Haytham Arienar Swiftwind III

Physical Description
The man before you, to the untrained and outside observer, stands tall, confident and proud. A little over five feet, eight inches, the man has a slender beard that travels down the contours of his face. His facial hair is thick and black, his skin rough no matter how well it is kept. Little hairs stand like spears, the loud sound of scratching emanating from them whenever he places his hands upon them. His eyebrows are thick, abruptly stopping above the navel as they give way to a clearing. They arch upward slightly, the hairs neatly falling in line with one another as they move away from the center of his face. Like long, dark, curled branches his eyelashes greet the unwary observer, elegantly moving away from his eyelids, seemingly standing at attention. The man has thick, black hair which parts somewhat messily from the middle of his head, and dances down to his shoulders, swaying with the wind reluctantly as he moves about.

His body is somewhat well kept – his arms slightly muscular, though showing slight signs of disarray due to long hours spent writing and reading as opposed to serving in the front lines. They are lined with a soft, hairy texture, covering any scratches and scars that may appear. His veins travel from his shoulder, following his arms as his strength, at times, makes itself apparent. His midsection is firm and devoid of any scarring, a result of his insistence on the most invasive of armor in times of battle, with his legs finalizing a muscular and rigid outward appearance. The man wears a silver crown with a deep blue gem attacked to its center, lined with inscriptions in foreign tongues, and his gaze seems innocent, harmless, though piercing.

The First Ten Years
Despite his appearances, the man has many-a-stories to tell. Like many Ishuran Lords of the modern generations, beginning with Haytham Arohannon Swiftwind I, he was born to a small and quiet peasant family. Areianr Brerraldan was a hard working man who tended to the vineyards in Northshire Abbey prior to the arrival of the Defias. His mother, Thywen Swiftwind, though known to Arienar as Thywen Fieran, was a tradeswoman, specializing in the creation of pottery for travelers resting at the Inn in nearby Goldshire. His childhood was relatively unremarkable and simple, though there were obstacles – the young Haytham spent his days playing with his friends, reenacting grand battles, though always reduced to the role of playing the slave, or unworthy prisoner or slave. Indeed, throughout his childhood, young Haytham hardly knew a thing about power – being the target of the larger, stronger boy’s rage, Haytham was often subjected to bullying and, on some occasions, beatings. He would often find himself cornered and unable to defend himself, left to the mercy of the merciless bully; many-a-times, Haytham would go to great lengths to hide his injuries from his parents, and in one instance threw himself into a pool of mud to conceal the blood from an earlier meeting with the village’s bully.

His childhood experiences led to a man with a unique personality – seemingly passive, able to forgive at a moment’s notice, though never able to truly forget. Keeping to himself, Haytham began to develop a deep interest for thought and philosophy, an interest that was beginning to show outwardly. While unable to truly read and write, Haytham had a skill for oratory, being able to speak and present his ideas in a manner which impressed all but the finest gals in his village. Haytham would find himself in debates with men three times his age, often times silencing them not because of any reasoning he possessed, but by the manner in which he stated his opinions – always fiery and seemingly logical.

Urcan Sonenthal, the employer of Haytham’s father, began to notice the young man’s keen ability to engage in discourse, and convened the boy’s parents. It is rumored that Urean offered to pay, in full, for Haytham’s education, believing that the young boy had much to offer. Whether it was through convincing by Urean or by threats from him, Haytham’s parents reluctantly allowed the boy to travel to nearby Stormwind and begin his education.

Teenage Years
Well liked by his teachers, Haytham quickly began to learn and understand the complex rituals and gatherings in the Cathedral. An altar boy known for his ragged and unappealing appearance, Haytham spent his days harassing the worshippers who came into the Cathedrals by asking complicated questions – questions such as “what is a ship that puts a road in order?” or “what arrived first, the chicken, or the egg?” Bewildered by Haytham’s seemingly annoying nature and his constant “why’s” and “why not’s,” worshippers began to know him as the “Haysayer,” a reference to his name and the fact that the young many could not keep quiet. Haytham obliviously walked throughout the Cathedral, heedless to sermons and gatherings, looking to books for pictures of creates known only to his imagination. Indeed, his desire to learn to read and write was great, and it took two years for the Priests to finally teach him the skill.

During his teenage years, Haytham spent his hours sitting upon the steps of the Cathedral reading anything with words he understood. Having looked to various books, Haytham slowly began to speak a hint of Thalassian, rummaging over the histories of the High Elves and Night Elves with great curiosity. It was at this time, around the age of sixteen, that he learned of an order looking for new affiliates and benefactors, an order by the name of Dor Shari Uphol. Intrigued, Haytham learned his newly-developed reading skills to familiarize himself with the history of the order, learning of its leaders, structure, and objectives. He slowly began to take a liking to it, and slowly began to write a letter to the order’s Lord, Ancanestar Gemfire, requesting an audience.

Whether it was fate, or sheer luck, Haytham was immediately accepted into the order and began his service immediately. He was initially stationed in Southshore in the Hillsbrad Foothills, keeping a watchful eye for horde raids on the city. He served and participated in various skirmishes before being assigned to the front lines at age eighteen in the Alterac Valley. Haytham was subjected to the horrors of war on a daily basis, losing many friends as the days turned to months. His deployment called upon his habit of keeping to himself – indeed, he found comfort in writing and reading the various books he’d manage to smuggle out of the Cathedral’s library. Ironically, it was his experiences in battle that led to his excelling in writing and reading – his skill in both so weak, at least initially, that he had to focus more time and energy in sounding out words and syllables; such was a welcome relief from the horrors and hardships of relentless battle. It was when Haytham was twenty years old did he come across a man who would begin to change the course of his life, and the lives of others, forever.

The Founding of the Knights
At twenty years of age, Haytham came across a man known only as “Durael.” While much older than Haytham, the two shared a common affection for inebriated nights at the bar and the madness of battle. Despite their boyish nature, both men seemed to have an inner desire for justice, though in their inebriated state, neither could tell exactly what that was. Whatever the case, it was a young Haytham that suggested the two start an order of knights, knights that, such as themselves, have seen many years of battle. Durael agreed, and the two began to save up their gold and copper for the equipment and chambers they will require. It was at some point during the initial days of their plan did they come across a woman seemingly in need of aid. While accounts of the occasion are conflicting, what is known is that a woman by the name of Aniell Finch was being sought after by a group wishing to do her harm. The two men, seeing this as their first opportunity to “come to the rescue,” went to her aid, though carelessly carrying her to an abandoned building and leaving her there to rest for the night. While many contest whether their actions were foolish or otherwise, the young Aniell Finch, appreciative of their efforts to save her, accepted their offer of sanctuary among them.

Upon her entry to the order, the two men got down to business, drafting laws and codes as they saw their membership increase. The order of Knights began traveling throughout the Eastern Kingdoms with Aniell Finch at their side acting as their official scribe, keeping track of the Knights and ensuring their well-being. Haytham’s oratory skills began to show themselves in times of need, especially when his Knights were weary of traveling too close to Loraderon, now lost to the scourge. Both he and Durael were able to see their order grow quietly, with Aniell Finch keeping an eye on their every move. In an odd way, the three became akin to brothers and sisters, protecting one another from harm; rather, it was the two brothers keeping an eye on Aniell as she continued her mischief (albeit humorous mischief).

Haytham & Dor Ishura Shan're
While traveling through Ironforge, Haytham was met by a hooded, slender figure. The exact description eludes the author of this biography, though the name seemed all too familiar to Haytham: “Mokorabi.” Feeling drawn to the figure, Haytham, now twenty-two years old, followed her slender silhouette to an isolated part of the city. Without a word, the figure handed Haytham a small piece of parchment, disappearing without a trace. Holding the letter in his hands and visibly shaken, he slowly unfolded it, its words greeting his eyes as his facial expression turned to one of surprise. While to this very day the exact words are unknown to all but Haytham, the effect was clear: something, or someone, have revealed a history unbeknownst to him, a history he could never have imagined: he held claim to an order, an heirdom he did not know belonged to his line.

Summoning Durael, the two men sat and contemplated the circumstance; meeting in a small Inn outside of Ironfroge, the two puffed their pipes and discussed their options. Conflicted, Haytham paced back and fourth nervously muttering to himself, visibly shaken by his encounter with Mokorabi. It was not until that point that Durael sheepishly reached into his leather satchel and removed a small, moon-shaped object. Looking to Durael curiously, Haytham asked what the object was, his eyes moving from along the object’s contours. Durael’s response was simple and clear: “put it on, boy. You’re going to need this.”

Haytham soon learned that Durael had known of Haytham’s lineage and claims; that Durael’s ancestors had served the Swiftwind lineage for many generations. It became that Durael’s presence in Haytham’s life was no accident, nor was it a coincidence: Durael had been sent to ensure Haytham’s ascension to Lordship by whatever means necessary. While the purpose of this is unknown, the effect remains the same: Haytham summoned his knights and made the decision to reclaim his line’s title, and one by one his Knights followed, Aniell Finch being the first. Dor Ishura Shan’re had been founded, and Haytham Arienar Swiftwind III was now its Lord. His first acts as Lord of the re-founded order was to demand that all books of Ishuran history be salvaged, a task faithfully attended to by their newly appointed Royal Scribe, Aniell Finch. Haytham tirelessly took to his study, learning as much as he could about his people’s history, and reproached Lord Gemfire of Dor Shari Uphol. It did not take much for the two men to once again reconnect, nor was it long before both Lords declared the people of the other friends in troubled times.

The Hidden Kingdom was hidden no more, and its Lord, Haytham Arienar Swiftwind III, had taken up the task of rebuilding a broken lineage, and uniting a once-divided people. Against the odds, the order grew and his people began to return.

The Early Days of Lordship
Upon reclaiming his title, the young Swiftwind had many tasks to complete. The Ishuran Book of Codes had to be written and transcribed once again, the histories of his people needed to be learned, and the current state of affairs needed to be harmonized. There was disarray in the Guardianship, Magi, Chancellorship and the Judiciary. There was no organization, no laws, nothing – simply the rule of might, heeding only to the Lord’s soft words.

“I’m too soft,” he laments to himself, unwavering toward his own weakness in personality. “Too kind,” he continues as he read the histories of his people. Changes needed to be made, and they needed to be made before it was too late.

He knew he needed to think outside of the scope of his predecessors – each Lord, he believed, unworthy unless they left a legacy. “What will be mine?” he thought to himself. He began with an innovative move – no longer would the judiciary be allowed to rein alone. One of the very first decrees was to merge the Chancellorship and the Judiciary – Chancellors now able to adjudicate disputes between Ishurans, and put strength behind the Ishuran word of law. But still: where was the Grand Chancellor? Where was the Lord Judic?

It was barely a few days after he took Lordship did he reconnect with an old friend: Galfough Whitestone, the now elderly Dwarf with the notorious, yet unseen, wife. He walked with an unsteady stride, his belly covered in the finest silks. His accent thick, almost hard to understand at times, though the expression in his eyes told Haytham all he needed to know: a friend had returned. “Oy there, ‘Aytham,” he said as he approached. “Ah be hearin’ tha’ ye’ be back te’ Lordship – tha’ true laddie?” Haytham snickered, “I’ve read about you, Galfough,” he replied as the Dwarf embraced him. “I’m glad yer back, son” replied Galfough. “I’m glad yer’ back. Ye’ve missed a’lot.”

Over the next few months, Haytham and Galfough worked night and day, rewriting decrees and organizing the libraries. Haytham decided that Westguard Keep was to be their new home, far away from the menace of the big cities, and the evils of the Eastern Kingdom. The Ishurans needed a new home, a new place to be – a disconnect from their ancient past of trial and tribulation – but even that was short lived.

It was a cold winter’s night in Westguard when a shadowy figure appeared. Haytham, unaware of the figure’s presence, sat in silence in the upper chambers of the Keep as he read the Book of Codes and persisted on with his decrees. “Did you think I would have forgotten,” said the figure, his voice menacing, deep with a thunderous after-tone. He turned quickly, his eyes widening as he saw what he could not believe. A tall, slender silhouette approached him, light reflecting from his armor. The sound of metal scraping against the cold stone floor emanated throughout the Keep as Haytham grasped the hilt of his sword. “Who goes there?” he asked, his voice firm, loud, though shaky. As the figure came into the candlelight, it was clear: Kir’ashi had returned. “I’ve come back to serve, My Lord,” said the silhouette, “you didn’t think I would leave you to your own arrogance?” Haytham sat there in disbelief; his heart began racing as sweat began to pour down from his forehead, an uneasy feeling about him. Haytham felt his muscles begin to tense as if taken over by a shadowy force, Kir’ashi coming closer and closer. Sitting before him, Kir’ashi placed his dagger upon the table in a futile effort to show no harm, a grin appearing through his armor as the figure’s eyes shone a bright green. Haytham’s heart began to slow, his body turning cold as he was overcome with grief, an evil force taking him. His eyelids slowly drew down as his eyes rolled to the back of his head – a loud crash shooting throughout the Keep as Haytham met the cold stone floor with considerable force. His heart and breathing slowed as he began to drift off into a deep sleep. The figure muttered a small prayer and struck the young Swiftwind upon the head, sending a thousand years of memories and histories into the young man’s mind.

The Madness had begun.


 * “NO!” a man exclaimed as he ran through the battlefield littered with dead men and horses. His heart raced as he figured his way through the field of death, blood upon his armor as he slashed and swung at his adversaries. “Alliandria!” he screamed as he saw his wife succumb to steel – a loud gushing noise thundered across as he viewed the cold steel blade puncture her back, only to come out through her chest. He screamed – a scream so vicious that it impaled the hearts of even the most evil foe, the pain in the man’s voice felt by even the soulless. He ran to her, dropping his weapon as he threw himself before her just in time to catch her as she descended to the ground. “No! NO!” he whimpered as he held her in his arms, her eyes meeting his. Tears flowed down from his eyes, landing upon her cheeks as he stroked her hair – his heart accepting her fate with a boyish disbelief.

“Arohannon,” she said, gasping for breath. “Alliandria! NO!” he screamed as he watched her eyes close. He felt a cold sting in his back – and all grew dark as he lay beside her, his fate and hers now one.

He opened his eyes and found himself on the steps of the keep, naked, cold, and unsure of his surroundings. He stumbled to his feet as Guardians rushed to him carrying blankets. “My Lord,” one of them exclaimed as they wrapped his cold body with the shroud. “Are you alright?” the Guardian foolishly asked as Haytham shivered in the cold. Another voice rang out among the men, “get him into the keep!”

They lay him upon a bed in the upper chambers of the keep, a small Elven woman dabbing a warm, wet cloth upon his forehead. She spoke a soft Thalassian – her voice calming him. His eyes darted from side to side taking account of his surroundings as he calmed himself from the nightmare he had just endured. “What is this madness?” the young Lord muttered to himself.

Over many months the same process repeated itself over, and over, and over – the memories of his forefathers making their way into his mind as he slept. Silently, he endured the memories, cursing Kir’ashi’s return. In his heart, Haytham believed he too was cursed, destined to the same fate as the Lord’s before him. Quietly, he wrote in his journal, entry upon entry of his visions and memories, unable to tell fact from fiction. Unbeknownst to his people, Haytham’s heart was torn, his mind constantly shuffling the memories of his forefathers with a jealous curiosity, his heart yearning for comfort, his demeanor toward others an indication of what he desperately desired, though never received.

The Disappearance & Return
He sang a lament as he rode through the forests east of Westguard, traveling to the Lodge to collect his thoughts. A soft smile escaped him as he watched the birds engage in their courtship all around him, spring making itself known to the world. Gripping the reigns of his horse, he looked to his left to notice a shadow moving about him. He snapped his gaze to his left, and then to his right, his instincts telling him he was not alone.

A loud thrashing noise emanated from the bushes nearby, his gaze quickly locking upon it as his hands went for his sword – he readied himself for a confrontation as his heart began to race. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head as he fell forward, the last memory being the cool dirt greeting his face as all turned to black.

“Haytham?” He heard echoes – “Haytham? Lord Swiftwind? Is that you?” He groaned as he opened his eyes, his gaze met with that of a concerned Elf kneeling before him. “My Lord?” she said softly, her hands caressing his face. “Surreal,” he thought to himself, her symmetrical features and long flaxen hair greeting his eyes with a wondrous mystery. Her gaze met his, concern about her manner. “No, don’t get up,” she said as he attempted to get to his feet. Calming fragrances radiated from her as the clang of bracelets rang from her delicate hands as she massaged his temples. She hunched toward him and pressed her lips upon his forehead. “I must go,” she said, looking behind her with fear. “Please… be careful, My Lord” she whispered as she quickly stood and hurried off. He shook his head in bewilderment.

He blinked his eyes – upon opening them he found himself standing before what seemed to be an Elf. His long, brown hair reaching his waist, a full beard about him. His eyes narrowed upon the Young Swiftwind, a dagger in his hand. He spoke a language the young Swiftwind knew, but could not understand. Haytham peered into the figure’s eyes, then looked upon his clothes – silks, greens and gold weaving their way from his neck to his toes, inscriptions woven in a green thread slightly darker than that of the robe. The Elf continued to speak, the only words “heirdom” and “broken” being understood by the Young Swiftwind. A golden chain hung from the Elven figure’s neck as he continued to speak, his free hand reaching into his robe and unveiling a periapt linked to the chain. He held it before Haytham, muttering an unknown tongue – the young Swiftwind felt his body become heavy, a sharp pain shooting form his chest and up toward his eyes, a foul scream escaping his lungs as he fell to his knees. The figure approached, kneeling before him, striking him with the periapt repeatedly as gashes formed on Haytham’s face. Blood poured from his wounds as the Elf continued to strike him, screaming in the foreign tongue. The figure stood, and with as much brute force as his strength could muster struck Haytham in the chest with his foot causing a ball of blood to drool form his mouth. The young Swiftwind coughed, his body unable to bear the beating no more as the figure relentlessly continued his assault, spitting curses at him as he struck him over and over. The Young Swiftwind groaned in pain as he attempted to turn to his side, hoping that his back would take the beating. The Elven figured abruptly stopped, a soft feminine voice begging him to stop as he rose and scolded the voice, his eyes piercing and his expression filled with pure hate. The figure muttered the words “never in a million years” before taking his dagger and thrusting it into the young Swiftwind’s chest.

Haytham opened his eyes and found himself laying upon a mountain side south of the Lodge. He quickly took his hands and felt his face – nothing. No scars, no gashes – not so much a single drop of blood to be found. He turned his head and found a gold chain to his right, a strangely familiar Amulet connected to it. His eyes widened as he reached over to grab it, his fingers gliding over the Amulet’s contours and gold rim.

He placed the chain around his neck and made his way down the mountainside, struggling against the thick snows of last winter. Slowly, but surely, he made his way to the Keep, making his way to the upper chambers and throwing himself upon a bed. A voice whispered to him – he quickly jumped up, looking for a weapon to defend himself, breaking the leg of a nearby stool and holding it firmly in his hands. His eyes darted from side to side, looking for the figure that would surely be there to lay claim to the voice. A small, green gem glistened in the darkness as he saw his stone pulsating. He focused his thoughts upon it and heard a distinct voice, one which he knew: “My Lord, is that you?”

He breathed a sigh of relief as he replied in his thoughts. “Yes Gordian… it is me. Summon the Chancellors – summon them all.”

More To Come Soon
More on Haytham's life shall come soon.