What Must Be Done: The Kamil te Koup

[Natharai]

There were not many people within the Kamil that have met, or even knew, of Anshir… But he knew them and regarded them as family. For hundreds of years, ever since he "retired", this was the life that he knew – to remain as far from the Family as physically possible, but close enough to help them pad their coffers and smuggle their goods.

Since he was a half a world away, if not more, from anyone that would know of him and the sordid history that follows, the old man seemed nothing more than an eccentric, lovable, philanthropist. He gave to charities, to orphanages, and even recently took in a wayward soul as his ward. If you just met him on the street, it would be safe to say that Anshir did not have a mean-spirited bone in his body.

But those who smile the most tend to have more to hide.

For days now, Anshir has remained in the poisoned lands that once were the verdant forests and rolling green hills of Eastern Lordaeron. Far enough away to spare himself that horrible song that so deeply affected him and his ilk, but close enough to be at Luri's beck and call.

Yes… He found that light-forsaken song to be absolutely horrid, and the being behind that soul-scraping melody to be equally as terrible. Kamil, their naaru 'god', that has been lost to the winds of change for hundreds of years has been summoned once more. For all Anshir cared, he would have nothing to do with this abomination, but… It is as much of a part of the family as he is, if not more so, since the members of old have revered it so.

Though what it was doing to Luri was unspeakable, regardless of her bringing this upon herself. But…no matter what she has done, no matter what she is becoming, she is his. She is his Luri, just as Yeva was his Yeva. She is one of the oldest, and last, of his rapidly shrinking family and he has to help her.

And help her he does…

Now he sits upon the foot of a coffin within the musty, dank, crypt that was the torture chamber and final resting place of countless of victims to Luri's unholy ritual – his only company a smelly and disagreeably tempered white ape and the unfortunate woman within the box he guards.

The old man is dressed in regalia most uncommon to his usual garb; a mishmash of armor types with clashing decor, lacking his usual lavish facial tendril adornments and his long white hair braided into a tight single braid that trails down his back. Upon his crest is a small symbol of the Naaru painted in white (paint that has already started to chip and flake) with a single line smeared beneath each eye.

Regal pauldrons and shielded gauntlets of archaic vindicator plate armor accompany a shamanistic battle-robe of chain links and leather. Anshir has not had to fight for quite a long time, but his plate armor are all the pieces he had left of a life lost to him centuries ago. But as distant as those memories were, he knew these protective remnants and trusted them to help shield him from harm more than any newfangled piece of gear your average armorsmith could churn out.

The great blue giant's eyes slowly come back into focus after staring absently off towards a filth-encrusted wall, looking down to the box he sits upon. He eventually rumbles somberly in heavily accented Common, "…I am…sorry." This was the first thing he has said to her ever since he came to this wretched place, any and all noises she made met with silence beforehand. His tone is tired and weighty, but genuine… He does not relish the idea of keeping someone he would have once considered a comrade-in-arms, a fellow paladin, inside this wooden tomb. But there is little help for it now… What must be done, must be done.

He debates continuing in his speech, working his jaw idly as he goes back to staring absently at the wall once again, but ultimately decides against it. What else could he possibly say…?

[Dorien]

Dorien had made sure he hadn't thought up to this point.

The moment he had woken up from ripping the shadow out of Alkrenon's body; after hearing the monster's broken, muted song, he had started working.

He was by no means an average fighter, but he had dressed as best he could considering the short time frame to prepare. He had torn up old shirts and other clothing, finding muted colours and resown everything together to made this makeshift outfit he was wearing now.

His bright red hair was bound and stuffed beneath the hood, his pale skin was hidden under the browns, greys, and greens of his outfit, with a thin mask covering the lower half of his face. He had prepared, with kitchen knives shoved in his boots, just in case... Just in case...

But now that he was here? That he couldn't distract himself with talks and focusing on his hands as they worked? It was hard not to wonder how this fight would end, the pessimism was sneaking in, the doubt was crawling up into his head.

No, he had called himself the leader of this group. He wouldn't back down, or show weakness.

He remained crouched, looking back and around quickly for the rest of the members of his little 'party'.

[Alkrenon]

Thundering hoof beats beat furiously against the thick earth, brown clumps of mud and water flying in every which direction over the Plagueland plains. The stalks of those hooved legs were as muddy as the expansive mire they pounded on with only patches of black revealing the true color underneath, and at times they faltered on the muck, causing the heavy beast to bray in complaint while being spurred to continue and gallop on by a crystalline, otherworldly voice that barked both his frustration and encouragement in the same words.

It had rained recently in the Plaguelands. The once dry, cracking span of dead earth was now an expanse of rusty brown colored muck that was difficult to traverse though at the valleys, and it intensified the stench of death and rot tenfold – much to the disconcert of the Draenei. Still he kept his large horse at a steady gallop, the animal snorting loudly through flared nostrils that drowned the clinking of the metal on the harness and saddle and the drumming hooves underneath. The horse itself was hefty and brawny, much too muscular that made it unsuited for long travels at fast speeds like its slimmer Lordaeron cousins, more apt for carriage or farm work, but a decent fit for a Draenei that didn’t have many options when it came to saddles. Alkrenon kept the reins taut in his large gloved hand, leaning forward on the saddle to ease the horse’s stride through the uneven gallop, his other hand gripping the large, ash-gray longbow that had accompanied him on Draenor against the orcs. How apt to take it with him on another crusade.

If Alkrenon had learned anything during the orcish assaults is that comfort and mobility usually bested thick, ungainly armor. It was unfortunate that orcs had learned a similar lesson. He remembered how at first the orcs would attack covered heavily in metal, most likely wary of the Draenei since they didn’t know their strength then, but as time progressed the orcs donned less and less armor until their bloodlust made them forget to wear clothes altogether at times. And a fast orc was a dangerous one, even without armor. Maybe especially without armor. An orc with nothing to lose was one of the most dangerous and intimidating opponents that Alkrenon had ever faced – and wasn’t eager to return to it. Alkrenon was wearing light, earthy colored leathers with a draenic chainmail hauberk under his plastron, the leather covering marked with intricate Naaru carvings, the quiver was held securely at his back and his left arm, the bow arm, was wrapped in thin leather that covered the entire length of the limb in what was known as the bracer to prevent clothes and skin to get caught on the bow string, and his right arm was bare save for the leather glove that protected his drawing hand. He wore no protective face covering, just a large red sash over his brows, under his horns. Most Draenei archers of the old army had taken to the crossbow for its easy carrying, but Alkrenon would never replace the security and precision that a trusty longbow, his personally carved longbow, could give.

An unbeckoned thought corrected him: Ezraamin had helped him carve the longbow.

Reins tightened, slowing the heavy horse from a full gallop to a slow canter, and finally to a walk. The gentle rise of the hill that lead to the old human settlement, now a skeletal ruin, did not invite speed. Not only was the hill slick and could make the horse slip, but he had reached his destination and no further haste was required. The animal walked calmly with its head lowered, bobbing up and down with each step, welcoming the rest even with the occasional tap of its rider’s own hooves against its sides. At the top of the hill, where the actual town – what was left of it – expanded in front of the Draenei he halted and dismounted. He didn’t bother to tether the animal.

Alkrenon’s hocks and hooves were covered in a thick, clumpy veil of mud from the ride, his long tail soon a similar hue at the tip and underside from sliding the length of it along the ground momentarily at the dismount. He was going to meet up with Dorien.

And the Draenei walked.

[Arixan]

She knew it was silly. She knew it was her imagination. But, sometimes, just sometimes, she thought that when she was wrapped so tightly in her shadows, that she could hear a faint echo of those shadows laughing.

It had taken her a bit to decide what to wear. There was an advantage to donning less, to be able to move quick and sure and unhindered. But she didn't know how strong this woman was, or what powers from that dieing fucking windchime she'd be able to call on, so she opted to don the armor she had earned over the past year from fighting in the North.

She was clad from head to toe is sickly green and browns, the helm formed into a head of a geist. It was well oiled, well cleaned, tanned and imbued with enchantments in such a way that it would stay soft and supple and, as long as it was taken care of properly, never creak.

Mandy never had much to call her very own. When she ended up with something nice, she took care of it.

The bottom of the boots were made to make as little noise as possible over the ground. It wasn't as good as bare feet(which was the reason she went without shoes altogether so often), but it came closer than anything else she had found.

Her daggers gleamed at her side, the shine of enchantments and poison dulled and hidden by the same shadows that hid her. The same shadows she moved and slid through now, slowly and steadily making her way to the crypts.

She stayed low to the ground in the typical crouch, her armor quickly turning the same rusty color of the slick earth. Her quick, careful movements slowed some to make up for the possibility of slipping. The armor that had been designed for the frigid North turned into a sauna here, but even the sting of sweat in her eyes wasn't going to distract her.

She was waking up. She FELT the tenseness of her muscles. She FELT fear, FELT the promise of a fight twist and knot in her gut. As she grew closer, she FELT the excitement of the prospect of battle. Bloodlust. She FELT her skin skin tingle, and her thoughts narrowed down to the task at hand, blocking out any unneeded distractions.

She arrived at the crypts not too long after the other two, and each in turn she got close enough for them to be able to see through the illusion she created, the false blended image warping the air to reveal her outline. And each in turn she muttered softly, for only their ears to hear,"Made et."

Then she moved off to the side a bit, eyes locked on the entrance of the crypt, going still as stone, counting her heartbeats as she waited.

[Ruepert]

Ruepert plodded his way along the landscape of the Plaguelands on the back of his horse. He was wearing his heavy plate, brown and adorned in spikes. Anyone who knew the warrior, would know that the armor was completely unbecoming of how he usually was. As such, he made sure to have his helmet removed as he moved towards where the meeting area. Otherwise they might not recognize him, and who knows how that would end. Probably not well.

He didn't like the Plaguelands. They reminded him to much of Northrend, just not cold. He nodded though, thinking on it. An evil place, for an evil lady. He knew what it was like to be at Luri's "mercy," before she'd gone even madder than before. When Campy told him he would be helping to rescue Cadence, he was ready and eager.

The trip there had been a nervous one for Ruepert, as with any impending battle. Every half-hour he would go through a mental check list, and pat everything to make sure it was all in place and ready at a moments notice. He would also keep constant watch on all sides for any Undead that may be around. The nervousness eventually turned into a knot in his stomach, which he concentrated on. It was better to have something to make sure all his movements were right than to go in without thinking about it. The trick was to keep it from doing more than making him careful.

Eventually Ruepert made his way close to where they were going to meet. He dismounted, and tethered the horse to a nearby tree, looking like it might crumble to pieces if the horse tugged against it hard enough. Perfect in case a wandering monster might find it.

After gathering what he needed from the horses packs, he walked towards where the rest should be gathered, wearing a large smile, excited to see his friends.

[Dorien]

Dorien looks around, before focusing back on his crew as Ruepert finally joined them. He stays in a crouch, as he turns slightly, not enough to let anything in the direction of the crypt out of his sight, but at least enough so that the others could hear them. Wouldn't do them all any good if all they would hear is mumbling.

The redhead pulls down his face mask, looking at Mandy, Alkrenon, and Ruepert in turn. "Thanks for coming," he says, keeping his voice low. "As I'm sure you all know, we're here to get Cadence out of the crypts."

Dorien pauses again for another short moment, pressing his finger against the dirt they were all standing on, in the space between them all. "So gather 'round, I'll explain my plan."

The fire magic, the frustrating little amount that he had managed to absorb without rising any suspicion, gives him a bit more of a commanding tone than usual. That, or being in a position of leadership is giving him the tone, and the fire magic was changing his disposition into a no-nonsense one. Either way, it doesn't matter.

"As we all know..." He starts to say, before stopping and peering at Ruepert. Actually, he doesn't know about the other man, but nevermind. "She's got an ape, and probably left it behind to guard Cadence. We've all dealt with it in some form or manner, hopefully, so it shouldn't be that much of a surprise if it's there."

He taps the soil again, frowning slightly. "Next up, there might be an Old Guard, or several in there. As for how many there are, I only know three names, as for the likeliness of one being there? No idea. Counts on how paranoid Luri is, and she's probably fairly paranoid. Expect the worst."

Dorien digs his finger into the earth, writing a big X. "That's the crypt," he moves his finger further away, drawing an arrow pointing to the crypt, then draws another two dots just behind it, and then a diamond after that, creating a small square.

"My idea is that Ruepert goes in first, since he's covered in significantly heavier armour, and should anything come after him, they'd probably have to pause." He points at the arrow, before writing a 'R' beside it in the dirt. "Next will be Mandy and I, on either side, proving cover there." He writes a 'D' and 'M' beside each dot.

"Alkrenon, you cover the back." Dorien says, scribbling an 'A' by the diamond. "The plan is, as I said, Rue goes in first, distracts anyone that's waiting down there, hopefully just the ape."

Dorien looks up, peering at everyone in turn again before focusing on Mandy. "You and I will break off, half out of the reason to get away so Rue doesn't have to worry about hitting us, but we're also going straight for Cadence's coffin. I'll prove you cover while you pick the locks to her shackles. Of course, if there's something in the way of letting us get to her, we're going to have to deal with it.

"Meanwhile, Alkrenon, I want you to stay up on the landing. The crypt is small enough as it is, it'll be even smaller if there's fighting, and I bet even worst for an archer." He pauses for a moment to eye the longbow. "I don't know if you can even draw if you were in the thick of things, and we need someone to cover our escape. So, provide Ruepert cover where you think you can get away with it."

Dorien stands up, but still remains in crouched position, as he pulls up his face mask. He moves his foot out, and smudges the dirt to hide away the plan again. "All good?" His tone has a certain finality to it, giving the idea that you probably shouldn't try and argue too much with it.

They were in a race against time, after all, and he had already thought it through. Well. Enough of what he could plan, because there is always be a certain amount of the unknown.

[Natharai]

Silence reigns as the old man continues to sit upon the coffin, his prior words met with no response but the muffled sound of breathing beyond the wood that separates them. Though he did not mind...it was to be expected, of course. Sorries do not do much good when your captors still keep you imprisoned and all.

Hours pass without much of an exchange, if any, until Anshir slowly looks to the soot-stained stone ceiling above him – frowning deeply as he squints almost accusingly. ...Something is coming. He does not know what, or how many there are, but he can feel it in his bones. Shagohod grunts faintly as he knuckles around, looking slightly restless. Alright...this at least confirms it for the old goat that he wasn't paranoid.

Looking down to the foot of the coffin, he reaches towards two well-worn leather-wrapped handles – which would be black as pitch had they have not underwent such extensive usage. Or at least they were extensively used...back in the day. At the tips of those handles are large spiked mace heads, squared at the core but with thick pyramidal points jutting out symmetrically. The metal is a dark steely gray, almost black due to the presence of a substance that cakes it that appears to be soot.

They are a hateful pair of weapons, ones that the draenei utilized in his years as a Kamil enforcer. But for as cruel as they may be, with them he maintained the Kamil law...and now he will continue to do so.

A distant part of his mind niggles at him to go up and meet this foe of his, be they singular or many, before they engage in combat. ...But he is not a paladin anymore and he hasn't been for almost a millenium. He does not go striding out onto the field of combat, head raised and shield at the ready. Not anymore...

So instead he continues to wait and gauge his threat appropriately, his thick large-knuckled hands tightening around the mace hilts as he remains deathly quiet.

Let them come, old man, he thought. Let them come and then show them no quarter.

- - - - - -

((Addendum: Just as a note, the fate of Anshir rests in your hands. He will either come out of this alive or dead and you have my blessing on whatever path you may choose. He is an old man who has seen more than a lifetime's worth of fighting and, quite frankly, would not mind the thought of being put to rest at long last. But! The choice is up to you all. I will roll with whatever you do. *thumbs up* Also, I might jump in out of post order to help speed things up and try and give more options than "WE ALL RUSH IN AND ATTACK". But I'll warn you with a reservation post when I cut in line.))

[Arixan]

Once everyone was in place, she let her shadows drop. She still held nearly stone still, doing none of her usual fidgeting. She nods every now and again as Dorien explains the plan, then gives another larger nod as he asks for confirmation. She understands. She's ready.

[Dorien]

((SINCE no one has posted in a day, gonna punch this thing in the gut and get it moving on.))

Dorien offers the three others a curt nod, turning towards the crypt. He sneaks forward, keeping his head and body low, certain that the others would follow. They all know the importance of why they are here, and he doubts that any of them would back down now.

He stops by a tall tombstone, just in front of the crypt opening, and presses his back against it. It provides him enough cover, crouched the way he was, but not enough should someone decide to jump out. He motions back towards the way he came, urging the others to follow as well.

They'll get into proper formation once they get over here, he decides.

[Ruepert]

Ruepert watches Dorien as he slinks his way towards the entrance. Rather than join him in his slinking, he readies his weapon, getting the grips of the large mace into the palms of his hands, and then quickly surveying the area surrounding the crypt entrance. Once he's made sure no one was there, and noted all the places that someone might be hiding behind, he plopped his helmet onto his bald head and strode up and past Dorien's crouching form.

Rupert takes a position to the side of the crypts entrance, holding his weapon in an easy stance. He glances over his shoulder, waiting for the rest to get behind him to move in.

[Natharai]

((Just for other viewers, this is being brought in-game tomorrow, Saturday the 6th at 2PM server. If you want to lamp to see how the rest of this goes, feel free to join.))