Tamlin's blog

His body is slick under his leathers. Supple doeskin unoiled he wears in patches, strapped on under dragonscale armor. A light cloth shift over bare skin keeps a barrier of moisture between himself and the superheated air that blows here like the breath of a living volcano and supposedly helps to cool him. There is little other option for war in the Firelands. Tamlin has been here before, in a shimmering dark and fiery hell ruled by an elemental lord.



I see it when I dream at all; the same place, the same emotion, the same colors, heat and pain. A soft dream, it must be. When hunting, to know the nature of the land around you, what it tells you in track and scent and insult to trees is invaluable. It is the reason that Kal'dorei hunters are given a place in human warbands as guides, I believe, as I was in the Highguard. Their own scouts cannot hear and watch the temper of the earth. Is it enough then, knowing the land I was born to walk, to escape it if I must?

The sun is too bright, making it difficult to see. The ground is a patchwork of white spots and dark shapes and splashes. Tamlin can discern that much. He is dripping with rank ichor and gore as if at war for a seven-day and these two things are disconcerting enough without the fact that he also cannot determine how he returned here. His ears still ring with the roar of the wind that bore him up when the shadow wolf died. He remembers vaguely strange voices that spoke about him. Head spinning and coming to terms with the certainty that he is going to be physical ill within the next few minutes, Tamlin draws up short. The dark skinned druid that leads him by the upper arm glances back, eyebrows lifted as if curious at the halt. “I am not yourrr son.” Tamlin rumbles and flattens his ears.



He is high above the earth held aloft for a moment in weightless space. Breathless, Tamlin looks down to measure his chance of surviving the fall that his logical mind knows is coming. The cyclone swirls below. The column of stillness he is hovering above extends far, nearly past the limits of his own powerful sight. There is ground perhaps, but it is only a smudge of distant solidity. Then, sudden and rapid descent, and the wind catches him again, hurling his body downward in a spiral of ever increasing speed and force.

Canine teeth fill his sight, snapping together so close and with such force that black saliva like hot oil spatters over his face. The beast above him growls loud and low, quaking the very ground he is pinned upon. Past the impressive teeth, the shadow they belong to swells. Tamlin braces the haft of his spear two handed to hold the horrible maw from him. He turns his head slightly, but he cannot see Eshe. The nightsabre's sounds of distress are drowned out by the thundering growl. The shadow coalesces to mimick a wolf shape. Tamlin endures a gust of fetid nether stink followed by another hail of burning spittle. He can feel the massive paws on his chest suddenly, blunt claws digging into his mail. Where his fists meet the giant furred throat, shadows swirl.

Again, it is the dream. The same dream he has had for almost a year. Even as it unwinds about him, he is marginally aware of this and thus begins a rapidly growing and pervasive sense of unease. The dream though is not essentially unpleasant. So many times has it played for him in his exhausted mind, that Tamlin feels almost comforted at the same time the tide of worry makes him try and move it, change it somehow.

The torches flicker and there is a blaze of heat on his right. A hearth, though he cannot see it. He is prone and hurt and there are voices about and there is panic threatening, he tries to roll and his fear deepens when he cannot move his hands, for they are bound behind him.

The sun's light is lazy, weaving hazy motes of dancing spun gold where windows intervene against Kal'dorei sensibilities. The barracks at the Nightsabres' Lothalor fort are relatively empty as forces prepare for the evening's fight. Covered to his eyes in wolf fur, Tamlin snores softly in his bunk. He sprawls comfortably half on his side. This time of day is his time for what little sleep he takes. He does not hear the Warden's door open or click quietly closed.

My sword brother is dying.

He came like a shade over the snow in the perpetual winter's dark and I confess that I did not know him.

His eyes are fish black, his hair and beard witch white. As pale as ice with the shadows about him, I thought Tanas a mirage made of blowing snow. Not until he called my name aloud did I recognize him.

The hunter comes awake with a violent startle, sitting bolt upright and meeting the timber wall with his shoulder. He rebounds to his feet and stands bristling and panting. His eyes make slow sense of the shapes in the dark. At the far end of the room a small hearth glows softly with burned down coals. His breath fogs the air in front of his face and he shudders, clammy and sweated from sleeping under furs.

If not for battle, he believes with terrible certainty that he would go mad. Tamlin is ready well before he is called. Armor oiled and gleaming, weapons sharpened, shining and shouldered. His wild mind howling to run and fight, anticipating blood and ichor stink in frigid air; he prowls and paces until they come for him and escort him to the portal to the dead king's citadel.

An old soldier's trick, to brace shoulder and cheek against the straight trunk of a young tree and sleep thus. An enemy won't approach directly a foe that stands watchful. It is the first sleep Tamlin permits himself in two days of stubborn pacing wakefulness. He is certain the facade will anytime fall and he will find himself facing a demon, bound and caged.

It makes little difference he has learned what his waking eyes see or even what his body feels. He is farther gone away from himself now than he ever has been but for death. Or ….his paranoia whispers...mayhap you are dead. And trapped thus, unredeemed and unseen.

“Tamlin, stop standing around you fool, the orcs are advancing!” A voice commands in crisp Darnassian. A hand meets his cheek with a stinging slap.

The hunter snorts, his eyes fly open with surprise even as he snarls and shows teeth. The Sentinel Captain before him is one he does not know. Her gaze is steely. She is taller than he, lithe but powerful. Her armor is soiled and blooded.

There is no dream this time, just a waking in the cold and dark. His mind hopes for the snow and cold of northrend. You found a place to bed down..you were hunting...and you went to ground in the wild...

No. he tells himself and moves his hands which are swollen to the point of splitting and held before him in cuffs of dull green heavy fel iron. His own smell is not healthy and that is perhaps worse of all for with that realization he remembers the dart sent at him from the demon's hand and sits bolt upright.

Dalaran makes his teeth hurt. He moves as steadily and quickly as he can to where the damned high elves hold their conclave. Every manner of creature seems determined to impede his progress. Tamlin weaves past flatulaent kodos, snarling bears, leering trolls, countless Sin'dorei and a wildly garrish array of humans, drawves draenai and elves.

The hunter lowers his head under his hood. The air is cold but the sun is blazing. Just this last errand and he will escape to somewhere cool and dark to rest the day.

The bank on the Alliance side of the city is a din that makes him flatten his ears in annoyance. The Warden's house has a vault here and it will serve his purpose well enough. She is certain to see it or recieve it. Only Commanders and higher have access to the warband's vault.

Faster...with a thousand small quick adjustments to avoid every reaching branch and bush. His heart pounds at twice the rate his feet can meet the earth and spring from the ground as he runs flat out. He tries to match it anyway. He has always run like this..chasing moon brothers through the wood at night..mist covered and bathed in silver light.

Tell me about the wind.

The breeze is cool even as his bare skin heats and beads and sweats. His lungs pull deeply quickly. To run for pure joy, what luxury is this...?

He rides more closely to her than normal decorum would allow and has since they left the perch at the border of dragon territory in the Dragonblight. The reds are at war and will hardly brook a strange drake's passage so they must proceed to the fort by ground. Fortunately, both of their sabre cats are perfect for running the night in snow. Their supple spines flexing easy past trees and over bracken, their wide thick furred pads like snowshoes and able to claw for purchase on ice as well, Talah and Vaash make the ride through Lothalor more quickly than any dragon could.

War is simple. Stand still in shadow; draw the bowstring; sight the arrow and Woldrynn starts running flat out; flickering in and out of the world. As the guardian wolf locks on, the arrows find their mark. The enemy falls and he sights the next...stand still....ready the bow...

Beside him Tanas slashes with a two handed sword; as terrifyingly strong as Tamlin is quick. The two of them make quick work of some fool Horde in Southshore. It would be perfect, with the Horde scattering and the town guard marshaling if only not for the look of betrayal he catches in Tanas' dead gaze.

There is no help for it.

If I could catch the knack of what Aktarin taught me, perhaps I could find the answer. I stare at the water , watching the rippples light and move yet I find no peace, no respite from what turns in my heart. I am forever restless and in truth, the only stillness I have is with her.

Astranaar is a ruin of fired buildings and the leavings of war in a blaze of destruction that stretches north through Darkshire and Auberdine to Darnassus and across the sea to the lands of the dwarves and humans. Tamlin is a witness to it all as he moves south from the Titans' fortress in Northrend homeward.

He has found a fight in every land he has traveled through from the Stormpeaks to Kalimdor as just recently, the Horde have come in force in retaliation for the decimation of their lands; Undercity, Silvermoon and Thunderbluff. Tamlin rode against them all and now he is left bereft, guilty and furious. Curse them and damn the luck that brought them while he and the Warden's band struggled in Ulduar.

Always the battle...always the fight...he thinks to himself and sighs. There is no end to this.

The arrows that find him and drive in past his mail he welcomes. The impact and the pain..the taking of his breath in the crackling of shadow chaos sent after only sharpens him, makes his sight more focused, his rage more keen. The torn muscles of his chest scream at the raising of his arms, at the pulling of his bow string, but he only sees Rhuu taking the Sin'dorrei bowman down and he fires past his tiger's diving head and swinging paws.

He sets his teeth hard together just before the bone shattering impact of his opponent's lance on his shield. Painful experience has taught him that it is better this than to bite his own tongue near clean through. The blow he rocks with slightly; sit too stiff in the saddle and the strike could force him loose of it. The nightsaber he rides is a burly dark beast; its low posture makes it near impossible to stagger and the cat's supple spine permits superior agility.

As ever and as always, I am slow to understand. When I perch on the cold peaks and look back along my path now I am still left to wonder at the way I have walked. So it is to be ruled by my turbulent heart.

What possessed him to come here? Surely, he does not recall. The reason is fading like a dream, growing shadowy and indistinct in his mind. He can smell the salt of her tears, the swell of her anger and the hot musk of moon's blood. Mairead is cursing him, he missed her ill fated wedding to Ulciscor. The paladin is nowhere near and Mairead is hurt. This stone building is a healing house, but Tamlin can tell that she has been tended poorly. And Ulciscor, gods curse him, only proves what Tamlin has suspected long of the Templars. They have fallen to depravity and ruin. How could the once noble paladin having only been wed a sevenday not only drug and abduct Mairead but also leave her hurt and

The bow string is held taught against his cheek for only the space of an eyeblink before his blistered fingers let it go. He aims with eye and heart, his will set behind the arrow as much as the force of the pull. Once it is away he does not wait for the rattling skeleton to twist and fall before he has drawn another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. He picks his next target, a banshee that advances with a floating howling scream, and fires again.

The battle is not chaos. It has its own rhythm in warrior shouts and ripples of magefire and seething whispers of shadow bolts. The priests and shan chant endlessly, their hands moving in complicated patterns that call light and green for those that spout gouting wounds and suffer crushing blows; a delicate and precise dance of destruction that Tamlin takes place in with more than a score of the Warden's war band.

The Sentinel post of Star's Rest is the unofficial outguard for what the Lothalar woodlands now holds. A fortified military camp and fort to which the Warden's band has taken to as a base of operations while at war against the Scourge in Northrend.

There is nothing subtle about this structure. It's purpose is as clear and its presence is plain in the midst of the winter woodland. Not a Kal'dorei structure at all,  the main fort instead shows influence of human and dwarven architecture as does the layout of the camp.

For this reason, Tamlin finds it less than comfortable. Too spread out...the fort too dark and enclosed and the surrounding forest broken around it.

Still, he makes a point of patrolling the woods between the fort and Star's Rest, of prowling the camp and of course, he appears at the fort at least every couple of days. Pride in her House instead of himself keeps him returning, ever trying to prove.

I sent her a letter today. I likely should not have, she said do not speak to her. I am less now than before. She must have forgotten me, like Saunee in the Nether and Alizon with her Temple. Or perhaps I am not truly here in the world they walk. Perhaps I belong to the Green and the Dream that I see so clearly and that is why I seem to be lost.

Around me the batte plunges, like a rockfall or a gale amidst tossing trees and I am high in the branches pitching with the wind, fires building below and I am either laughing or cursing, I remember that but I do not recall which it is.

Was. Was, damn it, that was when I was still a child, hanging in the pitching trees I remember that. I remember everything.

She is close..so close that all I have to do is open my mouth and take her scent and I want to. I want to.

The chain is heavy. He holds it in both hands with the bulk of it looped over his shoulders. Already his muscles protest both from the weight of the thick wrought iron chain and from the way he cranes his neck upward, watching the blue proto drakes circle overhead.

At his feet, the cliff face falls off sharply, a white abyss of stone and swirling snow. He swings the end with the hook slowly, careful not to over balance while still gaining momentum for the throw. He has picked his target, one of the smaller and weaker looking beasts that is coming low towards him.

Tamlin bends his knees and swings the hook faster, timing his throw to catch the primitive drake where the plates of its body break near the wing joint. He lets the chain fly with a wild cry and feels it catch. The beast above him roars its fear and pain and something gives slightly in his left shoulder as he is lurched from his feet to swing free underneath it.

Caught I am held and caught as surely as any creature that has fallen to a web. No more running only fighting now...the endless struggle. How I wish I could sleep but my dreams are not safe not anymore. I am caught!