RP - Thristan Brackwell

[Thristan Brackwell]

((Not sure if this is the appropriate place to post this, but below is a bit of an introduction to my character Thristan Brackwell. Hope you like it ^^ ))

Thristan heard them approaching before they came into view. The thundering of hooves on the dry earth echoing off the water of the lake below as a group of tauren warriors raced down the slope to the stables.

Though his mind was telling him, screaming at him to sound the alarm, a more visceral part of him had reached up an icy hand from somewhere deep inside and frozen him in place, stealing away his voice. He stayed crouched close to the ground, hidden in the sparse underbrush, and watched in fear as the tauren crested the slope and burst into a group of labourers, hewing them aside without even breaking their stride.

From somewhere he couldn’t see a fiery bolt burned its way through the air and burst into the stables, setting them alight. Thristan closed his eyes tight, trying to shut out the sound of the horses screaming, the panicked stamping of their hooves mixing with the sound of the approaching tauren.

As he began to hear the cries of his allies and the steel-on-steel sounds of battle engaged, he gripped tightly on the hilt of his sword and tried to will himself into motion, to overcome his terror.

He barely managed a strangled yelp when the dagger slid into his back. Just before the world went black he could smell the unseen forsaken rogue’s fetid breath and heard it laugh as it leaned into him, driving the knife deeper…

----

The world around him was grey and colourless. Through ghostly eyes he could see Arathi Basin below him, lifeless and cold. Overhead the sky churned like a dark ocean, an oblivion on whose edge he was now balanced. A malevolent wind was the only noise.

He was anchored to this dreary landscape only through an effort of will by the nearby spirit-healer who had snatched his soul before it could fall into the black sky above. Watching him, Thristan wondered how long the healer had been here, and how many souls of the fallen it had sent back into battle only to be killed again. He wondered too how many souls the healer had failed to catch and were now lost forever. Would he, Thristan, slip through the healer’s grasp the next time he an unseen blade found him?

The healer turned his gaze on Thristan and their eyes met. Colour began to bleed back into the world. The healer faded from view and Thristan felt a warm breeze on his face, felt his lungs take in air once again.

For a brief moment he rejoiced in being alive. But the spell broke when, in the distance, a horn sounded as soldiers rushed again into battle. He looked down into the basin and in his mind’s eye saw the whirling dark sky above the battlefield. He imagined the souls of the dead falling upwards. He looked down at his own mortal body and felt tears welling at the corners of his eyes, not from sorrow, but from fear and pain. Around him his comrades gathered and began to rush down into the valley, calling for him to join the charge. But all he could hear was the evil wind of that dead realm, and all he could see was that black sky.

Slowly he turned and began walking away from the battlefield. With each step his pace increased until he was running. He cast his weapons aside in the dirt as he ran, trying not to hear the cries of his comrades…

[۞ KAT ۞ AKA Red Viper]

((wow.. very powerfully written. i loved it!! And i moved it for ya it belonged in this section ))

[Thristan Brackwell]

((Thanks ^^ I hope to write some more in the days ahead when I can find a quiet moment or two.))

[۞ KAT ۞ AKA Red Viper]

((Looking forward to it!))

[Thristan Brackwell]

((Here it is, part two of Thristan's story... ))

“By all that is holy, Thristan, what were you thinking?! How could you do this?”

“You weren’t there, Caladan. You don’t know what it was like.”

Thristan hated his older brother. Caladan Brackwell, standing there resplendent in his polished armour, the Stormwind crest emblazoned proudly across his chest. Caladan Brackwell, decorated soldier of the third war and son of Morgwyn Brackwell, himself a bonafide hero of the second and third wars.

Caladan was brave, strong and noble. Thristan hated everything about him.

“You’re right, Thristan. I wasn’t there, but you’re wrong if you think I don’t know what its like,” said Caladan, his strained tone failing utterly to conceal his anger. “I’ve been in battle. I’ve fought the Horde and worse. I know how bloody it is, how awful and yes, how afraid you can be. But I stayed and I fought, Thristan. I fought and I honoured the men and women who fell at my side. I fought and I didn’t turn tail and run and bring disgrace to my whole family! What do you think father would say?”

“You leave our father out of this,” Thristan shot back. “He would have understood even though you don’t. The battle was lost. I had to save myself.”

“The only thing our father would have understood is that his youngest son is a coward and a disgrace,” responded Caladan. The anger was fading from the older brother’s voice, being replaced with disappointment. His words made Thristan visibly flinch.

“I would have died!”, Thristan screamed back. His brother paused then and turned his back on Thristan, staring into the low-burning embers of the fireplace in the corner of the guardhouse.

“At least if you had fought and died,” Caladan said, his voice near to a whisper, “our family would not have to live with your disgrace…”

Thristan’s mouth fell open but no words came out. He clenched his fists, his body shaking with rage, his eyes burning a hole in his brother’s back.

Caladan, still looking into the fire, sighed heavily. “If you’re going to strike me, Thristan, then do it. Don’t just stand there…” He paused a moment, waiting, then spun to face his younger brother. “Well?! If you’ve angry then do something about it you coward! Do something!”

Thristan’s knuckles were white from clenching his first. His jaw was locked so tight he could taste blood. He hated his brother so much. How dare he judge?

But, after what seemed a long moment, Thristan withered under Caladan’s angry glare. He stepped back against the wall and the heat of his rage bled away into the cold stones. He closed his eyes, fighting back tears, ashamed and angry.

“I thought so,” said Caladan, the disappointment in his voice palpable by now. He sighed again. “Get out of here, Thristan. Go back to the farm. I don’t have time to run it anymore anyways. Maybe you can manage to take care of it.”

Thristan’s heart sank. The reason he had volunteered to fight in the first place was to get away from the stink and muck of that damn pumpkin farm and the Brackwell family prize pigs. Now, he was being forced to flee back there and stay out of the way. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

“I’ll try to fix things here,” continued Caladan. He made a dismissive gesture at Thristan, turning his back again. “Get out of here. Get out of my sight. I’ll find some way to cover for you, again.”

Thristan’s shoulders slumped and he made his way to the door, casting one last spiteful glance at his brother before he left. Caladan didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand because everything was always so perfect for him. Well, it wasn’t that way for Thristan. He thought he had known what to do, thought he had known where he belonged. He had been wrong and now, as he slunk his way back to the farm, he felt utterly lost.