwise. His bare feet landing on the polished marble with a nearly inaudible thud, Deimos raced to the hanging silks in the doorway. A bang of thunder filling the house with its raging roar, the elfling squeezed the Pandaren in his clutches tighter while he ran through the silks that separated his bedroom from the hallway.
Not the least bit surprised at the lack of illumination from the rest of the house, or caring to take notice, Deimos kept his eyes on his ultimate destination. Straight ahead of him, located on the opposite side of the hallway, were the thick and daunting silks that led to his father's chambers. The imposing and intimidating woodwork that made up the doorway only gave a sliver of what to expect from the elf that inhabited the space. Though he already knew how his father would handle him barging into his room at such a ghastly hour, Deimos was unable to heed to reason. His adrenaline pumping and feet swiftly moving, the elfling was powered purely by fear. Pushing past the thick silks to enter the master bedroom of the home, Deimos immediately sought the object of his searching. A lush and great bed, ornamented with a half enclosure of fine silks and intricate golden accents, was situated on the opposite wall. Mounds of plush pillows constructed of exceptional material filled the head of the bed, while a purple and red Netherweave blanket rested on top. His eyes resting on the prone figure that lay in the middle of the bed unmoving, the elfing made his approach to his slumbering father with as much ease and softness as he could muster.
"What is it, Deimos?"
The fatigued yet stern voice causing his feet to stop their approach, the elfling eyed the unmoving figure in the bed. Wetting his lips in anticipation, Deimos clutched the stuffed animal tighter to his chest. Though he was faintly aware he was in the wrong for interrupting his father's sleep in the midst of night, the young elf reveled in the peace of mind that he was safe in his father's presence. A clash of lightning and thunder erupted the room in a momentary flash of the light; the magnitude of the roar nearly shaking the house. Gasping ever so slightly, the fearful interruption only gave a small reminder to the elfling for his reasoning at entering his father's bedroom.
His feet reluctantly moving forward, Deimos hesitantly approached the bed. "Ann'da, there-there's something wrong in my room. My light-it just-I don't know how to explain it…"
His small voice trailing off, Deimos didn't bother to try to conceal his fear and terror in his tone. Standing at the side of the extravagant bed, the elfling bit his lip nervously as he watched Tharsis prop himself up on one elbow to get a better look at him; also allowing Deimos to gain a better view of his father. The commander's trademark strict face was etched with remnants of fatigue and weariness, his unnatural green eyes searching his son's distraught face for more information. Sighing to himself in part of exhaustion and part of impatience, Tharsis ran a hand over his features. "Tell me what happened. Are you unhurt?"
Swallowing a lump that seemed to unknowingly develop in his throat, Deimos gave a small and meek nod of his head. Darting his eyes from his father's face to the twin windows that made up one side of the room, the elfling watched in dread as an angry bolt of lightning lit up the night sky. "I'm fine. It was my light though. It-It was on fire. But it's not anymore."
Releasing a puff of air, Tharsis leaned over to grasp the small clock that rested on the stand beside his bed. Squinting and straining his eyes to make out where the hands rested, the commander dropped the clock back on the small table with a thud. "Did you have your light on?"
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously, Deimos kept his eyes trained on his father while he lay back down on the bed. "Yeah. And then it went on fire. I didn't try it again, though. Maybe I should."
Rolling over to face the windows, Tharsis pulled the thick and lavish comforter up to his chest. "Don't. The storm disrupted the flow of arcane, so you're lights won't work. I'll have the enchanter fix it in the morning. Go back to sleep."
His heart plummeting deep into his stomach at the ending tone his father's voice carried, the elfling squeezed the stuffed Pandaren harder. Eyeing Tharsis' back turned to him, Deimos knew his father's words were meant to end the conversation; his leaving being required. His pointed ears perking up slightly at the sound of the hard and brutal rain that crashed down on the house, the young elf bit his bottom lip. The mere prospect of returning to his dark and empty room seemed daunting and terrifying; only instilling the fearful emotions back into the elfling. "Ann'da?"
Waiting several beats, Deimos was only responded with the crashing rain on the side of the house and the roaring thunder in the sky. The prone form in the bed remained unmoving and silent, the turned back to the elfling only reiterating the end of the conversation. He knew he wouldn't receive an answer; his father had found the solution to the problem pertaining to the light – no other resolution was required nor needed. His eyes trained on the turned away elf, silently pleading for him to face him, Deimos felt what resolve and security he had once attained suddenly dissipate. Instead of feeling safe and protected, he was left with an empty shell; only to be filled with despair and strong fright. Turning his gaze from his silent father as another streak of lightning lit up the sky, Deimos felt his eyes begin to fill with water. He was alone; the sole elf that he sought safety and shelter from openly turned him away. Quickly glancing behind himself towards the direction of his bedroom, the elfling was left to create his own sense of security with the aid of his beloved Pandaren and sharpened swords. Feeling a lone tear find its way down his cheek, Deimos gave one last longing look at his father. Giving a near silent sniff as another stream of water created a wet trail down his other cheek, the elfling slowly turned away from his father.
"Are you going to get any sleep in your bedroom?"
The voice, though laced with the effects of fatigue from the late hour, carried a strong and firm tone to it. Stopping in his movements, Deimos reversed what progress he made; turning back to face his father with a small sliver of hope. Though the figure in the bed didn't move, or give any indication of being awake, the elfling knew the voice told otherwise. "I'm not tired. I was just going to stay awake and read."
However much he willed his voice to match his father's strength and power, Deimos knew the wavering words wouldn't go unnoticed. As expected, the once unmoving body rolled over in the bed to address Deimos; the elfling furiously wiping his cheeks dry. Eyeing his son standing beside him, Tharsis lifted a brow. "You're going to read in the dark?"
His face scrunched together in quick thought, Deimos willed his young mind to swiftly conjure a further excuse. "I'll sit by the window and wait for the lightning."
Shaking his head at the ill-manifested explanation, Tharsis took in the elfling's appearance as much as the darkened room allowed. His short blond hair messy, Deimos stood with one hand clutching his stuffed animal while the other anxiously fingered the fabric of his night pants. Taking note of his glistening cheeks, the commander heaved a deep sigh of resolution. "I have an important meeting with Lor'themar tomorrow. If I allow you to sleep in here, you will go to sleep immediately. No reading."
The stern words said in the same manner as if he was barking an order, Deimos felt his spirits lift from their dampened esteem. The empty and void spaces in his being were filled with happiness and security; his pleas and wishes miraculously being answered by the Light. Nodding furiously at his father, the elfling had a quick yet dreadful thought come to mind. "Is it ok if my Pandaren sleeps here too?"
Pushing himself to the other side of the bed, the cold and unused sheets feeling foreign and strange, Tharsis shook his head. "I don't care. Just get to sleep. You have a lot of studying to get done tomorrow."
Watching his father turn away from him, Deimos happily crawled into the large and plush bed. Laying where his father used to reside, the sheets and blankets still held warmth to them; only enticing the elfling to give into slumber all the faster. Laying his head down on the pillow, facing towards the back of the older elf, he allowed himself to revel in the feelings that erupted in his body. Though he often harbored confused and mixed emotions towards his father, Deimos always sought security and comfort in the commander. Regardless of the harsh words and ruthless drills Tharsis would bestow upon the elfling, he would seek his presence to ease his sense of mind. While he knew he would never be on the receiving end of the loving words he saw other parents share with their children, it was the mere close proximity to Tharsis that soothed him. Closing his eyes in pure bliss, all previous thoughts of terror and fear leaving his body, Deimos heaved a deep breath. The pillow carried his father's scent, a mixture of Dreamfoil soaps and a spiced aftershave; a smell that the elfling found peculiar yet familiar. Drawing the luxurious blankets up to his small shoulders, Deimos was prepared to allow exhaustion overcome his body.
"Ann'da, I wasn't really going to read."
"I know."
Eyes snapping open, Deimos felt his heavy and panting breaths struggle to fill his hungry lungs with air. Swallowing strongly in a futile attempt to ease the dry and scratchiness that squeezed his throat, the elf blinked furiously. The strange and bizarre memory was distant and nearly forgotten, it coming to him in a dream only adding to the incongruity. However long ago it happened, though, the paladin still retained the memory in the back of his mind. One of the few times Tharsis openly demonstrated emotions and actions to that of a father, Deimos easily recalled the comforted feelings that were bestowed upon him. Though the occurrence was seldom repeated, the young elf growing and gaining confidence with each passing year, he would cherish the rarity that transpired that night.
The blinking aiding in clearing the fatigue that plagued his mind and vision, Deimos was rewarded with his line of sight being filled with jagged and warped wooden planks. Splinters and chunks of wood were missing from many of the boards, uneven nails jutting out from random area's giving evidence to the shoddy craftsmanship. Black mold seemed to call the cracks and spaces between the boards home, the appearance causing Deimos' stomach to flip in disgust. Brows together in confusion at his location, the paladin willed his mind to recall how he would be in such a filthy setting. He easily recalled snapping his blade at practice, running into Elik and Rommath, and agreeing, albeit reluctantly, to go with Elik to visit his age-mates. However, they never reached their destination. The memories of Murder Row and the slaver's rushing back to him, understanding and awareness dawned on the paladin. It was short lived, however. Instead, he was plagued with an even bigger dilemma and question. Having no sense of time or location, Deimos swallowed the apprehension and anxiety that swelled in his throat.
Realizing that he was lying on his back, the paladin pushed himself up to a sitting position. Upon rising, Deimos felt a slight tug and heavy weight on his right hand. Turning his still slightly tired gaze to inspect the reasoning, he pursed his lips together at the sight that rewarded him. A broad and harsh manacle was fastened around his wrist, the iron shackle matching the resilience of the chain that connected him to a stake slammed in the ground. Bringing his other hand around to inspect the sheer thickness and weight that the shackle was constructed off, Deimos felt his stomach drop. Whatever situation he had somehow managed to get himself in, he needed a way to get out of it.
"Don't bother. I already tried arcane power on them. They're fortified with enchantments."
Whipping his head up at the familiar voice, Deimos finally took note of his surroundings. From what he could see from his meager area, he was housed in what looked like a small and dainty wooden shack. The walls were constructed of the quality of wood as that of the ceiling; the cracks between the wood incased in blackened mold. The ground beneath him was barren and floorless. Instead, he sat on dirt that seemed to be pounded down from an overabundance of traffic. Only realizing he wasn't the only one housed in the tattered and rugged hut, Deimos glanced at the other residents around him. Five other forms inhabited the shack, each one a male, though their races varied slightly. Lying unmoving and prone were three trolls, both donning identical manacles to that Deimos had. A human that looked to be around the same age of Matheus leaned his back against the repulsive walls, his eyes starring unfocused on the wall opposite him. Turning his gaze to the familiar voice and language, Deimos met Elik's even and unwavering stare.
Running his eyes over the young mage's form, Deimos was slightly surprised at the state he was in. Void of his exquisite and fine robes, Elik was wearing only his frostweave pants and shirt. Dark and angry circles were under his eyes, his face showing hints of haggard and fatigue. His cascading ebony hair, typically well groomed and kept, was disheveled and tousled. Unconsciously glancing down at himself, Deimos was surprised to find himself in a similar fashion; wearing only his leather pants and frostweave shirt. Barefoot and without a cloak, the paladin was astonished to find himself without the chills and shivers the cold weather Silvermoon offered. Instead, he found the temperature quite the opposite. The air was thick and humid, a heavy and strong warmth heating up the young elf's body.
Sparing a quick glance at the unmoving trolls and dazed human, Deimos turned confused eyes back at Elik; resolved to speak in their native tongue. "Where are we?"
Shrugging at the question, the mage ran his hand over the barren dirt that made up the floor. "Your guess is as good as mine. I woke up a little while before you did." Pausing to glance down at his hand running through the packed down soil, Elik continued with a slight edge to his tone. "You got us into this, you better have a way out."
Lifting his brows up incredulously, Deimos gave a couple test jerks to the iron chain. "Me? I easily recall you running away from me when I told you not to."
Giving a puff of air out, the mage continued to push the dirt around. "I thought you had them. Maybe if I'd known you weren't strong enough to take on a couple humans, I would've finished them myself."
Gritting his teeth angrily at the mages words, the paladin spared a quick glance at the human. His stare was unwavering and firm, his face not showing any indication that he took notice of the blood elves conversing. "And how about when I caught up with you? Seemed to me like you got captured pretty easily. And anyways, you were the one that needed to go to the Sanctum." Pausing to glance over at Elik, Deimos was slightly taken back by the abrupt change in the mage's demeanor. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowing at Deimos. "What'd you want there anyways?"
His hand stilling in his actions over the dirt, the mage stared hard at the paladin, his voice tense and hard. "That's none of your business, Ares'mar. Besides, I believe you have more important things to think about than what I care to do in my own spare time. For starters, you can get us out of here."
The arrogant and snooty tone from the other elf causing his teeth to clench, Deimos gave a dubious shake of his head. While a small part of him hoped the two could put their differences aside to aid in their survival, it seemed Elik was less than helpful. Turning his attention back to the strong manacle that held him captive, the paladin ran his hand over the rough iron. Though it showed wear from elements and overuse, the shackle was tough and sturdy. The links that made up the chain were made of equal quality, the welding between the links fierce and unyielding. Narrowing his eyes to gain a better inspection of it, Deimos was only half surprised to find faint scratches along the iron. It seemed he wasn't the first to wear the binds; nor did he doubt he'd be the last.
Wetting his lips in anticipation, Deimos thought back to a brief lesson Shadowbreaker had taught him months earlier. It was during a duel with a druid that prompted the paladin trainer and commander to introduce a chant to the young elf in hopes of bettering his fighting capabilities. Caught off guard in the midst of the duel, Deimos found himself entangled in heavy and thick thorned vines. The incapacitating attack leaving him useless while the druid healed and restored himself, Shadowbreaker was quick to introduce a solution to the issue. Though the trainer gave the Sin'dorei strict instructions to practice the chant, Deimos was dismayed to admit he rarely did so. While he found the training helpful in certain situations, he neglected to improve his ability with the chant.
Focusing his attention on the thick iron cuff around his wrist, Deimos began the enchanted word to the spell he hoped would offer him freedom. Still feeling the effects of whatever poisons or sedatives the traders administered into his system, the paladin slightly doubted his ability to execute the spell. His head and thoughts somewhat foggy and sluggish, he put great concentration and power in the near silent words that slipped from his mouth. Feeling his energy begin to deplete itself with each passing word, he kept his eyes trained on the iron shackle. The last bit of the chant leaving his mouth, Deimos was surprised and impressed with himself when he felt the cuff give. Watching with satisfaction as the iron manacle fell to the ground with a soft thud, the Sin'dorei allowed a small grin to pass across his features. Though the lingering amount of mana and energy left him feeling all the more fatigued, he dared not heed to his bodies request for rest.
Twisting his wrist in a testing manner, Deimos pushed himself to his feet with as much dexterity and silence as his body could muster. Darting his eyes at the human, who didn't seem to take notice or care of the actions that transpired, the paladin turned his attention to Elik. Staring at him in disbelief, his mouth slightly agape, the mage ran his eyes over the approaching blood elf incredulously. "Come open mine now."
Promptly ignoring the demanding and insistent voice, Deimos bent into a crouch in front of Elik with a frown. "You could at least pretend to be grateful."
Watching the paladin gently pick up his shackled wrist, Elik shifted his weight on the unforgivingly hard floor at the touch. "Why should I be grateful? This is your fault."
Lifting his eyes from the iron manacle, Deimos sent a fierce and unwavering scowl at the mage, who only seemed to stare back blankly. The paladin knew arguing the matter would prove to be futile and useless; the other elf was as likely to admit his faults as the Lick King was. Offering the mage a small shake of his head, the paladin turned his gaze down at the bindings. Heaving a deep breath, Deimos' lips began to move furiously; whispered words filling the near silent air. Though he was able to accomplish the spell on himself only a minute earlier, he had a deeper doubt in his ability to perform it a second time. Not allowing himself the proper amount of time to recuperate and rest from the trying incantation, he was unsure whether it would work or not. If by some miracle of the Light the enchantment did manage to complete itself, the paladin feared what state it would leave him in.
Finishing the last bit of the spell, Deimos clenched his eyes shut at the immediate vertigo and fatigue that overcame his body. His mind felt numb and exhausted at the same time, his body aching for water. Falling forward slightly, the paladin was surprised when two unsteady hands braced his arms. Though the grips lacked strength and confidence, they were there as a support nonetheless. Wavering slightly in the crouching position, Deimos took several deep breaths in an ill attempt to subdue his body's pleas for rest. Cracking his eyes open, the paladin was greeted with Elik's slightly anxious face inspecting him.
Removing his hands from Deimos' arms, the mage lifted a delicate brow. "You going to be able to walk out of here? Because I'm not carrying you."
Running his hand over the nape of his neck, the paladin stood to his feet uneasily. The world swayed and moved in a sickening fashion, only reiterating his need for rest. Swallowing hard, Deimos slowly turned to address the mage; who was already on his feet, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "I probably won't be able to defend myself as good as I ought to. I hope that academy taught you more than how to do meaningless arithmetic and poetry."
"Deimos!"
He wasn't sure if the was Elik's worried face and pointed finger or the mage yelling his name that caused Deimos to turn around. Whatever it was, the paladin knew that he should've known there was a presence behind him before Elik's warning. Had he been at full strength and energy, he would've had better reaction times. Instead, he turned around only to meet the hard and unforgiving fisted punch from another. The harsh attack slamming into his cheek bone, Deimos felt his body fall to the ground. The entire side of his face erupting in burning pain and ache, the paladin could only wonder what it was that hit him. Lying on the floor, his head spinning and eyes blinking furiously in an effort to clear the webs of bewilderment in his vision, Deimos hardly heard the commotion of a struggle happening only feet away from him. Strong and unyielding hands grabbed around his upper arms, the large grips easily encircling his biceps. Forcibly hauled to his knees as he put up a poor fight to his assailant, the paladin felt his head begin to swim at the abrupt movement.
His blinking finally paying off, Deimos' vision and mind cleared for him to gain an understanding of what was transpiring. Crouching to the side of him was a scruffy human, his black hair slicked back from lack of bathing, replacing the angry manacle on Elik. His chest rising and falling rapidly, the young mage sat rigidly and stiff as the human fastened the shackle. Turning to glance behind him, Deimos was greeted with a passive and solemn faced tauren looking down at him; his thick and burly hands resting on the Sin'dorei's shoulders. Swallowing hard and no longer wondering what had hit him, the paladin darted his eyes in front of him when movement caught his attention.
Standing before him was an undead male, his rotting and gray skin hanging off his bones in a vile manner. Meeting Deimos' perplexed yet defiant stare with an amused and mocking one, he slowly approached the kneeling paladin; his hands fiddling with an object within their grasps. "They said you were trouble. I was hoping we'd be able to get around this."
The words in Common coming out scratchy and inhuman like, Deimos was sure to keep his tone strong and controlled. "Where are we? As a soldier in the Alliance, I demand we be released. I'd entertain offers of negotiations for your life in exchange for our freedom."
Tossing his head back in a laugh, the human at Elik's side giving his own chuckle, the undead reached the downed paladin with a smirk. "We can't have you doing that little escape trick. You're going to be one of our big sellers."
Watching in interest and curiosity as the figure lifted his hands up to reveal the object, Deimos felt all the more bewildered. What looked to be a metal choker, adorned with an array of gems socketed to the sides, lay within the undead's bony fingers. Suddenly and unexpectedly, one of the brawny hands on his shoulders was momentarily gone. The other grasp placing more of its heavy weight on his other shoulder, Deimos felt a hand grip his hair and yank back. The obstinate and brutal strength not yielding in the least to Deimos' small struggles, he was distraught as he watched the undead place the collar around his neck. Shaking his head in an attempt to quell his assailants, the Sin'dorei shut his eyes in dismay as the cold metal on his skin sent shivers down his spine. The hand in his hair only pulling back threateningly, he was hopeless to stop the invasive actions from the figure in front of him. With a quick push, the collar fastened itself around the young elf's neck with a click.
Immediately, Deimos halted all movements and faint struggles. Instead, his mind and body was focused on the empty and vacant feeling that encompassed his being; frightening him down to his core. His confidence and self-assurance seemed to dwindle and leave his body with whatever else was ripped from him. He was left in a hollowed out shell.
Opening his eyes as the undead fastened the shackle back on his wrist, Deimos caught the gaze of the tauren watching him from the other side of the room. Blinking several times in a confused fashion, he was absently aware of the lack of presence from behind him. "What-what did you do to me?"
Cocking his head to the side in slight interest, the tauren crossed his arms over his chest while he eyed the lost and bemused look in the young Sin'dorei's eyes. "That band cuts you off from the Light. We'll give the key to your new master. It'll be up to him if he wants you to ever call upon it again or not."
The gruff voiced words causing a cold chill to envelope his body, the Sin'dorei could only stare back in response. Having begun his training as a paladin at the tender age of six, he was all too accustomed to his association and bond with the Light. To sense the link severed and no longer able to call upon the source of his power, Deimos felt oddly alone and disconnected from the world. Watching in silence as the three traders filed out of the hut, neither one looking back at the inhabitants that sat in forced stillness, the paladin had a foreboding and menacing thought cross his mind. Though the collar clasped around his neck was alarming and disturbing, the tauren's words carried a much more ominous intent; only reaffirming the reason for his capture.
We'll give the key to your new master. While Deimos was aware that slaves were sold to the highest bidder, typically deemed the 'master', the truth behind his situation had yet to dawn on him. With the collar in place and Elik's seemingly inability to conjure an attack, the prospect of being sold was becoming all the more a reality. Leaning his back against the ghastly wooden walls of the hut, Deimos bit his lip at the thought. Who would buy him? Would his new 'master' allow him access to the Light? Would he have the chance for escape once he was bought? Such questions and more plagued his young mind, only creating a sense of panic and alarm. Though he was quick to leave evidence of his capture in Murder Row, the paladin doubted others would find him. Glancing around himself in consternation, Deimos sent a small prayer to the Light; though with the collar fastened around his neck, he knew it would never be answered.
The silent night was still and serene, the moonlight illuminating the quiet districts of Silvermoon. An occasional frigid breeze would sweep through the streets, chilling whatever citizens would stand in its way. The perpetually burnt orange and deep red leaves would sway in the cold gusts, their magically induced grasp on the branches never wavering. The guardians and sentries that patrolled the moonlit streets wore thick cloaks donned over their burly and harsh armor, some sharing small talk while others enjoyed the late hours in silence. The night was calm and peaceful, the citizens sleeping happily nestled in their homes. For two elves, however, such was not the case.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Tharsis threw a thick and worn scroll to the table in irritation. Sitting in the Royal Library located deep within the Sunfury Spire, the commander took no notice to the hours that passed by. He was unsure how long he spent in the large and looming library, though the small detail meant nothing to him. His mind and actions were purely powered by his drive and determination to find meaningful information regarding his son's disappearance. Glancing around the tall and packed bookcases, some filled with aged scrolls while others housed freshly bound books, Tharsis had to refrain himself from unleashing his pent up aggravation and anger. It'd been three days since Deimos' disappearance; and the commander had little new information he sought since that time. Accepting, albeit unwillingly, that he was to take a hands-off approach to investigating his son's capture, Tharsis busied himself nonstop with paging through the seemingly sparse intel the library housed. Already spending hours at interrogating the student that was responsible for finding the heirloom necklace, the commander was damned at turning his research towards a broader spectrum. Having been on the mission for weeks already, he was familiar with what recent witnesses said. The current information not offering much in terms of a lead, Tharsis was determined to find something in past reports and intel. Hearing a cough on the other side of the long black and purple table, the commander turned his frustrated eyes at the elf that resided across from him.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Brightwing tossed a mound of frilled papers to the table top before him. The ornate and lengthy table was littered with piles of books, scrolls, and papers; the evidence of their lack of progress seemingly laughing at them. Stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, the ranger-general met the even and harsh stare from Tharsis. Taking note of the dark circles that encompassed the commander's eyes and his skin's ashen color, Brightwing offered the other elf a silent scowl. Driven to locate Deimos with as much vigor as Tharsis, the ranger-general thumbed through the endless pages of reports in an attempt to uncover something of importance. Though he took breaks in the investigation for rest and nourishment, he ashamedly admitted he couldn't remember the last reprise Tharsis took. It seemed whenever Brightwing would return to the library the commander would be reading a piece of intel in silence and contemplation.
"I hope you're finding more than I am. Some of these reports are dated from before the Second War," Brightwing replied, unable to conceal the fatigue that laced his voice.
Though the exhaustion didn't go unnoticed by the other elf, Tharsis only shook his head with a growl. "I feel like we're wasting time. It's been three days and we have nothing to show for it! Deimos could be dead by now, and we wouldn't even know."
Sighing at the impatience and edginess, Brightwing glanced at a mound of papers that rested beside him. The overabundance of piles of paper creating pandemonium on the table, the ranger-general lost track which stacks were read and which were not. "I doubt they'd kill him. He's their product."
The words, though they held no ill-intent, carried a dark and ominous truth to them. The last word in the reply seemed to circulate in Tharsis' head: product. It created a sour feeling in his stomach at the thought of one treating his son as such; yet also infused an angry flame inside of him. Though he accepted that he sparsely displayed any form of affection to the boy during his raising, the commander acknowledged the feelings of possessiveness and overprotection that filled his body. While he felt the strange and unfamiliar sensation of minute worrisome, he harbored more intense emotions of anger and rage.
Looking up from a piece of seemingly useless intel, Brightwing glanced at the elf sitting opposite from him. Pursing his lips together as he took in Tharsis' livid yet still and passive features, the ranger-general silently deliberated the most appropriate approach with the commander. Observing and knowing the turmoil relationship the father and son held for the past two decades, the elf in front of Brightwing confused and puzzled him. When Deimos was supposed to be playing sports with elflings his age, Tharsis instead sent him into the perils and dangers of a battlefield without a second thought. Only weeks earlier the commander riddled the boy's back with harsh and angry lashes in the form of a punishment; though Brightwing doubted the paladin's actions called for such discipline. However, the emotions displayed from the commander sitting across from him bewildered the ranger-general. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just saying, the traders are looking to turn a profit. Nothing else."
Setting his jaw in slight annoyance and anger at the ranger-general's ability to detect the incensed emotions brewing within him, Tharsis heaved a deep sigh. Giving a small shake of his head, the commander ran a quick hand over the nape of his neck in a poor attempt to calm his nerves. The conversation began to erupt feelings of panic and despair at the situation, the commander felt his strong and powerful resolve fading fast. "This never should have happened in the first place. If he had listened to me, Light, we wouldn't be sitting here, reading through these damned reports and finding nothing. Did he think I fabricated the rule to not travel through Murder Row strictly to ruin his life? For once in his existence, could he have stayed out of trouble? What was he thinking? I already know; he wasn't thinking."
Lifting a curious brow as he eyed the fuming and riled elf, Brightwing had to use all his will power to conceal the small grin that threatened to spread across his features. Though Tharsis' words were carried in a rageful manner, they were deeply laced with worry and anxiety. Not a parent himself, Brightwing rarely utilized the tone the commander displayed; though when he was young, he was often on the receiving end of it. "You sound like your father."
The quiet and calm response taking him off guard, Tharsis was momentarily ripped from his angry reverie. Turning his livid eyes from the spot on the table they were trained on to glance up at Brightwing's passive and solemn face, the commander heaved a small sigh. Both elves of similar age, the two grew up together in the same age group. They both withstood the dreary academy days, created mischief and trouble, and enlisted in the military together. Though their current relationship was distant and business-oriented, it had once consisted of a deep and sincere friendship. "Maybe I should have given him the long winded lectures and boring conversations that I had to endure at his age. Perhaps then he would have listened to me."
A small smile gracing his features, Brightwing could all too easily remember the monotonous and never ending speeches. Though they were both conscientious and intelligent students, they had a reputation for creating trouble and strife. Boredom came easily to the two young elves, the juvenile banter and pranks offering a chance of excitement in their lives. Of course, that was all before they took their oaths and were sworn into the military.
Pulling himself from the joyful yet old memories from his childhood that danced through his mind, Brightwing frowned slightly at Tharsis. His eyes distant and dazed, the commander sat in still contemplation. Cocking his head to the side at the odd behavior, the ranger-general rested his arms heavily on the thick table. "Tharsis?"
If he heard his name, the commander gave no indication to it. Instead, he gave a small shake of his head while keeping his unwavering stare steadily focused on the paper-riddled surface in front of him; his voice coming out in a hushed tone. "I should have- Light, I could list a million things I wish I could go back and redo. Training him better, lecturing him more, not having him go with Elik. It doesn't matter anymore, though. What's done is done." Pausing to run a hand over his fatigued features, the commander continued in a small whisper. "I can only imagine what he's going through right now. Did someone buy him already? Is he scared? Angry? Hurt?"
Wetting his lips, Brightwing easily recognized the nervous and concerned tones in the commander's voice; though detecting them from the elf was foreign and peculiar. Watching apprehension and anxiety break through Tharsis' stern and fierce façade was both disheartening yet also relieving. To see some sort of paternal reaction from the elf was refreshing and easeful. However, amongst the predominant parental worrisome tones that made up his voice, Brightwing also observed a broken spirited elf. Always striving to better himself and his ways, Tharsis took every defeat as a personal one; whether it was on or off the battlefield. To see the powerful and brutal commander's tough front waver was saddening and alarming. "Tharsis, we'll find him. He's smart and strong. I'm sure he's giving them enough trouble."
The words of encouragement barely reaching his ears, Tharsis blinked several times as he slowly attempted to digest the response. Pulling himself back to reality and out of his dazed state, the commander tilted his head towards the ranger-general. "Did you find anything new?"
The abrupt change in the conversation causing him to pause momentarily to comprehend the question, Brightwing lifted his brows in small surprise. While he was unsure whether his heartening words remedied the commander's dejected being, the ranger-general gladly accepted a change in direction. Frowning slightly as he scanned a lone piece of paper resting in front of him, Brightwing shook his head. "Nothing. The reports that seem to have some sort of lead are either only initialed or scribbled with an illegible signature. Here, look at this one." Pausing to pick up a one paged report and offer it across the table to the waiting elf, Brightwing shrugged lightly. "It's starting to make me regret scribbling my signature across my own reports."
Brows drawn together as his eyes ran over the aged and sparse intel, Tharsis felt his spirits slightly lift at the words that were printed on the heading. Investigation of a trade embargo violation as of stated in Act(5)22:7: Enforced Captivity. "Brightwing, this is exactly what we're looking for."
"Yeah, but unless you can decipher the chicken scratch signatures or the initials, we've got nothing. Not to mention, the report is five years old." Pausing to watch Tharsis' eyes move down the page in an inquisitive yet still imploring fashion, the ranger-general puffed a deep sigh of despair. After hours upon hours of piling through useless and worthless reports, the one that could harbor some hope in their investigation offered no further leads. While it was saddening at finding yet another lead end in a stone wall, it created a sense of frustration and disappointment to the ranger-general. He had as much vigor and drive to investigate and locate Deimos as Tharsis held, yet he couldn't help but feel disturbed at the distinct lack of reports offering them aid. Though they lost access to the intel and reports from the Horde, the Sin'dorei gained contact to those of the Alliance. However, even after looking through their new found resources, they still found dead ends.
Tilting his head to the side curiously as Tharsis pursed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at a spot on the report in his hands, Brightwing lifted a brow. "What's wrong?"
Placing the paper on the table, the commander slowly slide it across the littered surface towards the other elf; who kept a puzzled eye on him. "I know this signature."
Snapping his eyes down to the spot on the paper that Tharsis kept a finger pointed, Brightwing scanned the unreadable name on a faded line. Narrowing his eyes on the mark, the ranger-general felt the scribble was familiar yet he couldn't seem to identify it. Shaking his head in sheer frustration and annoyance at his lack of recognition, Brightwing sighed heavily while glancing back up at Tharsis; though he was surprised at the dark look that stared back at him. Expecting to see at least a small sliver of excitement or hope on the commander's face, Tharsis' features were void of any. Instead, his jaw was set back and a frown etched across his features. "Is this person still alive?"
A snide and sneering laugh escaping his clenched jaw, Tharsis gave a single nod of his head while crossing his arms tightly across his chest. "Oh yes, he's very much alive."
Lifting his brows incredulously at the lack of esteem at the hopeful lead, Brightwing ran his eyes over Tharsis' darkened and cold features. "Ok, so who is it?"
The mid afternoon sun beat down on the citizens of Stormwind, its rays offering a small reprise from the bitter wind that whipped through the streets. The late fall breeze carried a slight iciness to it, giving the citizens of the human capital a taste of what was to come. Though the chill moved through the winding canals and streets with malice and spite, the bustling city continued on with its usual activity and hum. The students studying the ways of arcane magic sat wrapped in cloaks on the grassy lawn in the Mage Quarter, books and papers sprawled around them. Young legislative pages and squires raced through the cobblestone streets, bundles of reports and scrolls filled their arms. The sounds of steel clashing against steel mixed with yelling and grunts filled the air around the Command Center, the fresh initiates practicing their drills against each other and the dummies. The hectic and buzzing commotion in the Trade District saw no decrease in activity, the cold weather not preventing the daily merchants and business patrons from continuing their work.
Glancing out the large window to his left, Warren Steele heaved a tired and dismayed sigh. The sun's bright rays spilled onto the kitchen floor, the polished tiles shining under the intense light. Sitting at the Sin'dorei accented table, a neat stack of papers resting in front of him, Warren eyed the window in passive disdain. Though the rays gave the impression of warmth and a comfortable heat, he knew it was a mere illusion; winter was fast approaching and the season was adjusting accordingly. Though he still pushed the soldiers in his battalion despite the frigid temperatures, he knew spirits and drive would be dampened. Once the forest was blanketed in a thick and cold layer of snow, training and drills would become all the more difficult to schedule and execute. He was only thankful that there was talk of deploying the battalion to the Barrens; the tepid and hot temperatures much more attractive than the chilly winter.
Turning his eyes back down at the orderly papers in front him, Warren was given small satisfaction that he was nearly done reading through the intel. Deciding to dedicate the entirety of the day to catching up on forgotten and neglected reports, he made a silent vow to not fall behind on the task again. Though the meager pile was nearly finished, he knew a larger stack awaited him in the study upstairs. Somewhat thankful that his old and shoddy wooden furniture was replaced with more luxurious and comfortable pieces, the commander figured he'd be spending the greater part of the day at the table. While there was a desk and chair waiting for occupancy in the study, he never quite got in the habit of using it. The most use the room saw was when a certain blood elf shared the house with him.
Lifting his head up from the report when a loud and booming knock resonated through the house, Warren let loose a small gust of air. Though he wasn't expecting a visitor, he could easily guess who resided on the other side of the door. The dying afternoon soon lingering into evening, the commander knew it was only a matter of time until Matheus Williams, rogue and friend, would wander over to his humble abode in hopes of going to the tavern. Usually eating dinner and enjoying the affects of a few drinks together, Warren valued the company the younger man offered him. However, it wasn't always just them two at the Pig and Whistle Tavern.
Pushing his chair back to rise from the table, the commander had already become quite accustomed to the silence and peace that enveloped the house. No longer having to share the house with another, he was slightly ashamed to admit his increase in comfort at the change. While he enjoyed Deimos' company and presence, after living decades in isolation it was difficult to acclimate to another; especially an adolescent blood elf. Though he missed and wondered about the boy, especially in regards to his well-being and his relationship with Tharsis, Warren knew his hands were tied in the issue. He also knew that Deimos was driven and head strong; characteristics that seemed to be inherited from Tharsis. If the paladin wanted to find a way back to the human city, he would one way or another; no matter the consequences.
His booted feet tapping on the glossy tiled floors, Warren moved into the foyer when another knock sounded on the door. Lifting a brow up at the impatience of whoever stood on the other side of the entrance, the commander gave a small sigh. Moving to open the door, he mentally began to prepare an excuse to give Matheus in hopes of gaining extra time to dedicate to the reports awaiting him. Twisting the brass handle, he gave it a strong tug back. Eyes widened and brows drawn together in confusion, Warren stared at the two men gazing back at him.
"Brightwing, Tharsis," Warren stammered, darting his eyes between the two elves, unsure what to make of the situation. "How-how can I help you?"
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Brightwing kept his stare even and unwavering as he met his old friend's eye. "Warren, we need to speak with you. Would it be ok if we talk inside?"
His eyes running over the ranger-general's face, Warren was left utterly confused. The usually friendly and laid back manner the elf displayed towards the commander was gone, only to be replaced with a grim and serious expression. However, it wasn't as if Warren hadn't seen the solemn look before. Fighting beside the elf for years during the hardships of war, he had come to recognize Brightwing's strict business demeanor; though he could only wonder the reason behind its intent. Glancing at Tharsis, who kept his hard gaze rested on him, Warren's curiosity was piqued all the more. Arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face and jaw set in a stern manner, Tharsis' presence alone was enough to put the human at unease; least of all his silence.
Pushing the door open further, Warren nodded uncertainly. "Yes, of course. Come in." Pausing as he watched the two elves enter the dwelling, Tharsis' face not falling from its firm and disturbed position, Warren cocked his head to the side curiously as a thought came to mind. "Where's Deimos?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, however, the commander wished he hadn't asked it. Tharsis' face seemed to become clouded with what Warren could detect as bother yet concern; an emotion he didn't think the elf possessed. The ranger-general also seemed to hold a similar expression on his face, though he kept more a complete façade. Keeping his eyes trained on Tharsis, surprised and puzzled at the elf's emotions, the human motioned to the sitting room located adjacent to the foyer.
Sitting down hesitantly on a stark white couch accented with red and purple pillows, Warren swallowed nervously as Brightwing sat on a small red chair across from him. Tharsis, however, remained standing, leaning his weight on one foot and his arms remaining crossed over his chest. "What's happened?"
Wetting his lips, Brightwing fingered the folded piece of paper he held in one hand. "Deimos is… he's gone."
His eyes scanning the ranger-general's face in search of more answers, Warren was only rewarded with the grave and sober expression responding him. Darting his gaze over to the standing elf, the commander was surprised to find Tharsis looking thoughtfully and silently out the window. His eyes were distant and remote, though his face was still set in a firm and rigid expression. Typically on the receiving end of Tharsis' insults and debasing comments, the older man was shocked to find the elf quiet and still. "What do you mean 'gone'? He ran away?"
"And why would you automatically assume that, Steele?"
The icy and cold words, though said in a deathly calm voice from Tharsis, stunned Warren. Blinking at the elf staring at him under a stern gaze, the human was tempted to return the look with one of equal intensity; though pure inquisitiveness dictated him otherwise. Breaking the stare with Tharsis as a cough sounded in front of him, Warren met Brightwing's grave eye.
Shifting uncomfortably on the plush and Sin'dorei fashioned chair, the ranger-general set his jaw in determination. "No, Warren. He was taken by slave traders."
"He was what?" Eyes widened in shock and leaning forward at the words, Warren was unsure how to initially react to such information. "Are you sure? He could have just run away. I'll bet he's with Matheus or Lena now. Let me-"
"No, he's not," Tharsis began in a rough and harsh voice, his voice even and unwavering despite his fuming and livid face. Though the commander silently promised himself on the way to Stormwind to remain quiet throughout the ordeal with the human, he couldn't stay silent any longer. Taking a threatening step closer to Warren, he uncrossed his arms to clench his hands into fists at his sides. "I know where my son is, and he's not here. Though you may not know it, Steele, Silvermoon has been having issues with slave trafficking for a couple months now. I'd hoped to put an end to it weeks ago, but it just didn't work out that way. Now Deimos is gone, and only Light knows where. I don't know if he's hurt, sold, or even alive. All I know is that time is running out to find him and the only piece of intel leads us to you. So, I'm here to ask for your help."
The words carrying a slight panic and anxious tone to them, Warren was left stunned and unsure how to quite respond. His eyes scanning Tharsis' callous and hard face, his deep stare unmoving from his face, the human was vaguely aware of his mouth hanging agape. Giving his head an incredulous shake, Warren rested his gaze back on Brightwing's waiting form. "Of course I'll help you. What are your leads? Do you have any other aid?"
Briefly glancing at Tharsis to reassure his silence in the matter, Brightwing swallowed the small lump that formed in his throat. "Unfortunately, no. The Grand Magister's son was taken with Deimos. He pulled Tharsis from the mission and put someone else he felt was more 'qualified' on the assignment. Everything we're doing is under the table, so to speak." Pausing to offer the piece of paper in his grasp forward to Warren, the ranger-general continued as the human hesitantly took it. "This is the only lead we have. The report is dated five years ago. Your signature was the only one Tharsis recognized. What can you tell us about it?"
Brows drawn together in utter confusion as his eyes scanned over the aged paper, Warren heaved a deep sigh. He took in all the details that the meager report offered; the recorded date, messy initials, the title printed across the top, and the recognizable insignia on the upper corner. Placing the paper on his lap, the commander turned defeated and saddened eyes up to the waiting and imploring elves. "I'm sorry, but I don't know anything pertaining to this."
"What do you mean? You signed the bottom of it! Are you to tell me you're truly that irresponsible to not read the reports that you sign?"
Setting his jaw back as his eyed Tharsis' angry and infused face glaring at him, Warren was all the more tempted to return the incensed words back. His head cocked to the side, the elvish commander's form was nearly shaking with filled rage; his fisted hands threatening to unleash his pent up frustration. The human and elf had a silent battle with their glares, each one sending brutal and cruel unspoken words to the other.
"Tharsis, meme," Brightwing hissed back at the fuming commander, only hoping the words would put an end to the hostility enveloping the room (Relax). The situation dire and ominous, the ranger-general had a small yet futile hope that the two would somehow manage to place differences aside for the greater good. "Warren, are you sure you can't remember anything about the report? I understand it was a long time ago for a human, however-"
"-Even if I signed this last week, I still wouldn't have any other information to offer you," Warren began, shifting his weight under the searching stares. Picking up the paper from its resting position, the human pointed to the small and faded insignia stamped in the corner. "This emblem – it's that of SI:7. This isn't a piece of intel or a report; it's a waiver. A release form. Whatever assignment was conducted was done so by SI:7; they simply used a rogue from my battalion. This rarely happens but when it does, there's no questioning it."
Narrowing his eyes at the sitting human, Tharsis used all his will power to remain calm and collected. Gritting his teeth, he glanced out the window in hopes of subduing his wish to smash Warren's head through the wall. After days of searching and reading through meaningless pages of reports, the one that had seemed promising only led them to yet another dead end. They were back at square one; hours wasted on nothing. The thought alone made the commander's blood boil with anger, yet his spirit felt a different emotion. A peculiar and unfamiliar sensation filled his inner being; an overwhelming and defeated shadow cast over his soul. Time was fading as fast as the prospect of retrieving his son, the thought only intensifying the strange emotions in his body.
"Thankfully, however, I think I know one of the rogues that initialed the bottom."
Whipping his head away from the windowed outside, the cheery sun contrasting sharply with his dark mood, Tharsis eyed the calm human incredulously. "What? Who is it? We'll need to interview him extensively. I want to speak with him immediately."
Moving his eyes from the other elf's surprised yet determined face, Brightwing nodded his head at the human. "I agree with Tharsis. We're losing a lot of precious time."
Preparing to open his mouth to voice his reply, Warren was unexpectedly interrupted as a harsh and loud boom sounded through the house. The booming noise echoed off the elvish walls, the three inhabitants turning their heads to inspect the front door where it originated from. Several beats come and passed, a dead and still silence overtaking the area. Pushing himself up from the comfortable and plush couch, Warren hesitantly made his way to the foyer and his ultimate destination.
The entire ordeal seemed surreal and astonishing to the older man, his head still spinning from the abrupt news. While he assumed Deimos would somehow escape his father's harsh clutches, this was hardly what he had in mind. A more confusing aspect of the situation was Tharsis' reaction and demeanor he openly displayed. Accustomed to seeing and hearing the ruthless ways of the older Ares'mar, Warren was taken by surprise to see a small flicker of despair and desperation in Tharsis' eyes. While he never fathered children of his own, he naturally assumed that the elf would treat the kidnapping of his son in the same cold and callous demeanor he gave everything else. Seeing Tharsis' cruel parenting style first hand weeks ago, Warren was unsure what to make of the elf's reaction. Reaching the front door, the warrior gave a reluctant turn of the knob and tug back to reveal the source of the knocking.
Grinning ear to ear, Warren felt his spirits lift ever so slightly at the human staring back at him; completely oblivious to his involvement in such a big ordeal. "Matheus! Great timing. I was just about to call for you."