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| - ((Original thread here)) ((Flashback thread! Nothing here but solid char development for little Shisou, completely from the perspective of old Osan. Read as you like at your own risk. =P As far as lore references go, for simplicity's sake I'm taking 98% of it from WoWWiki (such as the helf lifespan being about 400).)) Jovia had sent up a comfortable chair and a small table for him so he could sit by the window and feel the wind again. He was slowly regaining some meager portion of strength, but for now it was just enough to move around his apartment. He spent his days now, watching out his window and drinking the tea that Jovia would send up to his room. She was such a nice young lady. He smiled, musing how "young" had become such a relative term. Lady Jovia was well over 300. He himself was now in his 437th year. He would have been frail and old even without the affliction. Of course, it hadn't always been this way... Centuries ago he had been a young and proud ranger, determined to win fame and fortune defending the city against the occasional troll attack. Well that had been put to an end when a troll's axe gave him an inevitable limp. That had been a mixed blessing though as his nurse had been Cicelena. Her memory always brought a smile to his face. She had been so beautiful with her jet black hair. He resigned from the Farstriders as he was no longer able to range as freely as he should, and the two young lovers were wed soon after. He took up an apprenticeship with Cicelena's father, a gemcutter, and took over his mentor's shop when the old artisan passed on. It was a few decades after that that Aoshi would be born. Tragically Cicelena hadn't survived bringing Aoshi into the world. That had been a bittersweet time with the birth of his son and the lose of his wife. As Aoshi had grown though he could see Cicelena's strength in him, and he had his mother's black hair and sharp eyes. He had been so proud when Aoshi had been accepted in the Ranger Academy. Aoshi had done well in the Academy, and met his own love during his study there. She had been Iapelko and she and Aoshi said their vows shortly after they graduated from the Academy together. That had been a happy time. Aoshi and Iapelko had made quite a pair, ranging far and wide at each other's side. He chuckled at the memory of their return when they found out Iapelko was pregnant. She had such a fiery despite her hair that was the color of a clear sky. There was nothing but joy in their small family on the day that Sagara was born. He had been so relieved that Iapelko survived, but he had to admit that his son's wife had a strength Cicelena hadn't. Aoshi and Iapelko stayed in Silvermoon for some years after that, living with him in his shop. They wanted to look over their babe of course. But when word came of war in the south and a race of green brutes that had swept over the city of Stromguarde, well, they could tally no longer. Aoshi had strapped on the family swords once again and headed off to war. Iapelko had tarried awhile, torn between her child and her husband, but after a few weeks she had followed Aoshi. He was already over four hundred years of age then, and Sagara a child of six; the old and the young left to fend for themselves. They had done well enough though. His shop brought in plenty of money for the both of them. Things had been good for awhile... He could still remember that day clearly. He had been in the shop, cutting an agate for a new ring when the herald walked in the shop and saluted. He instantly knew what had happened. The box was in the herald's arms. He realized he could no longer remember the words the herald had said. Odd that... You would think one would remember first hearing of the death of their only child. That the swords were returned to him was all the message he needed though. And poor Sagara, to lose his parents so young... The years after that had been rough, but they had managed. Sagara been to leave the shop for long lengths of time, occasionally for days. He had let the boy roam perhaps a bit too much, but he couldn't bear to keep him confined to a dusty old shop. Sagara had a weight to him now and an old jewelcrafter wouldn't be the one to lift it from him. And he always came home eventually, though not always safely. He had come to learn that Sagara had taken to running with a group of other orphans. They were banding together it seemed, and sticking up for one another. He had worried about Sagara's safety of course, but it made him proud to see his grandson defending others. It had been a few years after the swords came home when Sagara's friends burst into the shop in a rush. Sagara was in the eldest arms with a gash across his chest. He had never found out what had happened exactly, but there had been some sort of fight and he had taken the blow to end the fight and save his friend. Someone must have died however, because that was when they started to calling him Shisou. And after that Sagara had insisted on the new name. He hadn't wanted the boy to give up the name given to him by his parents, but in time he came to understand the boy's mind. It was something that many of his friends had begun and he had adopted. They had taken names given to them by their friends for the things they had done. He had finally consented to Shisou after learning this. After that things took on a fairly normal routine. Shisou would be home often enough that his old grandfather could impart some manner of his craft to the boy, and the rest of the time he was off running with that pack. He realized as the year had gone by that it had made him proud. When news of another war had come they hadn't heeded it. After all, they had thought that none could break the impenetrable defenses around Quel'thalas. And then Arthas had come. There were certain memories he would never loose. Cicelena's smile. His son's birth. His son's wedding and Shisou's birth several decades later. Those were mostly good memories. And then there were the memories of the swords coming home and of Arthas's arrival. He would understand later that the invader had once been a prince of Lordaeron, fallen under the sway of the ominous Lich King, but back then all they had known as the terror. The horns had sounded so loudly he dropped the apples he had just bought. There were screams coming from far off but he couldn't tell where. "Shindu fallah na!" boomed an arcane voice. "Shindu fallah na!" He had turned around, looking at the people around him. There was confusion on their faces, which was soon replaced by fear as the screaming came closer. The crowd began to shift, slowly at first and then suddenly towards the north. He hadn't been able to move fast enough with his old limp and wound up shoved aside, thankfully aside from the flow of trampling feet. He saw people panicking as they passed him by. "Shindu fallah na!" kept booming from the sky. Portals began to open, leading to who knew where, and people leapt through them to escape. He watched in dismay as a silver-haired librarian leapt through one such portal just as it collapsed. The crowd stampeded past in moments, and then the abominations had come. Gross, rotting creatures growling and slavering over everything. Those unfortunate enough to have fallen beneath the rush were now torn into mercilessly by the invading undead. He remembered thinking Is this how I die? watching the zombies shamble closer. He never knew how Shisou had found him but the boy, now a young man, was there. He had a dagger from somewhere and was swinging at the attackers. His friends were there too, some of them. He recognized the dark, silent boy and the large one with the scraggly beard along his jowl. They were there just long enough for two of Shisou's other friends to pick him up and run off with him and then the others fled as well. He remembered that they had such young faces to be filled with such anger and fear. They took him into a dark place he'd never seen before, below the ground and some of them stayed there and others went out. They would argue about what to do but Shisou stayed there with him after that. He remembered his grandson being so fierce. Just like his dear mother. They hadn't been hidden very long when the affliction struck. There wasn't any warning to it. Something they had always needed but never noticed was suddenly gone. Gone never to return. It had been hard to breath and he could remember seeing a young toddler huddling in the dark with them dieing from the shock. The world should never have to be so cruel to the young. He himself had lost consciousness mere moments later; the cries of pain echoing in his ears. He had awoken days later, still in pain and very weak. He felt ill. They were all ill. The door to the chamber had been closed and latched. They would only leave two at time to get food. Sometimes only one would come back. Sometimes none would. His pride had faltered to fear for his grandson during in the darkness there. He couldn't tell how time passed down there, but it must have been weeks before it was safe for them to come into the light again. The two big brothers had had to carry him, his legs unable to begin to support his wane weight. It had been months after that before their leaders had returned to the city. Kael'thas was supposedly off waging war against their invaders and it was his regent, Lor'themar eventually who returned to run the city. And Lor'themar's tidings were a curse and a blessing. A cure had been discovered for the affliction that racked them constantly, but it required feeding on other creatures in a perverse fashion. The method spread like fire through the dying civilization and their transformation into blood elves was well on it's way to being complete. Still, he hadn't been able to do it. He hadn't taken a life since the days of his youth, waging against the trolls. He was born a High Elf and he would die one. Unfortunately, Shisou's decision wasn't so simple. The boy was having a horrid time of it, unable to focus on anything but determined not to cross his grandfather. His grandson had spent needless weeks in pain before he had forced him to consume something; to become sin'dorei. He wasn't about to let his grandson die so young because of his own ideals. The young man had wept as he consumed the first life, and never again until that night. For months after that first life he would fight the hunger and everytime he did it would be worse than the time before until eventually he had no choice but to concede to the hunger. The shop, along with much of the city, had been destroyed in the invasion but when he had managed to find the box in the rubble he knew it would not be the end. Lady Jovia had been kind enough to give him a small room at her inn without requiring immediate payment. In truth he supposed she might have required no payment, but Shisou was too proud to ask for that and he was too weak. Eventually the boy had to find a job somewhere, not just to pay Lady Jovia, but to buy medicine for his old ailing grandfather. Osan didn't have the heart to tell the boy that the medicine did precious little. And then some nights pasted Shisou had come to him, weeping over the loss of, he assumed, that girl in his group of friends. Tragic that... But he knew his grandson. Shisou wouldn't let it rest at that. There would be battle and due vengeance to satisfy his pride, and perhaps his love. The boy had never had a girl of his own but the old man knew he loved his friends all the same. His thoughts went to the shadows under his bed. His grandson was probably out there right now, fighting for those things and those people. And he was doing it without what was rightfully his. That certainly wouldn't do. He knew how old and frail he was. It wouldn't be much longer before he joined Cicelena. He would have to give Shisou his heritage before then... Osan was sleeping when he had come in, snoring soundly and serenely. He'd just gone to his usual spot on the wall, sat down, and gone to sleep himself. There wasn't a second bed in the small room, but he was alright with the corner. Sure beat the rooftops in the Bay. He'd fallen asleep to the family, rhythmic snoring and dreamt the dreams of youth. When he awoke Osan was looking out the window with a smile. "Oy, hey gramps." He stood and stretched languidly as the old man smiled at him. "Hello there. I'm glad to see you. There was something I wanted to talk to you about. Help me up?" The youth approached the bed faithfully and helped his grandfather climb out. He was both a bit surprised and dismayed at how little the old man weighed. Wasn't that medicine doing anything. He was so frail in his bed robe. He bent down and reached under his bed, grunting with the effort, and pulled out a long somber wooden box. He lifted it with obvious effort onto the bed and then took a seat next to it. "Do you know what this is?" He thought he might but he shook his head anyway. "Its the box we got out of the shop." Osan nodded at him and then got that look in his eye that meant he was off in some other time. "Do you remember, boy, many years ago, we had an argument, over your name?" Oh, he remembered alright. He answered with a nod. "I thought you would. Such a smart boy. Do you remember what I told you?" "You said that no matter what other names people gave me I'd always be Sagara Trueheart. That that was the truest name I'd ever have." "Do you remember why?" "Because that's the name of my blood." The memory of that day had stung far longer than the wound that had precipitated it. He didn't like arguing with Osan. In the end, he'd convinced Osan to call him his true name, and agreed to keep pride in his birthname even if he never used it. "And blood is stronger than all other bonds." Osan put a fragile, almost skeletal, hand on the box affectionately. "There's history in our name, boy. The Truehearts have helped to defend this city ever since it's founding. And they've always used these to do it..." He feebly through a catch that had been hidden in the molding of the box, lifting the lid and revealing the contents. On a bed of blue silk sat two curved swords, sheathed in black and blue scabbards. Long lost memory tugged at Shisou's mind. "These were forged by the first to carry the name Trueheart, Shigurobushi. They were enchanted to never loose their edge, to eternally show our resolve." Osan was smiling at him as he touched one of the scabbards and ran his fingers down the blue engraving. From a distance it looked like just a simple mix of blue and black, but on closer inspection he could see patterns in the blue. Too many patterns for his eyes to count quickly. So many stories... "The Truehearts have ever used these twin swords. I carried them in my time, and handed them to my son when he left to protect his home." Shisou looked up at him. He had never really had anything from his parents aside from faded memory. "Father used these?" Osan nodded. "When he fell to the orc arrows he commanded one of the soldiers under him to return the swords to me. The Truehearts must ever hold these." "Under him?" Osan blinked, probably a little surprised. The poor old man. He probably didn't realize just how little they'd spoken of his parents since he'd grown up. "Your father was a Ranger-Lieutenant. Sorry, I thought you knew." Shisou looked at the weapons again. Was he giving them to him. Osan must've read the question from his eyes. "I don't know everything about what you do when you leave this room, but I can see the evidence of things. You come in with cuts and bruises and that look of pride in your eyes. You're fighting with your heart... Just as your father and mother did. Just like every Trueheart all the way back to the end of the Long March. Here, help me up again." When Osan was unsteadily on his feet again he picked up the two scabbards. Shisou pitied him for his plight; to be so weak. "Sagara Trueheart, it is clear to me that you fight as our bloodline has done since it's beginning." He proudly held the swords out to him and Shisou didn't make him wait before taking the weight off his hands. "As your ancestors have done before you, fight with your heart and use this heritage as your edge." Shisou bowed respectfully and the old man took his seat back next to the box. Exertion was clear on his face but so was his smile. The swords were too long for him to wear on his hip. He inwardly grumbled at the thought that most were. He could modify the scabbards easily enough to fit on his back though. He pulled one of the blades free of it's scabbard and examined it closely, curious about what he'd find. The edge was keen as a razor. It caught and held and dazzled light like a newly forged blade from the best of smiths. The hilt and crossguard were simple enough; bound leather died a dark green and an engraved circular piece of steel for the crossguard. The pommel was also steel but his eyes sharpened at the design deliberately engraved on it. Is that? Osan must have been watching him. "That's our sigil Sagara." He put the sword back in its sheath. "Osan, I'm not sure what to say... Do you know what's been going on?" "So long as I know you're following your heritage that's enough for me. I fear I won't be much longer in this world and I wanted to give you your birthright while I still could. It wasn't right for you to not have it, especially now." "Osan..." The old man yawned. "Oh dear me, I seem to have worn myself out. Help me back into bed, boy. I feel I need a nap." Shisou looked at him for a few moments and then did as he asked, clearing the swords and the box from the bed and helping his own living relative under the covers. Osan patted his cheek with a hand covered in fragile, brittle skin. "Such a good boy..." and then he was asleep...
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