When I was Little

When I was little, I had two forces acting upon me, my mother and my father. Gifted with magic at a young age, my mother wished for me to follow in her footsteps, while my father wished for me to be everything that I hoped and dreamed I could be. Taught by one, nurtured by the other, my life was an open book of possibility.

The freezing cold air of the north left a sheen of ice on most exposed surfaces. Breath came out in great clouds of white mist from the horses, although it did little to bother Biara. Since her experimentation with the phylactery, she rarely felt the cold, even when others shivered from it. The chill of the air lent clarity to everything around her, from the hardpacked snow beneath the horse's hooves to the crystal clear blue sky, dotted with only a few wisps of cloud.

It was clear that my path would be one of magic and power, as all tests given to me by the age of three showed my great potential in the Arts. My father, not being gifted in such a way, did not begrudge me this path, but celebrated my gift, as he celebrated all things in my life that made me happy. He encouraged me, provided guidance when I was troubled, and gave me a steady hand when I lost my path. My mother gave me the knowledge, the will to move forward, but it was not the same as the love that he gave me, the joy of being cherished by someone.

The plain before her was barren of life, although it was filled with movement. The restless dead stalked it still, despite the fall of the Lich King. The scourge were endless, timeless, and there were many thousands of them never destroyed with the fall of their King. She watched them for a moment, the calm moment before calamity and destruction would be born. She took a breath, felt the stillness within herself.

There came a time when my father approached me and said that he wished for me to learn but a single martial art. He said that it was clear that I would never take up arms against a foe, as we were at peace and it was not my nature anyway, but that the lessons learned with such a study would stay with me always. He said that to rule justly, to provide peace and security to all of our people, a noble had to learn a little bit of the lives of each of his people. To focus on just one thing, to ignore everything else could lead to decisions that did not represent what was best for all of the Quel'dorei. It is when I look back on these words, on that time, that I realize how truly great an elf he was. I realize how righteous and just his heart was. He would have made a mighty paladin had he taken such a path.

Hooves pounded the snow and cracked the small bones littering the ground. The warhorse was a thing of perfection, it's muscles rippling as it gained speed. With all of the nations of Azeroth donating to the Argent Crusade's cause, they spared no expense in breeding the finest animals for battle. The fact was not lost on Biara as her mount moved faster and faster, the ice cold wind of its passing whipping her hair out behind her like a streaming comet of fire.

Despite the misgivings of my mother, I spent many weeks considering my father's request. I wanted him to be proud of his Biar'athiel. I wanted him to know that I cherished the things he did for me, and that I would take the lessons of martial skills to heart. My mother suggested I take up archery, which was a safe and proper skill for a young noblewoman to learn. Perhaps it was defiance, or maybe it was simply the fact that I have ever been my father's daughter, but I chose instead to learn the art of the joust. I chose to take up the lance, and learn a sport that has been ancient to the nobles of all of the races of Azeroth for as far as time was recorded.

Skeletal foes fell before the crushing hooves of the warhorse as Biara's mount barreled into the enemies. Undead were crushed and thrown aside like so many fallen branches of a tree, their forms turned to dust by the massive weight of the animal. It was a tool of war, and war it brought upon the footsoldiers of the scourge that remained around the icy citadel in Northrend. The foes on foot were not her target though, and Biara's eyes narrowed as they found the target of her charge.

I practiced this one thing harder than anything I had ever practiced before. Each time I sat upon a horse, upon a hawkstrider, upon a kodo or any of the various animals brought to aid my training, I looked at my father for his approval. It was always there, on his face, in his eyes. The love, the pride in his child. I cherished every look, and even when he would chide me for my technique, or correct a mistake that I'd made, I would see it in his glance and know that my choice meant everything to him. I would hold a lance in my tiny hands, and it would stay firm and straight. I would do it for him, to show him how much everything he did meant to me.

The lance came down, the deadly sharp point gleaming in the light of the sun. The small buckler strapped to her arm shifted as Biara sighted on the hideous scourge commander that was approaching more and more rapidly. His own dead horse snorted, but no mist came from its nostrils as it gained momentum; the dead had no warmth left within them as Biara well knew. Her robes fluttered around her as her speed increased. She had no need for armor with her enchantments, and it made the oh so familiar dance of the joust that much easier for her.

When it came time to test my skills, my mother refused to witness the event. She didn't care for violent physical encounters or sports and activities that encouraged them. We were above such things she said, and she dismissed the lessons I had received as just a simple thing to pass some time in between my real studies. But I knew how much more they were. As each of my opponents fell to my lance, I could see my father standing there, his arms crossed as he watched me with a critical eye. It was my ultimate test, and even when a lance found my arm and broke it, I refused to stop. I refused to leave the saddle lest I fail in his eyes. My last foe fell during the trial and I did not even see it from the tears of pain that clouded my vision, but I felt his tender hands as he lifted me down, I felt the love and pride as he carried me to the infirmary. I knew how much I had honored him when I awoke the next morning to find him still there, knowing he had watched over me all night until the healing spells had completed their work.

Each time I take up a lance, each time I sit in a saddle even for practice I will remember you my beloved father. You will live forever in each moment of contact with my enemy, and your pride, your love will be the tip of my lance, will pierce the hearts of my enemies. Forever more.

The shaft plunged through the scourge commander's torso as his own lance narrowly missed Biara. She had shifted in the saddle at precisely the right moment, just as she'd always known to do, as Tel'athar had taught her. In that moment, as her weapon threw her enemy to the ground, Biara felt a single second of utter calm and peace. Maybe the scourge commander had once been one of her people, maybe doing something that was unarguably right was a balm, or maybe it was just knowing that somewhere far away, her father looked down with pride in his only daughter.

The hooves of her warhorse trampled the fallen enemy into the dust as she rode off, a smile playing briefly across her lips. A noble's sport indeed, and the sport of a true warrior, the joust was something she'd always take solace in, no matter where her life had taken her.