Post by Trinea on Oct 10, 2010 9:05:09 GMT -5
It was a long ride back from Brill.
The Paladin that had accompanied Lieutenant Delenada's strike team, Brok Kalt-Hammer, had been trusted to transport their captive. And so the petite young elf had been laid limp against his breastplate, sitting before him on Ignatio, his mighty charger. In any other situation, he would have insisted that the lady sit behind him and hold on, so that there would be no question that he had avoided putting her in a compromising position, and wanted her not to fear for her safety or virtue.
But, alas, the elf had to be taken in an unconscious state. She had resisted to the point that they'd had to use force; all four of them! He remembered it a little too well.
The Elf woman had been watching Brill from the top of a tall, but mostly bare hill, just beyond the smithy and stables. When the Allied infiltrators approached, she had seemed unaware. But they had her surrounded in a flash, and in the next instant she was visibly shocked by their arrival.
Brok had to admire the woman's tenacity. She stood her ground, even while an imposing Draenei shaman, a rather fierce-looking human woman that wielded a pair of heavy axes, an officer in full campaign plate, and a masked Paladin all took positions to bar her escape. They hadn't needed to, in retrospect. She neither came willingly, nor fled in terror.
"Please, come willingly! Do not resist, and I swear you will not be harmed!" Brok had called to her as they took positions, and it became clear that she wasn't moving. He hadn't been sure if the elf spoke common, but she surprised him with a well-worded response.
"I'm sorry, but I don't mean to go anywhere." she had calmly replied, in contrast to the slight tremble and desperation that had been in Brok's. He hadn't wanted her to get hurt! Not with how frail and vulnerable she looked! But she seemed to pay no heed to the danger she was in. "Someone is already on their way." she finished.
"What did she say?" Brok heard one of his comrades ask. He frantically restated her message, then looked to Lieutenant Delenada for guidance. His weapons were drawn; as were everyone else's. They were ready for a fight, and Brok and the Elf seemed to be the only ones that didn't plan on it. Brok's eyes stopped on each of his compatriots in turn, his face paling beneath his mask as he saw what he could only read as eagerness for violence on each of their faces. Perhaps he was wrong? Perhaps it was all an act?
He couldn't tell. The Lieutenant was the only one who had covered his face, and even his helmet left enough of his face visible to show his expression. Brok had the advantage, he supposed, of not having to let others see what he was thinking. In this situation, he would have hated to look the traitor.
In desperation, he turned to the Elf one last time and begged her, "Please! Come willingly!"
"You don't ask the enemy to come willingly!" he heard one of his comrades bark. Could it have been the shaman? He wasn't sure.
Brok steeled himself to do what he hadn't wanted to. Yes, he had come expecting to fight, but he didn't think that it would be a seemingly harmless young woman he'd be pitted against. "Then," he said through gritted teeth, drawing his mace and raising his shield, "I must ask you all to seize this opportunity!" With the last word spoken, Brok thrust his weapon out towards the Elf, though it didn't connect. Instead, a magical hammer flew from his fist and slammed against the Elf, stunning her. From there, it was a simple beat-down.
The Elf let out a terrifying yell, amplified by psychic power, but most of the Allies were able to overcome the mental effects within a few seconds and charged her once again. Unarmed and unarmored, as far as Brok could tell, she fell in a matter of seconds beneath their blows.
He was too caught up in the moment. As soon as the Elf crumpled to the floor, he looked around to see if anyone had witnessed their act of aggression. He wouldn't call it a crime; simply something done in the interest of one's country. Crime or act of war, he gasped at the sight of the Horde ghost wolf that watched them, barking and snarling. He rushed to the fallen Elf, murmuring a prayer and calling down the Light's healing power to mend her wounds. She remained unconscious as she was picked up and handed off to the shaman, and they all fled through Silverpine.
Once they had reached South Shore, they knew that a few Horde were hot on their trail. The guards might be able to handle them, if any were foolish enough to chase them this far. The group let out a collective sigh of relief, and Lieutenant Delenada requested that someone take the Elf to Stormwind for processing.
In that moment, Brok looked upon her limp form and could only feel pity. She looked so young! Barely even a woman, or so she appeared. He didn't know how elves aged, so he wouldn't try to guess; he just knew that of all the great and terrifying, or black-hearted and heinous foes he'd been sent after, this was the first noble young woman he'd been sent to subdue. It DID feel like a crime, no matter how crucial to his country's interests it was. As if it would help make amends for his part in what they'd done, Brok raised his gauntleted hand and offered to take the Elf.
Brok couldn't shake the guilt from his heart as they flew to Stormwind. It had been a long flight, spanning much of the Eastern Kingdoms, and so he had plenty of time to stew in the remorse that came from helping to beat this unthreatening creature down.
He looked down at the woman in his lap and had to wonder, what was her crime? What had she done, what did she know, that made this necessary? Did she have a family? A protective father or mother that wondered where their daughter had gone? A strapping young lad that had sought to woo her; or even a husband! Who longed to see her smile, or missed the wife that warmed his bed and heart at night? She surely did.
And in that instant, Brok almost envied her. He had none of those things. No woman had found him desirable enough to truly love him; not enough to stay with him, anyway. His mother was dead, and his father grew old in a monastery. He knew that his son was a warrior of whom much was expected; he also knew where he'd be going should he die by the sword or the claw, and feared not for him. His sister was much the same in her convent. He had few friends; none of which did he see often. And for a moment, that alone was enough for him to not feel sorry for his prisoner.
It was short-lived. Thinking like that always made him feel worse. Again, he found himself admiring that she had all of that that he wanted; so much to lose. And yet, she faced four heavily armed Allies without fear. She must have had great faith in the Light, he imagined, to have such tenacity. Perhaps she was one of those few Elves who were faithful? He'd heard that they were few in number. After all, were the Blood Elves not all fel-addicted maniacs? No; an entire race couldn't be evil, he knew that much. But it worried him that his comrades had so easily designated her as "The Enemy", and wondered why he asked her to come rather than forcing her.
He'd always had trouble causing others pain. It was only seeing the unfeeling, monstrous undead in Duskwood that had inspired him to take up the mace and serve humanity as Paladin. He was similarly reluctant to harm this elf, but his comrades didn't share that consideration. Was it true, what he'd been taught as a boy about soldiering?
"A man shouldn't take up arms without knowing exactly what he'll be doing to someone with them one day." His uncle Ernst, a footman from the First War, had told him. "Nothing glorious about it. You're out there to take from those monsters what they'd take from us just as readily. Orcs, demons, they feel pain; don't let nobody tell you otherwise! But they ain't human. Remember that, Brok. They're monsters. They don't deserve to be treated kindly like your fellow man."
He had served with enough Orcs in his time as a Paladin that Brok knew they weren't evil. Barbaric, sure, but not evil. And it made it harder to fight the Horde after fighting alongside them in old Lordaeron or Northrend against the Scourge, under the Argent banner. Had his comrades been hardened by fighting to the point that they no longer thought of their foes as people?
It was an unsettling thought. Especially when Brok thought about how much he had willingly dehumanized himself. He wore a mask to cover his human face and emotions, and show instead a stalwart mask of devotion; not to mention the glow of the Light. He went about in armor for almost the entire day, and rarely ever let himself be seen just as Brok, rather than another steel-encased Paladin. In that moment, he almost felt less human than the Elf in his arms.
It was with great reluctance that Brok handed her over to the guards. "We'll take her from here!" the sergeant said enthusiastically, snapping a salute to Brok as his underlings took the Elf from him. The Paladin said nothing, and simply nodded; cringing behind his mask and hood. He surely looked stern and stoic to them. Oh, the fools. If only they had known that Brok would soon spend the entire night bent over on his knees, wracked with remorse, clutching his hands together so hard that his knuckles whitened, praying for mercy and for the Elf's safety long, long after the sun rose again.
((Don't have time to proofread it. Hope you enjoyed it, and sorry if I messed up anyone else's part in this! Fantastic event so far, Bel! Thanks for setting it up!))
The Paladin that had accompanied Lieutenant Delenada's strike team, Brok Kalt-Hammer, had been trusted to transport their captive. And so the petite young elf had been laid limp against his breastplate, sitting before him on Ignatio, his mighty charger. In any other situation, he would have insisted that the lady sit behind him and hold on, so that there would be no question that he had avoided putting her in a compromising position, and wanted her not to fear for her safety or virtue.
But, alas, the elf had to be taken in an unconscious state. She had resisted to the point that they'd had to use force; all four of them! He remembered it a little too well.
The Elf woman had been watching Brill from the top of a tall, but mostly bare hill, just beyond the smithy and stables. When the Allied infiltrators approached, she had seemed unaware. But they had her surrounded in a flash, and in the next instant she was visibly shocked by their arrival.
Brok had to admire the woman's tenacity. She stood her ground, even while an imposing Draenei shaman, a rather fierce-looking human woman that wielded a pair of heavy axes, an officer in full campaign plate, and a masked Paladin all took positions to bar her escape. They hadn't needed to, in retrospect. She neither came willingly, nor fled in terror.
"Please, come willingly! Do not resist, and I swear you will not be harmed!" Brok had called to her as they took positions, and it became clear that she wasn't moving. He hadn't been sure if the elf spoke common, but she surprised him with a well-worded response.
"I'm sorry, but I don't mean to go anywhere." she had calmly replied, in contrast to the slight tremble and desperation that had been in Brok's. He hadn't wanted her to get hurt! Not with how frail and vulnerable she looked! But she seemed to pay no heed to the danger she was in. "Someone is already on their way." she finished.
"What did she say?" Brok heard one of his comrades ask. He frantically restated her message, then looked to Lieutenant Delenada for guidance. His weapons were drawn; as were everyone else's. They were ready for a fight, and Brok and the Elf seemed to be the only ones that didn't plan on it. Brok's eyes stopped on each of his compatriots in turn, his face paling beneath his mask as he saw what he could only read as eagerness for violence on each of their faces. Perhaps he was wrong? Perhaps it was all an act?
He couldn't tell. The Lieutenant was the only one who had covered his face, and even his helmet left enough of his face visible to show his expression. Brok had the advantage, he supposed, of not having to let others see what he was thinking. In this situation, he would have hated to look the traitor.
In desperation, he turned to the Elf one last time and begged her, "Please! Come willingly!"
"You don't ask the enemy to come willingly!" he heard one of his comrades bark. Could it have been the shaman? He wasn't sure.
Brok steeled himself to do what he hadn't wanted to. Yes, he had come expecting to fight, but he didn't think that it would be a seemingly harmless young woman he'd be pitted against. "Then," he said through gritted teeth, drawing his mace and raising his shield, "I must ask you all to seize this opportunity!" With the last word spoken, Brok thrust his weapon out towards the Elf, though it didn't connect. Instead, a magical hammer flew from his fist and slammed against the Elf, stunning her. From there, it was a simple beat-down.
The Elf let out a terrifying yell, amplified by psychic power, but most of the Allies were able to overcome the mental effects within a few seconds and charged her once again. Unarmed and unarmored, as far as Brok could tell, she fell in a matter of seconds beneath their blows.
He was too caught up in the moment. As soon as the Elf crumpled to the floor, he looked around to see if anyone had witnessed their act of aggression. He wouldn't call it a crime; simply something done in the interest of one's country. Crime or act of war, he gasped at the sight of the Horde ghost wolf that watched them, barking and snarling. He rushed to the fallen Elf, murmuring a prayer and calling down the Light's healing power to mend her wounds. She remained unconscious as she was picked up and handed off to the shaman, and they all fled through Silverpine.
Once they had reached South Shore, they knew that a few Horde were hot on their trail. The guards might be able to handle them, if any were foolish enough to chase them this far. The group let out a collective sigh of relief, and Lieutenant Delenada requested that someone take the Elf to Stormwind for processing.
In that moment, Brok looked upon her limp form and could only feel pity. She looked so young! Barely even a woman, or so she appeared. He didn't know how elves aged, so he wouldn't try to guess; he just knew that of all the great and terrifying, or black-hearted and heinous foes he'd been sent after, this was the first noble young woman he'd been sent to subdue. It DID feel like a crime, no matter how crucial to his country's interests it was. As if it would help make amends for his part in what they'd done, Brok raised his gauntleted hand and offered to take the Elf.
Brok couldn't shake the guilt from his heart as they flew to Stormwind. It had been a long flight, spanning much of the Eastern Kingdoms, and so he had plenty of time to stew in the remorse that came from helping to beat this unthreatening creature down.
He looked down at the woman in his lap and had to wonder, what was her crime? What had she done, what did she know, that made this necessary? Did she have a family? A protective father or mother that wondered where their daughter had gone? A strapping young lad that had sought to woo her; or even a husband! Who longed to see her smile, or missed the wife that warmed his bed and heart at night? She surely did.
And in that instant, Brok almost envied her. He had none of those things. No woman had found him desirable enough to truly love him; not enough to stay with him, anyway. His mother was dead, and his father grew old in a monastery. He knew that his son was a warrior of whom much was expected; he also knew where he'd be going should he die by the sword or the claw, and feared not for him. His sister was much the same in her convent. He had few friends; none of which did he see often. And for a moment, that alone was enough for him to not feel sorry for his prisoner.
It was short-lived. Thinking like that always made him feel worse. Again, he found himself admiring that she had all of that that he wanted; so much to lose. And yet, she faced four heavily armed Allies without fear. She must have had great faith in the Light, he imagined, to have such tenacity. Perhaps she was one of those few Elves who were faithful? He'd heard that they were few in number. After all, were the Blood Elves not all fel-addicted maniacs? No; an entire race couldn't be evil, he knew that much. But it worried him that his comrades had so easily designated her as "The Enemy", and wondered why he asked her to come rather than forcing her.
He'd always had trouble causing others pain. It was only seeing the unfeeling, monstrous undead in Duskwood that had inspired him to take up the mace and serve humanity as Paladin. He was similarly reluctant to harm this elf, but his comrades didn't share that consideration. Was it true, what he'd been taught as a boy about soldiering?
"A man shouldn't take up arms without knowing exactly what he'll be doing to someone with them one day." His uncle Ernst, a footman from the First War, had told him. "Nothing glorious about it. You're out there to take from those monsters what they'd take from us just as readily. Orcs, demons, they feel pain; don't let nobody tell you otherwise! But they ain't human. Remember that, Brok. They're monsters. They don't deserve to be treated kindly like your fellow man."
He had served with enough Orcs in his time as a Paladin that Brok knew they weren't evil. Barbaric, sure, but not evil. And it made it harder to fight the Horde after fighting alongside them in old Lordaeron or Northrend against the Scourge, under the Argent banner. Had his comrades been hardened by fighting to the point that they no longer thought of their foes as people?
It was an unsettling thought. Especially when Brok thought about how much he had willingly dehumanized himself. He wore a mask to cover his human face and emotions, and show instead a stalwart mask of devotion; not to mention the glow of the Light. He went about in armor for almost the entire day, and rarely ever let himself be seen just as Brok, rather than another steel-encased Paladin. In that moment, he almost felt less human than the Elf in his arms.
It was with great reluctance that Brok handed her over to the guards. "We'll take her from here!" the sergeant said enthusiastically, snapping a salute to Brok as his underlings took the Elf from him. The Paladin said nothing, and simply nodded; cringing behind his mask and hood. He surely looked stern and stoic to them. Oh, the fools. If only they had known that Brok would soon spend the entire night bent over on his knees, wracked with remorse, clutching his hands together so hard that his knuckles whitened, praying for mercy and for the Elf's safety long, long after the sun rose again.
((Don't have time to proofread it. Hope you enjoyed it, and sorry if I messed up anyone else's part in this! Fantastic event so far, Bel! Thanks for setting it up!))
