The Legion - Lyelleth & Orannis
folder
+S through Z › World of Warcraft
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
6,452
Reviews:
22
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+S through Z › World of Warcraft
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
6,452
Reviews:
22
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own World of Warcraft, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Handover and a Journey
Author’s Notes: I got my first review *cheer* Thank you AntiDolorifico for your comment. I’m aiming to update fairly quickly, but I have raiding commitments and a Hunter at 62 I’m itching to get to 70 so I have to find the time *laughs*
--
~ Booty Bay ~
The morning had dawned bright and clear, though Lyelleth was in no mood to celebrate it. They were in Booty Bay as instructed, and there was a heavy guard on her door; not to prevent her capture, but to prevent her escape. She had given up cursing her fate, and was steadily working on being numb, the rumours she had heard working well to assist her in this. The Rogue was also debating what fate the Horde would set her to. Her life would either be mercifully short, or long and…
Her train of thought was interrupted by the entrance of Tristan, the broad-shouldered Paladin glancing over her before sighing deeply. “Your tabard, Lyelleth,” He requested, holding out his hands.
Lyelleth’s eyes widened. “You have got to be kidding.”
“No. I… Lyelleth, this is to be the end of our association.”
A choked laugh escaped her. “So, I’m to be sacrificed without people knowing who gave me up so willingly?” A sneer, “And if I refuse? Will you tear it from me, start breaking me in before they do?”
Sighing deeply, Tristan shook his blonde head. “Do not fight with me on this Lyelleth. I am to take your tabard, weapons and the keys to your vault.”
“No!”
“Lyelleth…”
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on Tristan, you are not taking my blades or my bow, and you are *not* ransacking my vault! Alheria and Tarmwrench didn’t have to give anything up except themselves, why do I have to be the show pony?”
Face twisted into a snarl, the Paladin rounded on her, “And who asked you to make that decision? We didn’t. The King is *dead* Lyelleth, but you weren’t happy with that, no, you had to go chase illusions and slight of hand. And it came back to bite you. Fine, go out there in your finery; they will strip it from you with an audience instead of it being handed over to us to keep for you.” Turning his back on her, Tristan made to leave, but paused at the door. “You have been nothing but trouble for us Lyelleth. Nothing. I see now why your own people disowned you.”
“You unmitigated bastard!” Launching herself at him, Lyelleth crashed into the door as he escaped, pounding on it as he left.
--
Dressed in his finest armour, Orannis and his honour guard stood in front of the Docks at Booty Bay, Thrall’s own scout ship behind them, awaiting the Alliance contingent. The green-skinned Shaman didn’t know what to expect, certainly not the sour-faced Paladin, or the sneering Warlock, both accompanied by two heavily armed Warriors, all but pushing the Rogue along.
He recognized her immediately, from the proud tilt of her chin to the gleam in her silver eyes, and he brought himself to his full height. Even then, he was a good ten inches shorter than the seven-foot female in front of him. She would challenge Tauren in height, he mused as she was thrown toward him, her so-called comrades turning their backs almost immediately. A snarl twisted her features as she turned, and threw a comment at them in her own language which made both the Warriors stiffen and turn menacingly. The Orc barked an order, and his guards were immediately at arms, but before anyone could react, the Night Elf turned on her heel and walked straight toward him, then past his party and on to the boat, refusing to look back.
Stunned for a moment, Orannis remained in place before turning, ordering his guards onto the boat before following. At the gangplank he paused, turning for a moment.
None of the Alliance was looking.
--
The trip back to Kalimdor was long, and Lyelleth spent most of it above deck, staring at the sky, especially on a night, almost bathing in the glow of the moon as they traveled. Most of the talk on-ship had been about the blades the woman carried. No-one could ignore the legendary Thunderfury, or the Brutality Blade, both equal symbols of her prowess within the Core, and there was a muted respect amongst those who traveled with the Elf over her abilities. Yet, not once on the trip had she attempted escape, or even seemed to try and fight her way out of the situation. It was as if she was resigned to it.
Orannis had watched her throughout the journey. Initially tempted to strip her of all but the most basic of armours, her complete pacifism had removed that idea, at least for the moment. It would have to be done before they arrived in Orgrimmar however, he decided. The last thing he wanted was a trigger-happy spectator shooting her because she entered the capital armed. Therefore, the last night aboard ship, he approached her. Sat in her usual spot on the prow of the vessel, staring out into the night, so very detached from her situation, the Rogue didn’t seem to react to his presence until he spoke.
“Night Elf…”
“You’ve come to tell me I won’t be allowed to enter Orgrimmar armed, haven’t you.” She said quietly, her voice stripped of any emotion. “I was debating why I hadn’t been stripped of my arms sooner you know. Tristan couldn’t wait to take them off me, so perversely I refused him… Burnt my guild tabard though, which was distinctly enjoyable.” She rose slowly still not turning to face him, and began removing her weapons, the two swords laid reverently on the floor, crossbow unslung from her back along with its quiver, then a various assortment of minor blades and other devices, some of which looked massively painful to the Shaman. Once there was a small pile on the floor she stopped, resuming her gaze over the sea.
“So now, do I throw them overboard?”
“I doubt I would be forgiven for that, Night Elf.” Was his soft reply, “Some of my guards are coveting those blades, but I know they are bound to you.” A motion of his hand, and a troll appeared carrying a heavy-looking chest. “This will be sufficient for them. It will be taken straight to my rooms upon our arrival, and no other will touch it. This I swear to you upon my oath… Lyelleth.”
At the mention of her name, she turned, gaze glassy. “I believe you.” Gesturing toward the trunk, she continued, “I am to store my armour too, I presume? If so, how am I to be dressed for this great *presentation*?” A silvery brow was raised, stretching the tattoos across the eye beneath it, lightning bolt in shape, and several shades darker than her skin. “Or am I just to be dragged through the streets naked?”
“Not naked, no,” Orannis assured her, “But not fully armoured.” A sigh escaped him as he sat on the chest, meeting her cold gaze. “This has blown out of all proportion, and for that I apologise. Thrall will surrender you to my care, but I cannot guarantee this will be an easy solution, or a readily accepted one. There are those who would see you executed for your crimes, Night Elf.”
“The crimes of war are the crimes of necessity,” Her rigid posture slumped in defeat, “But you are right. I should be… appreciative, of that mercy.”
“I wouldn’t call it a mercy yet Night Elf.” The Orc countered, rising again. “I do not have the time to explain this all to you, but things will be worse before they are better. You will be brought appropriate clothes. I would don them as soon as possible, we arrive in a few hours. And Night Elf?”
“What?”
“Prepare yourself.”
--
~ Booty Bay ~
The morning had dawned bright and clear, though Lyelleth was in no mood to celebrate it. They were in Booty Bay as instructed, and there was a heavy guard on her door; not to prevent her capture, but to prevent her escape. She had given up cursing her fate, and was steadily working on being numb, the rumours she had heard working well to assist her in this. The Rogue was also debating what fate the Horde would set her to. Her life would either be mercifully short, or long and…
Her train of thought was interrupted by the entrance of Tristan, the broad-shouldered Paladin glancing over her before sighing deeply. “Your tabard, Lyelleth,” He requested, holding out his hands.
Lyelleth’s eyes widened. “You have got to be kidding.”
“No. I… Lyelleth, this is to be the end of our association.”
A choked laugh escaped her. “So, I’m to be sacrificed without people knowing who gave me up so willingly?” A sneer, “And if I refuse? Will you tear it from me, start breaking me in before they do?”
Sighing deeply, Tristan shook his blonde head. “Do not fight with me on this Lyelleth. I am to take your tabard, weapons and the keys to your vault.”
“No!”
“Lyelleth…”
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on Tristan, you are not taking my blades or my bow, and you are *not* ransacking my vault! Alheria and Tarmwrench didn’t have to give anything up except themselves, why do I have to be the show pony?”
Face twisted into a snarl, the Paladin rounded on her, “And who asked you to make that decision? We didn’t. The King is *dead* Lyelleth, but you weren’t happy with that, no, you had to go chase illusions and slight of hand. And it came back to bite you. Fine, go out there in your finery; they will strip it from you with an audience instead of it being handed over to us to keep for you.” Turning his back on her, Tristan made to leave, but paused at the door. “You have been nothing but trouble for us Lyelleth. Nothing. I see now why your own people disowned you.”
“You unmitigated bastard!” Launching herself at him, Lyelleth crashed into the door as he escaped, pounding on it as he left.
--
Dressed in his finest armour, Orannis and his honour guard stood in front of the Docks at Booty Bay, Thrall’s own scout ship behind them, awaiting the Alliance contingent. The green-skinned Shaman didn’t know what to expect, certainly not the sour-faced Paladin, or the sneering Warlock, both accompanied by two heavily armed Warriors, all but pushing the Rogue along.
He recognized her immediately, from the proud tilt of her chin to the gleam in her silver eyes, and he brought himself to his full height. Even then, he was a good ten inches shorter than the seven-foot female in front of him. She would challenge Tauren in height, he mused as she was thrown toward him, her so-called comrades turning their backs almost immediately. A snarl twisted her features as she turned, and threw a comment at them in her own language which made both the Warriors stiffen and turn menacingly. The Orc barked an order, and his guards were immediately at arms, but before anyone could react, the Night Elf turned on her heel and walked straight toward him, then past his party and on to the boat, refusing to look back.
Stunned for a moment, Orannis remained in place before turning, ordering his guards onto the boat before following. At the gangplank he paused, turning for a moment.
None of the Alliance was looking.
--
The trip back to Kalimdor was long, and Lyelleth spent most of it above deck, staring at the sky, especially on a night, almost bathing in the glow of the moon as they traveled. Most of the talk on-ship had been about the blades the woman carried. No-one could ignore the legendary Thunderfury, or the Brutality Blade, both equal symbols of her prowess within the Core, and there was a muted respect amongst those who traveled with the Elf over her abilities. Yet, not once on the trip had she attempted escape, or even seemed to try and fight her way out of the situation. It was as if she was resigned to it.
Orannis had watched her throughout the journey. Initially tempted to strip her of all but the most basic of armours, her complete pacifism had removed that idea, at least for the moment. It would have to be done before they arrived in Orgrimmar however, he decided. The last thing he wanted was a trigger-happy spectator shooting her because she entered the capital armed. Therefore, the last night aboard ship, he approached her. Sat in her usual spot on the prow of the vessel, staring out into the night, so very detached from her situation, the Rogue didn’t seem to react to his presence until he spoke.
“Night Elf…”
“You’ve come to tell me I won’t be allowed to enter Orgrimmar armed, haven’t you.” She said quietly, her voice stripped of any emotion. “I was debating why I hadn’t been stripped of my arms sooner you know. Tristan couldn’t wait to take them off me, so perversely I refused him… Burnt my guild tabard though, which was distinctly enjoyable.” She rose slowly still not turning to face him, and began removing her weapons, the two swords laid reverently on the floor, crossbow unslung from her back along with its quiver, then a various assortment of minor blades and other devices, some of which looked massively painful to the Shaman. Once there was a small pile on the floor she stopped, resuming her gaze over the sea.
“So now, do I throw them overboard?”
“I doubt I would be forgiven for that, Night Elf.” Was his soft reply, “Some of my guards are coveting those blades, but I know they are bound to you.” A motion of his hand, and a troll appeared carrying a heavy-looking chest. “This will be sufficient for them. It will be taken straight to my rooms upon our arrival, and no other will touch it. This I swear to you upon my oath… Lyelleth.”
At the mention of her name, she turned, gaze glassy. “I believe you.” Gesturing toward the trunk, she continued, “I am to store my armour too, I presume? If so, how am I to be dressed for this great *presentation*?” A silvery brow was raised, stretching the tattoos across the eye beneath it, lightning bolt in shape, and several shades darker than her skin. “Or am I just to be dragged through the streets naked?”
“Not naked, no,” Orannis assured her, “But not fully armoured.” A sigh escaped him as he sat on the chest, meeting her cold gaze. “This has blown out of all proportion, and for that I apologise. Thrall will surrender you to my care, but I cannot guarantee this will be an easy solution, or a readily accepted one. There are those who would see you executed for your crimes, Night Elf.”
“The crimes of war are the crimes of necessity,” Her rigid posture slumped in defeat, “But you are right. I should be… appreciative, of that mercy.”
“I wouldn’t call it a mercy yet Night Elf.” The Orc countered, rising again. “I do not have the time to explain this all to you, but things will be worse before they are better. You will be brought appropriate clothes. I would don them as soon as possible, we arrive in a few hours. And Night Elf?”
“What?”
“Prepare yourself.”