War Games
Laerys tightens the wraps around her wrists. She pulls at the arcane-infused cloth with her teeth, cinching the arm guards close to her. She pats her upper arms, ensuring that the leather over-armor is tight against the cloth shirt below. Out of worry, Laerys pulls at the leather straps on either arm once more.
She rolls her shoulders and begins to readjust the plated epaulets atop them. Her fingers curl around the leather straps that secure the epaulets, and she pulls tightly. Instantly she feels the tightness press into her chest and shoulders, echoing the slight hiss of leather on cloth.
From the secure dresser, Laerys produces an enchanted cloak and pulls it round her shoulders, beneath the epaulets. She secures it beneath her chin, at the base of her neck. Instinctively, Laerys pulls the hood of the cloak over her head.
She turns on her heel and meets a reflection of herself in a mirror. Laerys stops for a moment out of shock. For a brief moment, she mistook herself for her mother. Her stomach flips from the jarring glance. She pulls down her hood immediately, inspecting herself. She has the same eyes, the same pale skin. Laerys even has her mother’s nose and mouth. Her head spins for a moment.
Her mother had died on the Broken Shore. She had been commanding battle magi from a high point along the jagged beach when…
Laerys shakes her head as she takes a deep breath. She reaches over and takes up her staff. A deep guilt settles into the pit of her stomach as she mulls over the replacement staff. Now, she is heading into battle, and she lost the staff given to her by her parents.
A soft click whispers through her room. Laerys turns to her door, and her father steps into her room. He smiles a weak smile to his daughter. He has grown so old in the past months, yet he was no more than forty. “Now, what is this…”
Laerys stands tall. She reaches back and places her staff in a special sheath sewn into her cloak. “I am preparing, father.” Her nervous voice betrays the stoic expression upon her face. “I journey into the Nighthold this eve, with my compatriots.” Her father knows of her dealings with the Amberstaff Coalition. He was none too happy with the arrangement, however…
Her father approaches her. His appointed robes of the Kirin Tor fit loosely about his frame. He gazes down at her, his smile contorting into a frown. “I don’t want you hurt, Laerys.”
“You could die in there,” he cuts her off with a bitter and hurt tone. “It’s dangerous within those walls. Chronomancy–” Laerys rolls her shoulders, feeling the weight of her temporary staff. “– volatile energies, demons…” He frowns, tears coming to his eyes. “I can’t lose you like I lost your mother.”
Laerys gives a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “I am a mage of the Kirin Tor. I am ready for all that is ahead of me.” She gives him a curt nod to affirm her statement. “The Amberstaff needs me, and we will not be alone in there.”
His lip begins to quiver as he takes his daughter up in a hug. “You are just like your mother.” Laerys holds still as her father begins to shake. She feels her cheek dampen from his tears. She, too, begins to weep as her arms wrap around her father. She holds for a moment as she cries silently.
Her father takes a deep breath and pulls away. He rests his hands on her upper arms, inspecting her. “You would make a fine battle mage, Laerys.” He whispers. Laerys nods in agreement as she wipes tears from beneath her eyes.
“I must get going,” she chokes. Laerys clears her throat and reaches to her belt, where her coin purse still resides on her belt. Reaching in, she produces a hearthstone. She runs her thumb over the rune, and it begins to glow.
Looking up, her father watches her while in tears. She nods to him as she recites an incantation with a low, near inaudible voice. Her eyes sting with tears that beg to fall. “Good luck,” her father whispers. Laerys nods, and closes her eyes.
As she opens them, she meets Astravar Harbor. All around her, Horde and Alliance forces alike prepare for the assault. Paladins skim over prayer books as wizards perfect their wards. Shamans of different races pray to the elements as warriors don war paints.
Laerys takes a deep, shaky breath as she slips the stone back into her purse. She clears her throat in an attempt to relieve the choking sensation of biting back tears.
The air is near cold with a subtle breeze from the harbor bellow. The assault is upon them.
