Rare were the moments that Thalo'thas had to do nothing more than relax upon soft cushions while reading one of the many books he had 'acquired'. With the help of the Goblins, the captain had learned to read Common and a bit of Darnassian, though he was a miserable conversationalist in either language; he often had to use the words surrounding words he did not recognize to piece together what he was reading, which never works well when speaking.
Tonight's choice was the log of a human captain that commanded a small Alliance force during the First War. He found it quite interesting how the captain's daily concerns were quite similar to his own, despite the ingrained differences and hatred between the two races. It seemed that all races valued kith and kin above all else, except for maybe loot or recognition; he'd already read a number of books penned by greed riddled beings.
Outside, a storm raged against the waters, causing waves to crash against Ratchet like echoes of the thunder itself. The Blood Elven captain looked from the pages of the log to the window, shivering faintly before looking to the fires within the hearth. He was quite glad to be land-bound on nights like this, for the sea was a death trap when the storms railed so.
He had just settled into an intense passage of the log when the door crashed open, cold wind and rain sweeping into the entryway and main room. Towering within the doorway was a mass of brilliant Light and shadow, the figure vaguely humanoid in shape beneath the misting shadows and brightness. Clutched in its clawed hands was a Blood Tempered Ranseur, its wickedly curved blade dripping with blood and rainwater, glowing brightly with the channeled chaotic energies of its wielder. Fel-flames glowed brightly where its eyes should have been as the strange being stepped into the entryway, door slamming shut from the wind as soon as its main mass was within the room.
Abruptly, the Light and shadow began to coalesce inward as the figure swayed heavily to one side, the Ranseur suddenly being struck against the ground for support as the transformation shifted from demonic to Blood Elven. Her typical leather bindings and free-flowing skirt became visible as the shadows settled, clinging to her form from the rain; the silk binding was gone from her eyes, their Fel-flames burning brighter now. For a long moment, she leaned against the Blood Knight weapon, watching her brother closely before swaying hard to the opposite side, the Fel-flames extinguishing as her eyes closed.
Thalo'thas dropped the log book as he pushed off from the couch, reaching out for the falling woman that was too far away. The drenched form of his sister dropped to the floor, collapsing as the Ranseur followed with a deafening clang that forced him to cover his ears as he dropped to his knees beside her. There were a number of lacerations laced over her skin, the only breaks caused by the strange tattoos that decorated her body, and she was still bleeding quite badly; he knew she was able to heal herself, and shuddered at the thought of what her injuries may have looked like when they were made.
Assured she was still breathing, he quickly gathered a number of elixirs and heavy bandages together before returning to his unmoving sister's side. While he was no trauma surgeon, Thalo'thas knew a number of first aid skills, and what he did not know would be made up for with the alchemical potions. After binding her blood-stained hair back and removing the torn skirts, the rogue began to bandage each of the wounds, causing the collapsed woman to look more like a mummified Blood Elf than the graceful fighter she was.
When her wounds had been cleaned, treated and bound, Thalo'thas carefully lifted her broken form and carried her back into the room he kept for her. Once she was tucked safely beneath the soft sheets, the captain made his way back out to the main hall to clean up the mess of blood, rain and torn fabrics. Hesitant to deal with the Ranseur, he cleaned the entire entryway and room before finally looking at the remaining pool of blood, water and metal.
Before even becoming a borderline 'outlaw', the Blood Elf captain had not trusted nor liked the Blood Knights - back then, they were part of the Silver Hand, and too close to the humans that seemed to leave the residents of Quel'thalas to fend for themselves quite often. Thalo'thas knew that the weapon was a status symbol, forged with strange magics and arts that would only be enhanced by the strange energies his sister surrounded it with. Wrapping his hand with a bandage, the rogue reached out to pick up the unholy polearm as he quickly wiped up the bloodied water beneath it.
Despite the bandages, the blood elf felt a warm tingle within his hand, and before he had finished mopping up the mess it felt like he was holding raw flames. Grimacing in pain, he nearly ran to Onóna's room and quickly leaned the weapon against the wrack he'd fashioned for his sister's arsenal, shaking his hand several times once it was freed from the bandage. His skin was undamaged, though a bit pink from the heat, and he didn't want to know what it would have looked like if he had handled the Ranseur without the bandages.
His eyes drifted to the sleeping form of his sister, and Thalo'thas struggled to remember precisely what he had seen when she'd entered. Though battered and bruised, she still looked almost as she did before her journey to the Outlands when she slept, and it was difficult for her brother to believe what he had seen. The two forms continued to turn over one another in his mind as he pulled one of the padded chairs into the bedroom, and then while he tugged off his boots to settle back in the chair to sleep.
"Still," he thought as fatigue overcame him, "she did not kill me, so she is in control...I hope."