Sanguinar of the Illidari
Alar'ion Sanguinar was a priest in the service of the Silver Hand before the Fall of Quel'Thalas. He served the knights faithfully and happily, the Light filling him with a constant inner peace, a sense of right and wrong, a sense of purpose. Then fell Uther the Lightbringer, his inspiration, and the Sunwell just after. Devastated and disillusioned with the Church of the Light, he and his older brother abandoned the failed paladins and joined Kael'thas on the front lines against the Scourge.
They fought furiously, with a hatred they had never felt before, a rage that galvanised every movement. Yet it was not enough. The undead did not scream, they did not beg for mercy. They did not appreciate the pain or the full clarity of vengeance. Then came the day the blood elves were placed in prison, locked away in the darkness below Dalaran for their "treachery." Alar'ion watched his brother go mad slowly, as the humans he once counted among his friends tossed him into the darkened chamber with such disgust, one would think they were the undead themselves.
Then came the naga, their salvation. They led them away from the hateful humans, away from the allies who now hunted them, and brought them before the great demon hunter, a creature of such power he made even Kael shudder. Alar'ion and his brother swore themselves over to Illidan, to the banner of the Illidari, and began their service.
Alar'ion's brother was appointed a Lord in the service of Kael at the newly acquired Tempest Keep, while Alar'ion himself went to serve beside a demon hunter apprentice under Illidan. His name was Varedis. When the naaru known as M'uru was captured, Alar'ion eagerly learned the art of siphoning its power, and, alonside his brother, the Blood Hammer, took up the sword of a blood knight.
Alar'ion and Varedis were good friends, sparing constantly, pitting the stolen Light against the stolen Shadow. They were evenly matched, until the day Alar'ion was assigned to assist one of Kael's magisters, Voren'thal, in attacking Shattrath City. He eagerly wore the tabard of an Illidari and marched in the front lines, eager to fight for the glory of Lord Illidan and Quel'Thalas. But, as Voren'thal approached the city, he lay down his staff, and, as Alar'ion watched, shocked, the other elves around him did. They were surrendering. With a roar of rage at this treachery, he hurled himself at the flimsy mage, only to be blasted unconscious by one of the elves' spells.
He awoke in the Blood Knight Headquarters of Silvermoon many months later, under the care of Lady Liadrin herself. She told him of Kael's treachery and of Illidan's madness, and, after many long hours of evidence and arguing, Sanguinar emerged from the Headquarters, determined to bring Illidan and his rogue Prince to justice for their crimes against the blood elves. He left for Outland with resolve in his heart and a sword in his hand.
The Shattered Sun Offensive was already underway as Alar'ion moved, along with the Scryers, against Illidan and his demonic armies. Although he fought fervently and with great prowess, the blood knight was held back by a sense of guilt, of betrayal. He had spent many long months in Illidan's service, and now fought against those who were once his comrades. As he pushed towards the Black Temple, he heard a chilling laugh behind him, a cruel, all too familiar laugh. Varedis stepped out from the shadows, twin war-glaives clenched in his tattooed hands and his blind, demon hunter's eyes glaring at his once brother-in-arms.
"Behold, the wayward son returns," laughed the blood elf, the runes etched across his bare chest glowing threateningly. "It had been too long, Alar'ion. Have you come here to rejoin our ranks? Or perhaps just to die?"
"I don't want to fight you, Varedis," said Alar'ion not backing down, but lowering his sword, "Illidan is insane. He strikes out against all, the naaru, the Scryers, the Horde. Everyone! He is a rogue, and a mad rogue at that. Come to the right side, the winning side! For Quel'Thalas!"
The demon hunter sneered, "I fight for Quel'Thalas, you fight for the creatures you once enslaved, these naaru. I will show you how we Illidari deal with traitors, defend yourself!"
He lunged at the blood knight, fighting with an intensity Alar'ion had never seen before, and, for a moment, they were sparring against, like they did so many months ago. Light and fel energy set the very air aflame and forced the soldiers, Illidari and Shat'ar alike, away from the dueling pair. The battle lasted at least an hour, fueled by rage and fear. At last, Varedis missed a parry and Alar'ion's blade claimed his hand. With a cry, the demon hunter fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding arm.
"Finish me!" he screamed at the blood knight, "Destroy me, my friend!"
It was then Alar'ion realised he could not finish it. He lowered his sword and walked away from Varedis, unwilling and unwanting to end his friend's life. Varedis screamed after him, cursing him in Thalassian. Then was the sound of a sword singing, and the sound of rending flesh. Varedis was dead.
Alar'ion walked away from the assault as the Doomwalker fell and the forces of the Aldor and Scryers stormed the Black Temple. Voren'thal the Seer, as he was now called, halted him before he left, saying,
"Why do you leave the battle you have won for us, blood knight?"
Alar'ion answered, his voice hollow, "I cannot destroy those I once called my friends. I am Alar'ion Sanguinar of the Illidari, and, though I no longer serve them, I will forever be once of them.
It is said that after that day at the Black Temple, Alar'ion left for Northrend, still wearing the tabard of an Illidari, bringing the fight to the one who was truly responsible for the suffering of the blood elves. It was time for the power of the Illidari to meet the might of the Scourge.
"Traitor wizard, die in the name of Lord Illidan!" (while lunging at Voren'thal, just before being blasted unconcious)
"We have been misguided by rogue demon hunters and power-crazed wizards. Once again, its up to the knights..." (after defecting to the Horde)
"Ha! 'Paladin'? We are no paladins. We do not cower behind our librams and creeds. We are the Blood Knights, and we will walk where 'paladins' dare not. Anara'lah Belore!"
At the end of the battle in Tempest Keep:
- Kael'thas: For... Quel...Thalas!
- (Kael'thas falls, Sanguinar approaches and closes the elf's eyes)
- Sanguinar: I...am sorry... my prince...
- (Sanguinar sings softly to himself, his head bowed, kneeling at the fallen Prince's side)
- Sanguinar: Shorel'aran.
- Baron Rivendare: None shall pass!
- (Sanguinar laughs, the death knight pauses, confused)
- Sanguinar: Clearly you've never met a blood knight...
I dabble in fanfic, these are the results:
Ashes to Ashes
Anna smiled. Tyoril always made her laugh, although for all his intellect he possessed no wit, he continued,
“I am a firm believer in the concept of the orcs smelling better than most night elves. Honestly, for a race with such a superiority complex you’d expect them to roll around in the dirt a little less. Hell, the filthy druids genuflect every time a flower blooms; they spent more time on their knees than a drunken acolyte.”
“Tye!” scolded the paladin, almost doubling over with laughter. Tyoril allowed himself a rare smile, and the fire in his eyes danced, but his face soon became hard and grim once more.
“Apologies, madam knight,” said the blood mage, sweeping into an exagerated bow before Anna, his elaborate robes, his long silver-blond hair falling about his face in curtains, “I forgot that the Lowborne were now members of your Alliance…”
“Watch it blood elf,” said Anna, her voice firm, her eyes still carrying the ghosts of laughter. Tyoril half-sneered and half-smiled, although the Alliance was once a home to him, he had left it long ago. With a pang he remembered his departure.
Scrambling the blood elves ran towards the portal, trying to flee the prisons of Dalaran. The forces of the Alliance’s Grand Marshal closed around them. The desperation and pain was palpable in the air as Tyoril, along with the other blood magi under Kael’thas, ushered the sin’dorei into the portal and fended off the humans.
Tyoril fell silent. He never readjusted fully to the air of Azeroth. The atmosphere of Outland was so alive, so full of power and magic, that the air of this young world was bland and pale by comparison. Of course that did not mean he would be going back to the Illidari anytime soon. The Plaguelands were a ghastly place that evoked many emotions in the pair as they traversed the wasted landscape. Distant, constant screams echoed on the deadened air and foul things skittered in the growing shadows of dusk. Anna remembered her father and her brother Leo. She remembered the screams in Andorhal. Those screams had never been silenced.
Leonid had screamed for her to stay indoors when the fires rose up from Stratholme. He had grabbed his axe and ran, for his fiancée was a priestess there, tending and preaching to aspiring knights. Cries of woe and fear rose up from Andorhal. Stratholme was the heart of the countryside, second only to Lordaeron’s capital herself. And now, the dead had come at last.
Tyoril remembered the fall of Quel’Thalas, the burning of Silvermoon. The death of his uncle scarred his memory beyond all else. He wished his cousin had been there. He reassured and cursed himself afterwards about this, during the desperate regrouping. If Kael had been there things would have been different.
Anasterian stood grimly at the gates of Quel’Danas, Flamestrike in one hand and a crackling, living blaze in the other. The crown of Quel’Thalas shone like a golden star before the last of his countrymen that yet lived. Desperate measures were taken to safeguard the Sunwell, but none would last. The army of nightmares was too great and Sylvanas was dead and the Prince was leagues away, trapped under Dalaran’s newly-imposed martial law. The arcane golems patrolled mechanically, but their metallic footsteps were drowned out by the din of the oncoming onslaught. “For Quel’Thalas!” cried the ancient king, Flamestrike blazing in the setting sun, “Anar’alah belore!” Tyoril hummed to himself, trying to drown out the sounds of war. It was an ancient song, written during the Troll Wars: the Lament for the Highborne.
“Tye? Tye!” yelled Anna. Tyoril snapped out of his trance, and noticed that his hands were clenched and were blazing with conjured flame. He hastily extinguished it and met the paladin’s gaze. She was concerned, her eyes wide and anxious. He worried her, his darkness, his inner fury. His pain.