I’d like to preface this by telling you how very sorry I am that your mentors were taken so early. I truly am. That said, this theory doesn’t mean much to me. I know full well that Tybalt is still alive.
The Battle for Claw Island was a maelstrom of chaos and death. Everywhere I saw young Lionguards falling victim to the wickedness of the Risen. All seemed hopeless, and there was nothing to do but flee for our lives. Reaching the gates, a wave of Risen beasts assailed us, but the brave Lightbringer Tybalt Leftpaw shut himself inside the fortress with the beasts, buying us the time to escape.
There I stood, horrified, trapped beyond the gates of Claw Island fortress with an impassable barrier between me and the monstrous Risen, but also between me and my dear friend. On the mini map, a small skull and crossbones taunted me from the courtyard, marking the spot where his body had fallen. The only epitaph that my partner would ever receive.
But what do we say to the god of death?
Ignoring Traehearne’s pleas for us to escape to the ships I jumped at the doors, seeking a way to scale the walls. It was futile, and I knew that, but to surrender would condemn Tybalt Leftpaw to a final, awful grave. Turning into the brush I ran around the fortress, weaving my way through trees and bushes and swimming through the murky, dead infested harbor of the island until, at last, I found what I sought. The dry beach awaited me on the north end of the island, and there, I saw the bestial dragon that had driven us from any chance we had at victory. Traehearne followed behind me, still carrying our wounded ally, still requesting that we take our leave. But no one would be left behind today.
Mustering my courage, I ran between the dragon’s legs, sprinting full tilt into the courtyard where Tybalt had fallen. The dragon’s breath consumed me, filled me with a sense of dread the likes I had never felt, and I was compelled to flee. Fortunately, my wayward legs carried me directly into the courtyard, away from the dragon’s wrath. Unfortunately, they guided me into a horde of Risen mongrels. I took up arms, fighting for my very life. Many times I found myself on the ground, but each time I rallied myself and rejoined the fight. Traehearne proved useless, but he had his arms full carrying our ally, whom he had brought for some unknowable reason. I fought my way to Tybalt’s body, the crowd of Risen that had battered him to the ground standing at the gates, most likely attempting to break through. I took my chance as their backs were turned.
A trap, most likely. As I knelt to revive my fallen friend, the Risen turned and attacked. There were over a dozen of them, many more than there had appeared to be, as though the creatures had somehow been standing in the same place, obscuring each other. They fell upon Traehearne and I, forcing us to fall back until they gave up the chase. We managed to dispatch only two of the powerful foes, and many more remained. Guerilla tactics became necessary, and we would run forward to draw out a few of the Risen guards, killing one or two when we could and falling back before the others could retaliate. It took nearly a full half hour, but finally the last of the Risen fell dead at my feet.
I rushed to Tybalt’s side. At last, the time had come to revive my friend. Working quickly, I mended his terrible wounds and helped him to his feet. He would not move from his spot. He did not even have anything to say to me, as though he were never meant to say anything more at all. He simply stood there, staring grimly at the mass of Risen behind us. I knew what had to be done. I cut a path back through the Risen, the same tactics necessary to avoid being overrun by the Horde. Soon, however, there was a clear path between Tybalt and the bay, through which we could escape. Still, however, he did not move. He stayed in place, certainly not wanting the others to see him.
There are few ways to leave the Order of Whispers. Perhaps Tybalt wished for a simpler life. Perhaps he merely did not want the others to know that he had survived his hero’s sacrifice, and indeed, the others spoke of him from that day on as though he had fallen. But I knew, and certainly Traehearne knew as well, though he never once told a soul. Somewhere, on some faraway beach, an appletini in one hand and a smile on his face, Tybalt Leftpaw sits staring at the sea, basking in freedom, remembering the days we fought together. Oftentimes I think of him, and I’m sure he thinks of me. Even though no words were shared, I know he was grateful. Some stories, even the simplest ones, simply can’t end sooner than they’re meant to.
So what do we say to the god of death?
An apple a day keeps Grenth away.
I’ll never forget you Lord Quaggalopolis.