Tyrric

Thorn of the Rose

“O Scourge of the Sea! Though long you have stalked me, no more shall you withhold your truth from me…

“…O Scourge of the Sea! I see the curtain has parted, your true form at last revealed to me.”

Thorn of the Rose

Act One

The moonlight lit the paths leading away from the village square, silvering the hair and hoods of the wuyon’mari streaming into it. Its light was overpowered by the lanterns in the square itself however, shining blue and violet, green and gold, from the branches of the white-barked trees. Keelath took a sniff of the air, scented with herbs and exotic perfumes and all kinds of food.

The Long Dark holiday was in full swing. Continue reading “Thorn of the Rose”

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A Darkmoon Reading

The final piece to be cut out of “Brothers Apart”, this scene really deserved to be a stand-alone all along. Keelath was given a tarot card reading at the Darkmoon Faire during a Summer Festival roleplay event, which left him chewing on whether he needed to use a lighter touch in his relationship with Mirium. His worries didn’t come out of nowhere: at the time, Mirium was suffering from a mental intrusion by Talthan, via a mind control spell that caused her to see Keelath as an enemy. Since this is nowhere else referenced, this piece didn’t really belong in “Brothers Apart”. I think I originally put it there as it showed how Keelath and Tyrric’s brotherhood was on the mend.
Author’s Note

The cottage was dark when Keelath made it home from the Faire. Mirium was sleeping–of course she was sleeping. It was past moonset, and at this time of month, that happened only hours before dawn.

Keelath dismounted, letting the ghost of his bonesteed drift away, back to wherever such undead creatures lurked until they were called again. He let himself pause to listen to the nightly sounds: crickets, a muffled stamp from the stables, water trickling some distance away from the brook, the cloud of humming from the frogs living near a pond Tyrric had left behind when he had dredged the grounds of Dawnmist from the swamp that had given them its name. Joining those sounds now was a crackling buzz from the new wards Lithliana was helping to lay around the manor, since Haljek had gone. The buzz would fade once the wards were fully up, she had said, but that would take another few days.

He edged up on the cottage. Mirium couldn’t stand his presence at the moment, shrinking away anytime she caught sight of him. He knew it was Talthan’s doing, not a reflection of her honest thoughts about him, but it still hurt. One never appreciated what they had before it was taken away… Continue reading “A Darkmoon Reading”

Dear Estormo

Though this scene was briefly found in the “Brother Apart” series, due to the revelation Tyrric comes upon, it was originally written to be a stand-alone piece. After the Great Revision, it is back to being a stand-alone, though I might eventually rewrite pieces of it to slot into “Tyrric’s Madness” as part of the chronicle of Tyrric’s recovery from Void corruption.
Until then, this scene describes the aftermath of a roleplay session, in which Keelath was rude to Estormo while he was sulking at a tavern event.
Author’s Note Continue reading “Dear Estormo”

Deleted Scene: Mirium’s Exile

This was originally part of the “Brothers Apart” series. It always felt a bit ungainly to me, as it was describing the aftermath of a bit of roleplay that had gone on in-game. So, as part of the Great Revision, I’ve cut it out and instead put it here.
Author’s Note

When Tyrric announced his choice to exile Mirium for helping an agent of Sylvanas, the impact of Keelath’s anger almost swept his sanity away. He had a vague sensation of being able to lie down inside the wave, to let what violence that would happen, happen, and then there would be no one left to blame.

Then with an effort, he was back again. He was Keelath, ex-paladin, not Keelath, undead monster. He wouldn’t give in to the bloodlust. Not now. Continue reading “Deleted Scene: Mirium’s Exile”

Rose for a Thorn (Fanfiction Version)

Part One

This scene has been rolling around in my head for a while now. I particularly like Tyrric’s presentation here.
For references’ sake, this story takes place nearly 3,000 years ago, shortly after the Troll Wars in the World of Warcraft setting. Tyrric and Mirium are maybe 16 or 17 years of age in this scene, while Keelath is approaching his late 20’s. As elves, this means they are all young adults just barely into their maturity, though Keelath has a bit of a gap on the others.
Author’s Note

The moonlight lit the paths leading away from the village square, silvering the hair and hoods of the quel’dorei streaming into it. Its light was overpowered by the lanterns in the square itself however, shining blue and violet, green and gold, from the branches of the trees. Keelath took a sniff of the air, scented with herbs and exotic perfumes and all kinds of food. The Lunar holiday was in full swing.

He had been to the midwinter celebration a few times since their family had moved to Thalas’talah, but his younger brother, Tyrric, had not. Keelath grinned to himself as Tyrric dashed from one vendor to the next, giddy as a boy half his age, and the young quel’dorei didn’t seem to know what to pay the most attention to first: the food, the girls, the drink, the crafts, or all of them at once. It was a haphazard version of the latter he chose, as far as Keelath could tell. He glided along behind his brother, making sure Tyrric didn’t get into any trouble while also sharing the experience with him.

A train of wagons was pulled into the center of the square, though they looked like cheery little houses on wheels more than wagons, painted in reds and greens and yellows. Four of them were pulled into a half-square — two on either side and two forming the back — with their awnings stretched out to create a sheltered space between them. A crowd was forming outside it, waiting with a tense air like they were forming lines for tickets to see an exotic beast. Then someone began to sing, clear and piercingly beautiful.

Tyrric paused in his sampling of a wine older than he was, but Keelath walked around the wagons, craning his neck. On this side, under the awnings, someone had draped curtains, painted and sewn in fanciful colors: a backdrop to a stage. A silver-haired woman stood on a hastily constructed deck, singing older hymns of Elune interspersed with newer songs celebrating the Sun and the quel’dorei’s journey into the Light. This singer was better than many of the priestesses Keelath had heard, though she struggled with some of the pronunciations: not a true believer, or so Keelath took it to mean. She was singing instead for the benefit of her audience, as the dwellers of Thalas’talah were known to be especially devout. Keelath folded his arms and listened appreciatively.

“You know, they’d get more attention if they hired someone younger to take the role,” said Tyrric, suddenly appearing at Keelath’s side with half a pastry in his mouth.

“You’re spitting crumbs all over me,” said Keelath.

“It’s an improvement,” said Tyrric, then seemed to make his best attempt of choking himself by shoving the rest of the pastry in his mouth at once.

Keelath smiled, putting a hand on Tyrric’s back in readiness for having to knock his throat clear, then turned his attention back to the stage. The woman had ended her performance and was taking her bows, and other elves were filing out on stage, preparing it and themselves for a play. It seemed they had taken Tyrric’s advice, as one of them was a young woman, taking the center in a gown that showed off her slenderness without quite being inappropriate.

Then she began to sing, and it was Keelath who needed the help to keep from choking, as his breath caught in his throat.

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Tyrric’s Madness

Inspired by a roleplay scene, as what was going through Tyrric’s head while the Sunwalker crew discussed how to cure him of his Void corruption. This would take place shortly after Tyrric was rescued from Ny’alotha, the Black City of N’Zoth.
Author’s Note

Alelsa poked him in the ribs. At first he was merely annoyed: he wanted to sleep. Then, as she continued to poke, talked over him, he came more alert. Memories about who and where he was started to coalesce.

The expedition into the Black City had ended poorly. Everything had made sense until then. Now, nothing did, and the danger was — seemed? — constant.

Alelsa gave him another poke, but was it really her? Could it not be the probing tentacle of a n’raqi, the scraping claw of a silithid? Be still, his instincts told him. If it was a monster, maybe it’d think he was dead and leave him alone.

He had some inkling he’d been manipulated: that something had been in his head and had rearranged his thoughts and motivations to its liking. He couldn’t trust his perceptions; when he had, he had done something terrible. Something that couldn’t be repeated. If he just remained still, barely even breathing, maybe his actions couldn’t be turned to the darkness’s whims again.

Alelsa — or the something pretending to be her — slapped him. He couldn’t help jumping, and then he froze, tense, expecting that the admission he was alive and aware would bring more pain in short order. Nothing happened or seemed to; his cheek stung. He pushed the pain aside, deep down. Bury it, ignore it. Like it was happening to someone else. Another Tyrric, another man broken. Not him…

A memory flashed up, of Nya’lotha, unbidden and unwanted. At that time, the pain had been more pronounced, as something dark and terrible had held him in a slimy embrace and tried to burrow its way inside — into his belly, his innards, his mind, his being. He had flung his consciousness away, formed a mental image of a forest and a hill he alone had access to. He ignored the reality. Just as he was doing now. Ignored the pain. Only the forest existed. The tree… a light… wavering… his whole world.

The image wavered again as something called to his attention in that other life, the one he wasn’t sure was real. His skin quivered as something rasped against it — claws? — his stomach turned as he was lifted and dropped a short ways. Something had picked him up. He felt its gait under him. Desperately he tried to find the tree again. He could not let them into his mind. There, he could see the light. He could imagine a picnic here, with Alelsa…

Was that her, speaking, just now? She sounded sad, angry. Angry with him. He was being useless again — but no, the picnic… everything was okay. The horror was happening to another Tyrric, another person. All that existed was his light, his tree… and Alelsa…

Then the baritone of Keelath interrupted her. That was wrong; Keelath was far away, a traitor Tyrric had exiled!

Or was he?

Tyrric opened his eyes. He was in the sitting room at the Dawnmist manor, or somewhere that looked just like it. Alelsa was nearby, as was Keelath. And Mirium. Confusion and strong emotions bloomed in him, his stomach. He felt nauseous.

The others spoke to each other. Alelsa reached over to poke him again, talk over him. Tyrric willed himself still. Were these beings, that might be Faceless in disguise, aware he was awake?

…no, he decided. They seemed to think he was sick. Unresponsive. That was well. They would ignore him. Tyrric shifted slightly, trying to see the rest of the room. Could he escape while their attention was off him?

Did it matter if he did? Maybe he was home, and this was all real.

Tyrric recoiled at the thought. That was just as bad. Shame overwhelmed him, and he returned to his tree on the hill. He had lost control of his life, but this, at least, he could still manage to make… if not perfect, then good enough.

Time stretched. Whatever being that wore Keelath’s face turned on him, smacking Tyrric’s cheeks and demanding his attention with an angry shout. Tyrric refused to give it. Let the Void do its worst, he thought. Back under his tree; he told Alelsa that he loved her and was sorry for all he had done.

Perhaps the Void lurking in his mind disapproved of his sentiment, because the torture began again. They were poking him, then stinging him. Silithid? He opened his eyes. No, it appeared to be the wand of some sin’dorei magister from Silvermoon. When had he arrived? The wand hurt, like a shaman’s lightning bolt, each time it stuck him in the ribs. Tyrric struggled to return to his tree. His body demanded action, a warrior’s riposte to the attack, but he held it back. Maybe that’s what the Void wanted, after all.

The man with the wand demanded an answer from him. Yes, that confirmed this was an interrogation. Tyrric wouldn’t play along. They would not get information out of him that they could use against his family or against the Horde! He would remain silent.

Someone tried to dribble something in his mouth, too. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it open. His body reacted before he could, licking up the moisture and soothing his racking thirst. It had been so long since he’d eaten or drunken, but — no! Poison, truth serum, a curse, bottled death! It was a common tactic, and he could not give in to it. He spat the liquid out before it could work its evil on him.

As expected, they pressed it on him twice as hard. Something seized his nose, trying to force him to open his mouth again by cutting off his breath. He knew that tactic too. Live. He threw himself forward, gasping in breaths while they were distracted by his thrashing.

Even as he fought, he knew submission was inevitable. Something stung him again, and this time he was sure it had to be a silithid. A numbness spread across his limbs and into his mind, emanating from the prick site. He tasted the awful serum again in his mouth, but he couldn’t make his jaw work to spit it out as the numbness encapsulated him, dragging him into the darkness…

He came to later, lying on his back. He wondered what he had revealed under the serum’s coercion. He thought of his family and how he was letting them down — again.

No, not again. He had to resist, had to…

How? How could he escape this nightmare? Perhaps his torturers had left tools within his reach that he could use to end it…? Death was never a good answer, but was it preferable, to that…?

He opened his eyes to scout. He saw Alelsa and Mirium around him, one holding his head still. So the Void was still manipulating him with that illusion. So be it. He closed his eyes and waited for it to grow tired of the tactic. Even the creatures of the Void had to sleep…

The dopplegangers were talking again, crying now. Over him. His resolve wavered.

What if it was real? What if he could steal a few moments of happiness, tell this Alelsa of his love and his apologies? Even if it wasn’t her… even if it wasn’t real…it would make him feel better, at least.

No!

They would use it against him. No, better to retreat.

He found his tree. He had to be strong for his family. He had to resist. He missed them, so badly… He had to resist…

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All They Had

He looked at her. He saw her careworn face, her red hair bound up and starting to lose its shine with the onset of her age… He imagined what life could’ve been like, if it was her hand he had held at the summer gala…

All They Had

By A. Broadhead

This piece was a response to a short writing prompt: write a dialogue in which the two characters are almost having a big fight, but not quite. I chose Tyrric and Mirium for this scene as that’s something they often do! What came out of it isn’t quite a dialogue, but I’m happy with how it illustrates the ongoing tension between them.
As far as canon goes, this scene would’ve been set roughly before Keelath returned from the dead but while Tyrric was still dating Alelsa. It’s not entirely accurate to that timeline though, mostly because I wanted to write a scene that was self-contained –one you could pick up and read without knowing anything about the rest of Sunwalker lore. So, enjoy it as a illustrative piece if not a completely factual one!
Author’s Note

“Lord Tyrric, we really need to talk about your taste in horses.”

Tyrric looked up from the handwritten ledgers spread across his desk. Mirium was standing across from him, hands on her hips, in that “I’m about to make some trouble” kind of way that always set his heart racing.

“Yes. Ah. What about?” he answered, calmly enough despite his distraction. Continue reading “All They Had”

The Second War

Even before the Farstrider turned towards her, his mouth a line of regret, before Tyrric gave a ragged cry and dashed forward, Mirium knew. Mirium knew, and suddenly her world would never be the same.

I had written this many months before, but the dramatic wording of it caused me to not post it until I could go back and edit the tone down a little. Months later, the tone isn’t edited down by more than a few word changes, but I’m calling it good enough to post despite my misgivings.
Though not an exhaustive look at the Sunwalkers’ doings during the Second War of the Warcraft universe, this hits the major happenings: Keelath’s death, Evelos’ departure south to join the Alliance, and Mirium’s downward spiral into losing her Light magic.
Author’s Note

Evelos tossed and turned. The grief was still too raw, sharp edged, and his mind fled from it Continue reading “The Second War”