Quiet Storm
Tempestuous winds swarmed the Black Sands and through the torrential downpour, Charl berated the two men on the pumice-laden ground, spitting stinging sand in warning of the dangers the sea carried towards them. Lightning flashed across the double horizons and night sky, illuminating the storming waters that roiled and crashed against the rocky shoreline. For weeks, the citizens of Wehnimer’s Landing huddled and schemed in anticipation of the eventual battle, coordinating triage encampments and strike teams as the resistance mounted, ready to repel the krolvin forces. But as those deliberations took place, a different means of preparation transpired near the ocean shore.
The jungle samoyed scampered in the background, canting its head curiously towards the igneous rock, only to retreat from the sudden temperature shift. Yardie the Faendryl focused on his Vaalorian brother, who sat quietly on the beach with his sparkling hazel eyes drawn to the dark horizon. An array of items had been strewn around him: a combat gear care kit, a biwa, and his trusty falcata. The rogue recognized the ritual, but the Vaalorian’s distant gaze piqued his interest and concern. He would have paid handsomely for the inner workings of his brother’s mind.
As Iskandr poured the second coating oil onto his falcata, Yardie considered the krolvin, whose society supported subjugation. For the three brothers, Draelor, Yardie, and Iskandr, their lives had been marred by slavery. Most knew the stories of the Aelotian people and the mental shackles held by the kiramon, so Draelor’s reticent demeanor left no room for visitation. For the Faendryl, he seldom discussed his experiences, save for the condition in which the two rangers found him as he escaped his bondage. But for Iskandr, he often shared his life in the Landing and the fateful day where the krolvin shanghaied his parents. The Vaalorian never saw them again, left to assume that they were either executed or enslaved.
Next came the hammering, which smoothed away the imperfections from battle. Gone was the social butterfly that arranged outings with ale and stories. Gone was the host of parties and interviews with his charm and swagger. In his place was the Legionnaire, ready for battle, focused on his mission, the silence deafening as the swirling winds that brushed his wavy, chestnut hair bellowed in the night. As Iskandr stared into the ocean and polished the falcata with a cloth, Yardie wondered if he were looking out for his parents, the stars hidden in the dark clouds twinkling a glimmer of hope that reflected his desires. Yardie did not know what to do and what to say for all the gift of gab the rogue possessed; he lacked the words, and it pained him. All that Iskandr had done for him, and Yardie could not return the favor, helpless as the Vaalorian coated greyish powder with an ebony stick.
Yardie stepped toward his brother, approaching him to the back and side, and raised a gentle hand intended for Iskandr’s shoulder in a reassuring pat. But it hovered there, held by an invisible force that prevented him from completing the gesture. Leaving Iskandr to sharpen the blade’s edge and watching the sparks fly onto to black rock, the rogue jammed his hands in his pockets and nodded, leaving him to his musings. There was nothing he could do in that regard.
Iskandr opened the door for Yardie’s second chance at life. He accepted Yardie’s confession and stayed loyal, never turning him in. He never turned his back on the Faendryl, even when outside voices warned the Faendryl of Vaalorians and their prejudices, declaring that it was only a matter of time before Iskandr would shed his skin. And despite the brotherly banter and reminders of the rogue’s past mistakes, when he needed him the most, Iskandr and Draelor were there.
Yardie could never thank him enough. He could never embrace him. It was the way the brothers lived. There was no time for gratitude or delving into feelings. Perhaps duty of the Crimson Legion, the hundred years of training, and the numerous battles hardened Iskandr from everything, never settling for long with anyone or anywhere save for his animal companion. The rogue could not offer a gesture of hope or even a sign of affection or appreciation. But tonight, he could show his skills and professionalism, despite Yardie’s self-preservation instincts. Tonight, he’d stand with him, back to back, ready to fight until his body or life gave out.
The first of the krolvin vessels broke through the darkness as a bolt of lightning heralded their presence, like an omen with black sails. The trademark guttural shouts and barks carried long on harsh winds, booming with the thunder like a war drum that rolled throughout the lands. The Vaalorian rose to his feet, dusted off the sands, and calmly gathered his equipment with meticulous care. When he turned around, the Faendryl was nowhere in sight.
“With you,” pledged the Faendryl’s voice from the blanket of shadows.