Filed under: Narratives/Stories
What was happening? Why was the sky a pale violet shade, and why were the clouds gone? What was that distant rapping, like someone tapping a hollow wooden box? Ashamal Shalah’aman did not know, but the events of the last twenty four hours in Kalimdor had left him thirsting for answers to many questions, and none of them had yet been fulfilled. How was it that Leafsong could disappear from the home in the course of five minutes? It worried him greatly, and he had first assumed that the Alliance finally decided to strike his home for what they assumed, somehow, was betrayal, when he was only escaping from Stormwind City weeks before in fleeing for his life and that of his family.
But this air, this plot, it smelled thickly of arcane. The intoxicating but nevertheless repulsive tingle that one felt when they neared it. Bubbles of glimmering energy rose from all around him, and the world took on a strange and confusing shape. The trees were distorted by white light burning in the distance, but it was coming from the center of what looked to be a forest clearing in Darkshore, or some area resembling it. It was like living in a Gnomish light bulb with a glowing beam of light emerging from the center of the forest, cutting through teal and black leaves and absorbing all sound, motion, and life with its radiance.
As he peered through the expansive forest, he passed through a number of walls that appeared to be water, but weren’t what they seemed. They were some sort of energy left behind from an Arcane spell, fringing the edge of the forest as they pulsed with multicolored waves. As he passed through several, he began to see brilliant flashes of oversatured memories hit his mind. It was as if he had suddenly come to, and realized what had happened.
A certain Arcanist had worked to engineer a trap using his skill in Chronomancy. That Arcanist was the infamous Illosien Shalah’aman, who had, unbeknownst to those uninvolved, skirted the chance of uncovering the Star Index, a supposed Titanic artifact that was left behind after the pillaging of Ulduar during the battle against Yogg-Saron and the Keepers. For weeks, Illosien had worked to arrange chronological events to ensure that Leafsong was to be trapped for his own keeping, for whatever purposes he had wished to keep her. Though Illosien had to be careful, as he had stepped far too many times through the floes of time and had turned the metaphorical gears to the point that they had been stripped. His actions were bold enough to catch pursuers from the Bronze Dragonflight, who hunted him relentlessly. With each new timeway he created, he risked erasing himself from existence. After spending passionate weeks researching the chronological history of the steps he had taken through time, Illosien managed to find one day where Leafsong would remain unprotected by Ashamal.
Ashamal recalled that Leafsong had been snatched away quickly by Illosien as he opened a strange and runic portal. It was unlike most he had observed, and looked as if the endpoint was at another dimension entirely. He was no master of the Arcane, but he did know the very basics and had keen observational skills from his time as a Hunter.
He held his head as he was barraged by other invasive thoughts that blocked his vision. Strangely enough, these thoughts contradicted what he had before thought to be the events of the last few days. In this memory, Leafsong was very much safe, and was present with Ashamal when he had visited “The Crone”, an exiled Kaldorei priestess whom Whisperwind and others had dubbed too extreme, too hateful, and not agreeable with Elune’s teachings. Ashamal had believed otherwise, and had considered even re-igniting the priestly path. The Crone had called out to him as Leafsong and Ashamal were passing through Darnassus, and he was shocked when she was not only able to guess his first name, but the name of his father and uncles, something which no living member of Darnassian society knew or had record of.
When she led Leafsong and he into her small corner of Darnassus, a gloomy shack draped with bone charms, strands of beads, and a mind-boggling number of holy symbols, she demonstrated her ability to scry the future and the past in a small bowl of glimmering blue water. Leafsong looked on in awe, having only seen the fortune tellers of the human Faire variety and never the Kaldorei’s own mystics. When Ashamal had spoken to her, she told him that she would teach him of the ways of Elune’s shadow, but that she had a more important message to deliver unto him. She had conveyed, through fortune cards, that a great darkness was coming for him. This drove Leafsong into a short emotional burst as she clung to his arm, wept, and begged for his future to be altered. Unfortunately, the naive and young Kaldorei girl knew not that her future was the one that would be most affected by this enveloping shadow.
The shadow was not a demon at all, but the Crone’s lack of understanding where their futures would lead. She smelled something foul on the air, and the Arcane stung her nostrils as it did every other Kaldorei who encountered it. She foresaw a decidedly-malicious attempt to conceal the future of the Shalah’aman family and Leafsong from prying eyes, and she didn’t like it. She instucted Leafsong and her mate to return the next day.
Bits of this memory began to piece itself together in Ashamal’s mind as he wandered further towards the glowing light, brushing shrubs and ferns away as he cleared through thick, shadowy forest. The light grew more intense, and so did his remembrance.
The Crone had broken off a shard of black obsidian, wrapped a leather handle about it, and fashioned it into a dagger for Ashamal. She told him to plunge it into the heart of whatever he feared, but that it could only be used once before shattering into a thousand separate shards. She told him to reserve it for his greatest time of need.
It was when Ashamal saw a number of environments mixed together in this strange and desaturated world that he realized he was between timeways. He had pursued Illosien blindly through the waygate with only the obsidian shard dagger, a phial of glowing liquid, and the robes he wore. Reckless perhaps, but he wasn’t going to let this monster get away with his lifemate in captivity. The light ahead was produced by a volumetric source, which was a sheet of energy at the middle of the forest clearing. Behind the light was what looked like halls of some Titanic ruin with scattered rubble. He dashed ahead as he noticed the sheet of energy growing thinner; the portal was closing, and he’d barely have time to make it through.
As he dove into the portal, he landed on his bad knee and gritted his teeth, slowly coming to a standing position as he looked around the expansive hall. While Ashamal had not seen much of the Storm Peaks, he could discern immediately that they were at a high altitude, for he could feel high pressure pounding against his ear drums, and noted the crackle of lightning that seemed unending. The stone hall was someone isolated from the wind outside, but a few cracks in the ancient ruin were enough to let gusts of wind and noise pass through.
The hall branched off into two separate paths, one of which was bathed with arcane light. He followed the path where he felt the magical energy was the strongest and thought to himself, “Highborne scum are attracted to magic like flies to honey.”
In what seemed like an hour of alternation between walking and running, Ashamal found himself at the end of the hall in a massive chamber with stained glass windows depicting the Titans and their servants, as well as the elementals and the Old Gods. He found himself at great unease in this place, and instead continued to move on past this cylindrical chamber. He next came upon a vast circular room with similar windows, but the glaring eyes of the Titans or those of the Old Gods were not present in their design.
More strangely, the room seemed to be moving. Brass nuts and bolts clicked together as sections of the room shifted and formed new shapes. It was an automated process, and steam pistons opened up different doors as the room’s bridges rotated to meet them. Ashamal dashed for the first available exit, which looked like the right one. This exit glowed with the same blue Arcane energy, but as he neared it, the room began to shift again. He was instead turned towards the next door, and was forced to wait the entire length of the room’s automation again to arrive at the first room entrance, which he quickly passed on through.
He knew Leafsong was alive, and he could feel it driving him onwards, preventing his legs from giving way. He was not scared, but confident. The next room was of similar shape and size to the last, but this time, the floors lowered and raised themselves in a piston-like pattern. He moved onto the first platform as it raised then lowered itself, and repeated the process until he had safely and quickly crossed all of the floors until he had reached the exit. His first thought was that it was some kind of Titan production facility where Iron Dwarves, Tanks, and other weapons were manufactured.
After passing through numerous rooms filled with puzzles, he came upon a room that was significantly smaller, but featured a prominent decoration that seemed almost out of place. It was a statue representation of a Titan or a Titanic servant. Ashamal remembered the figure as Norgannon, the Aesiric Titan of Wisdom and Magic. He was holding a massive tome in one of his hands, but the tome itself was a real book. It had been mounted on the statue, and by his guess, it had been planted recently. With hope that it would reveal the answer as to where Leafsong was, he began to scope out a way to some how climb the statue or lower the arm, but noticed that a number of live steam pumps were connected to the statue itself. The statue itself featured an inscription, but it was in a language that he could not decipher.
After pacing in the small room for ten to twenty minutes, he managed to find a valve control. The statue’s eyes came alight, and Norgannon’s stone stand-in lowered the text as if to indicate, “Come, take it now.”
As Ashamal approached, he noticed the tome’s cover was written in Darnassian. Strange that a tome such as this would be held in a Titan ruin, but he knew not of the Kaldorei’s history or encounters with the Titans. He did know however that the book’s cover was not dusty, and the pages were freshly bookmarked with a fine piece of silk. He opened the tome to find a massive chapter of Darnassian text, and squinted his eyes to read the small font. One Darnassian word was penned in red ink:
“Vash’kil Ethel Hakkan,” which translated literally to “Sorcerer’s Ancient Blood Curse”.
It was unusual for these sorts of curses and incantations to be written in Darnassian or ancient derivative forms. Mostly, they were penned in Eredun or sometimes Draconic. He dare not speak this line aloud, for he knew of the dangers of magic, though he continued to page through the tome and take mental note of the spells written in red there. When he arrived at the final page, the author of the tome was now clear: “Illosien Shalah’aman”.
“Xax Hash’vadi” “Death Inferno” was the last spell penned into the text, but it was written in smaller font with green ink.
As he closed the tome, he draped it from his robe by the chain that was attached to its spine. He carried it along as he passed through the next hallway, noticing a large door with an indentation in the middle, as if some object was supposed to serve as the key. He backtracked after he searched the first room for any sign of the object, but had no luck in the previous room or the room before that.
As an hour passed, his hope began to dwindle. How would he open that door? He paged through the tome for more clues, and after only a few moments of searching, came upon a Darnassian line that read, “For Opening Pathways — A spell that requires as much blood as it takes to power or open a hidden or locked pathway. And the owner must spill unto a runic circle of Vir the blood which runs through his veins in order to open the pathway – Vir Inra Hash’im – For Opening Pathways.”
Would he have to resort to this Arcane magic? Was there no other way? Just as he began to turn around, there came an echoing voice, “N’do, help me, I’m hurt.” He was Leafsong’s voice, and she sounded pathetic through her tears. Brass pipes extended from the roof of the place, and her voice came through them. She repeated again, though more frantic this time, “N’do, help me! I’m hurt!”
If it was one thing that would turn him away from his faith and his ways, it would be keeping Leafsong safe. Aphel took a sharp chip of stone from the column nearby, rubbed it coarsely over his wrist until he began to bleed, then located the rune of “Vir” in the front of the tome. Vir meant to “Open”, roughly in Common. The page had presumably dried blood left over from Illosien’s rituals. Under normal circumstances, magi had no need to call upon blood rituals. But opening a door or revealing an entryway without these rituals took years of practice and learning.
As his blood dripped into the page, Ashamal finished the incantation by shouting aloud in fear for Leafsong’s life, “VIR IN’RA HASHIM! THE WAY IS OPEN TO ME!” And the door’s mechanizations began to awaken. It opened as Ashamal’s voice took motion, creating a ring of energy that clashed with the stone and challenged it. Soon, the doors came sliding open but fell off their tracks, cracked, and tumbled. “Vir In’ra Hashim. The way is open to me.” Aphel said once more, stepping through the opening as he felt a rush of Arcane energy rattling his bones. It was invigorating, and this terrified him. He had only called upon small flames in emergencies by snapping his fingers and uttering the Darnassian “Va!” Which represented fire, and even avoided this when at all possible.
The chamber before him was filled with blinding light, and at the center of the room was a robed figure next to a hovering object encased in glass. From this disatance, Aphel could tell it was Illosien. He rushed for the man, thinking he would have Leafsong in his midst, but clashed against an invisible barrier and cried out as Illosien cackled.
“I am surprised my boy has finally decided to embrace his heritage and call the Arcane. It is true power, to open the way before you and to change the world around you. To manipulate everything! Nothing can bar you or stop you from reaching your goal!” Illosien called out, raising both of his arms as he stood behind the protective shield, safe from his son.
“Maggot! Where is my lifemate?!”
“Oh, she is well, do not worry. She is living for now.”
“For now!?”
“You lay your eyes upon the Star Index. It was not concealed within Ulduar, but interred within this factory chamber forty miles from the site. It was hidden here, Ashamal! Together, you and I can take the knowledge hidden within it and conquer Azeroth for the Highborne! I promise I will not kill you.”
Aphel beat his fists against the shield in a rage, slamming himself against the invisible wall, “Where is my lifemate?!”
“I can’t release her, my darling boy. The only way to open this barrier, and I mean the barrier surrounding the Star Index, not the barrier separating the two of us — is to sacrifice a young soul. I had my pick between your children and your lifemate, but I decided choosing the later would be moral.”
Aphel clenched both of his fists, then shouted aloud, “VIR INRA HASH’IM! THE WAY IS OPEN TO ME!” And watched as the barrier began to weaken. Illosien smiled at Aphel from through the sheet of magic.
“I knew you would resort to these reckless tactics. You are a Shalah’aman, and you command magic! Nothing will command you! But know that I will not hold back if you try and stop me. I understand that you don’t want to lose your beautiful little lifemate, but Ashamal, the possibilities of what the Star Index contains are unimaginable! True power, hidden by the Titans! The fire of creation!”
“I will not submit to your insane agenda, Illosien!”
“Suit yourself.” As the barrier fell, Illosien swept his hand and unleashed a bolt of Arcane energy which clashed with Aphel, sending his body skidding across the stone floor. As he hit the wall, he reached for the tome, “Use your power against me, Ashamal! Unleash them! Unleash the spells I have created to unmake me!”
Aphel rose again, rushing for Illosien with the obsidian dagger concealed in his robe sleeve. Illosien cackled, an raised both of his hands as an explosion of Arcane energy pushed Aphel back a good twenty yard. Illosien followed up with a kinetic blast of energy, sending Aphel crashing into the ground. Aphel rose and fell continually for ten minutes, trying his hardest not to resort to the forsaken magic he and his father’s followers had penned since the days of Suramar, but he heard Leafsong’s agonized cries in the distance, “WHERE IS SHE!?”
“Kill me and she will be released. I dare you to try!”
Aphel felt the rage building within his body as he opened the tome. Illosien merely stood there, charging up his own spell idly as Aphel’s teeth chattered. A chill took over his body as he spoke aloud, “VASH’KIL!” But Aphel paused as he felt his lips burning.
“DO YOU NOT HAVE THE COURAGE TO COMPLETE THE SPELL!?”
Aphel continued, “ETHEL!”
“DO NOT TEMPT ME WITH THIS POWER BOY! I SHALL BEGIN AS WELL! — VASH’KIL ETHEL!”
Aphel finished a second before Illosien had finished his spoken curse, “HAKKAN!”
Illosien gripped his chest as he fell to his knees. The magical barriers around his body and around the Star Index itself began to fade as his blood was siphoned to Aphel, and it took on a glowing light, “YOU’VE DONE IT! Now slay me, I have foreseen this day of my death!”
Aphel did not think a moment sooner, and produced the enchanted obsidian dagger, plunging it into Illosien’s chest. Blood spurted over Aphel’s fingers as Illosien gasped for air. He threw his arm back and fired a spout of violet energy into the Star Index.
“What have you done, Illosien!? Where is Leafsong?”
“You must destroy it, Ashamal. The Star Index dies with me. I have cast my soul into the Star Index, it has become my phylactery. Destroy it, now. Unmake it in the engine room. These secrets are erased from history with my death. I have transplanted–” Illosien hacked and coughed, “Your lifemate’s soul into my own. Until you kill me, she will never be released.”
Aphel cursed aloud, rushing for the floating Star Index. As he touched it, static electricity jolted at his fingers. He firmly grasped the cylindrical index, which was no larger than a small baton, and twisted it, attempting to shatter it’s shell with his bare hands in his rage. He ran for the next room, leaving the bleeding Illosien behind as he sputtered.
The gears turned as the engine room pulsed with blue light. The Star Index held great knowledge, but Aphel had no need for it. Illosien’s voice filled his ears as time around him ceased, and he felt himself freeze.
“I pass with my death the curse of Shalah’aman onto you, my son. Forever will you be cursed to know all things of magic, and walk the ways of time in search of immortality. With this, I sever your bond with Elune and with your people, for you must ever pursue this addiction — to know, and the need to know. I pass now, and with me the Star Index and its knowledge. My tome is forever bound to your soul, and you are cursed to bear the weight of it. Know this. On the final page of the tome is a spoken Darnassian spell of time manipulation. Your lifemate was hidden in this room ten hours ago. Reverse the floes of time, and forget of my existence. You have become Lord Shalah’aman, and now our dark history falls upon you to protect and use as you shall please. I brought you here purposely so I could pass this title and duty, long overdue, to you. I ask now, as one final favor to your father, that you kill the Crone who crafted this dagger for you. All will be revealed when you have read the Tome of Shalah’aman, the last surviving text of our family’s legacy. Go now, my son.”
As the Star Index was swallowed by the gears, the engine room began to come apart. Aphel paged to the final section of the tome, which dealt with chronomancy. He spoke aloud the ancient Darnassian tongue, and manipulated the floes of time in a panic.
“N’do?” Leafsong now lay before him, scraped and bruised, with a broken ankle. Illosien’s robes, stave, and belongings were neatly piled up in the corner.
Filed under: In-Character
Perhaps the most shameful defeat for the Alliance forces in recent memory was the Ambush in the North. The 71st, 79th, 110th, 7th, and 4th Legions had gathered to secure a piece of technology only described as “substantially important”. Even those among them such as Field Marshal Shalah’aman had not known what they were after in the Storm Peaks, but if he had any guesses, it was Titan.
It would have been a quick mission, had not the Horde also found great interest in whatever the Alliance was trying to secure. That didn’t matter to Shalah’aman anymore, though. What mattered now is that there was an arrow in his chest, and he wasn’t fully sure whether it had his his lung or his heart. All that mattered to him now was breathing, crawling home. His feelings were a mix of sheer pain and disbelief. In the back of his head, he kept telling himself that he would be okay, and that he would see Leafsong again soon.
He had crawled a half of a mile away from the scene of the ambush, where hundreds of Alliance soldiers lay dead next to their scattered banners. Wood splinters and bits of flesh and bone decorated the field. Aphel could not feel his legs, for they had been so numbed by the glacial ice that had touched his knees. His mask had been shattered by a direct blow from an Orcish axe, but it had saved his head.
He didn’t even want to think that this would be the end. An ambush! What a dreadful way to go out fighting. Aphel wheezed and sputtered with blood as he felt the arrowshaft snap, twisting sideways and snagging on a rock as he tumbled a good ten feet when a segment of rock gave way. He landed, the arrow slid further into his wounds. He would cry out, but he had no energy. Despite this, he reached for whatever he could cling to, and pulled himself up further along a hillside.
He wasn’t sure if the Horde or the Alliance had won, but losses had been great on both sides. He didn’t care anymore, not about the conflict or about winning or losing. He only cared about making it to safety. When he wasn’t losing blood, he was double-checking his map to get some sense of direction, but he couldn’t surely say where the next Alliance outpost was.
He didn’t give up hope yet, but he felt his last fragments of hope draining as he came to the top of the hill, noting that there were no Alliance encampments for forty miles around. At this point, he sat there and said to himself What have I done to deserve such a cold and lonely death? Will Elune help me? And his words turned to desperate prayers as it began to snow. He’d lost a good volume of blood, so all he could do was sleep. He fought to stay awake, until all went dark …
Filed under: Uncategorized
Ogrik was fire in motion, the hatred and passion of his ancestors set ablaze and pushed forward by elemental winds and purpose. Red banners climbed into the skies around him as roars of ancestral pride enveloped them and set across the clouds like lightning. Lok’tar Ogar! It was glorious beyond description, to charge into battle as a soldier of the Orcish Horde and to tumble over the fallen bodies of your comrades. To embody the onslaught of the Horde was to raise your axe and cut down as many Alliance pigs as you could before one crafty Gnome decided to spill blood from the back of your calves.
But today, Ogrik did not feel the fury of the Horde in his veins. Ogrik remembered the face of his wife, children, and father, and Ogrik kept in quiet mourning as Horde Shaman generals in shadowy hoods called them to charge over a front. The Glory of the Horde to Ogrik was not in warfare, but in the festival drums, the spirits, the ancestral traditions, family, and good food.
Ogrik looked up to the Alliance soldiers gathered upon the hills, and they had the higher ground. Pellets of lead hailed upon them like snow, conjuring showers of blood as the broken bodies of Tauren, Troll, and valiant Orc fighters added to the mess of flesh and bones that were once whole people.
Between them was an Elf, not a Sin’dorei, but an Elf of the West. Savage Elves, as Grom had called them, but they were called the Kaldorei, Children of the Stars. Ogrik’s head began to turn up to face the man in question, but a stray ball of lead sent his skull shattering into fragments. As he breathed his last breath, he felt the warmth of his ancestors around him. He was finally home.
Filed under: In-Character
I had only set foot once into the Molten Front, which was the invasion point where the Alliance and Horde staged their first operations against Ragnaros and his armies. Normally, this would not be my domain of work, but as the Alliance calls for me to serve, I must pay my debts
My new freedom and fortune was not without cost, and I am loyal to those who serve me. As much as it pains me to leave this world behind for some time to walk across the burning plains, I have faith that I shall return unscathed.
Elune will walk with me no matter the danger, and so shall the beasts of the wild, who resist this corruption.
Some of the best soldiers our division has to offer have paired up with the hoity-toity “Dragonslayers”. They were the men who braved the halls of the Twilight Cult’s base to take the head of Cho’gall and later plunged their blades into the heart of Blackwing. Because hatreds run deep for the savages who fight Ragnaros with it, I cannot promise the Alliance that I will not purposely instruct my men to misfire and kill the Horde as we charge.
I worry most for Leafsong and for my children. While I know that they will be well-accounted for in my absence, I cannot help but feel guilty at the timing of this sudden deployment. It comes right after the dispute about An’alith, and right before I promised I’d take them to Aerie Peak for a week and some odd days of relaxation. Leafsong was incredibly upset, and begged me to let her come with me, but I know she cannot.
The blistering heat of the Firelands is too much for most to survive. Luckily, my armor has been smithed with flamescales, the material that covers the flesh of the Flamewalker race native to the Firelands themselves. They tell me that most of the defenses in the Firelands have fallen, and that the Firelord himself awaits our armies. Apparently, two thousand soldiers have already fallen to his mace.
Should I return alive, I shall return a hero and Marshal of the Alliance. I have made preparations for a hasty escape if the situation worsens. I will take the hit for deserting the Alliance and disappear quickly with my family into the wilds of Kalimdor. *The next few lines were blurred, as if they had been smudged and re-written over the page multiple times* And we shall disappear into the glaciers of Northrend.
—
Day 2
As I write, we are moving closer to the burning gates of Hell. The Firelands is written to house some of the greatest evils this planet has to offer; ancient shadow and flame curls from the depths.
The air smells strongly of sulfur and burning wood, and the woodlands around us have been decimated by the heat rushing from the open gash in the sky.
I told Leafsong and the children I would return home soon, and Elune willing, I shall.
Ash’thalam Elune.
The Hunter hadn’t known if he was in the waking world or the dreaming world for hours. He explored the inside of a cave that hung with mossy branches and old roots that dripped with blue water.
Had I passed into Elune’s realm? Was this where all life came in passing? That was all that he could ask himself.
For a man who was adventuring through some mysterious realm, he still appeared well-kempt, and strangely so. He had not felt a drop of sweat since he had stepped into this mysterious place, and that was odd considering that he was wandering through some cavern deep underground. This sort of place would normally put him at unease, but there was a feeling of tranquility that pervaded the air.
He was barefoot, but only because he had lost his shoes deeper into the cave. The walls of the cave were devoid of the disturbing life depicted in the Explorer’s League picture field guides to Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. Normally, caves were supposed to feature many-eyed beasts and insects banished to the darkest places of the world. A life, the Hunter thought, that would be considered significant by the druids among the Cenarion Circle, but by few others. The nature of all living things were important to the Circle and their druids, for the balance of life they said was fragile and depended upon all its living components to operate efficiently.
While the cave seemed to lead on forever, the Hunter did not grow tired. He walked with his strength and sight renewed, but his memory of events was as cloudy as the mists of this deep cavern. The upward path winded in different directions, with jagged rocks capped by shining gemstones and glowing mushrooms that lit the way. A Kaldorei had no need for a light in the dark, as their highly-adapted senses could open their vision through the blackest of places.
The Hunter continued to climb, walking his bare feet along the sharp rocks beneath him. He was determined to leave this cavern and reach the surface world, but the cavern was longer than he had ever walked in Winterspring. His made no assumptions regarding his location, and focused all of his mental energy upon continuing through the winding path.
It had been hours when he finally reached the surface, and the landscape looked similar to that of Moonglade, although there were floating columns of stone and plateaus of grass. Perhaps he had arrived at some place in Outland, where the laws of the universe did not apply. Then again, where did scientific laws universally apply? The mere existence of realms such as Deepholme and the Firelands defied the groundwork of early Dwarven and Gnomish science, which tended to extrapolate the laws of physics off of basic gravitational principles; when the Dwarves and Gnomes first happened upon the Magi, it must have been a sight.
He sat upon a flat stone that rested on a bed of pebbles and blueish-green residue. All around him were grassy hills and trees that spilled over with glimmering water. In the distance, tree bark bent itself into spirals and funneled magical energy into the sky. The stars themselves shone a bit brighter than they had in the world he knew.
He did not know why that patch of gravel kept him there, but something told him to stay. The stones were weaved through short blades of grass in a way that shaped the design into a pattern of small circles and crescents, probably representing the sun and the moon.
It felt like hours had passed, but time itself in this place seemed distorted. The position of the stars were constant, and there was no sun or moon to be seen. Fragments of dirt and small stones levitated through the air spontaneously.
He watched as a green-scaled drake circled in the distance, and it was immediately apparent to him where he was.
I’m in the Emerald Dream, but how could this be? I’m not a druid nor have I ever had the talent to be one.
It wasn’t long before a voice answered back, and it was one that he knew well. The voice of Alakun, a Spirit Beast in his service, whistled through his ears like distant winds: “You are inside the Emeral Dream, Ashamal. I have much to tell you before you return to the waking world.”
But why have I been brought here? Suddenly, memories rushed back into his head. He had passed into a coma in the Stormwind City infirmary, attended to by a team of healers, shaman, and mystics whom the Alliance ordered to heal one of their senior Kaldorei COs. They had rushed experts from across the environs of the Alliance’s vast empire, calling upon the skills of the few.
“You have been brought here because Elune has judged you as worthy of another chance in the world,” The distant voice of Alakun replied, “And this is your chance at life. The curse that was placed upon you was meant to blind you, and then slowly eat away at your very life essence. Your spirit has passed into this realm, and is slowing the process of your death.”
“How does entering the Emerald Dream slow the progress of a killing curse?” Asked Ashamal, suspiciously.
“This was the blueprint for our world. Before the nightmares were driven to the bowels of Azeroth, the Titans came upon a world much like this one,” Alakun explained, “The Emerald Dream was what Azeroth once looked like before it was organized and given a harmonious balance, but even a chaotic realm such as the Emerald Dream can be balanced by those who understand its nature.”
The voice went quiet. A large, semi-transparent brown bear appeared in front of Ashamal, and he planted his large paws in the gravel beneath them. This is what he had looked like in life, thought Ashamal. The companion he knew was a glowing, blue spirit.
“You may have wondered how much time has passed, Ashamal. Time is a product of the Titans’ ordering, and does not directly apply in this realm of dreaming. Only a few minutes may have passed by in the real world, but you may have already been here for an entire day,” Alakun looks over a mountain ridge, “This works to our benefit, for much can be learned and meditated upon in this realm while the real world moves much slower. This allows us to repair the hidden evils of nature before they spread to the corners of Azeroth.”
Ashamal rested his chin in both of his hands, sitting on the flat stone, “So you’ve brought me here to repair the injury of this curse, then?”
“Yes, but also to impart the lessons of my existence upon you.” Replied Alakun in his echoing voice.
Alakun explained for awhile that the Emerald Dream represented the volatility of life. While the Firelands and Deepholm were the realms of nature, the Emerald Dream was the realm of nature. It was here that the spirits of ancestors wandered, and it was here that all of the things of the wild gathered to congregate.
These were all things Ashamal had heard, but he had the benefit of standing in the middle of this strange and primordial plane, which changed his perspective on these lessons and made him more attentive and quick to question the premises of the Emerald Dream and of the druidic teachings that sought to explain it’s nature.
Days passed as Ashamal stalked through the dreamscape with the Spirit Beast, following him closely with a gnarled walking stick formed of black branches and the blue water that poured copiously from the hills. This was not the first time he had learnt from Alakun, but these lessons focused on abstracts rather than historical or geographical fact. Alakun often guided Ashamal through strange forests and ruins in the waking world, and served as a useful and enlightening travel companion. He had a clear recollection of the deepest paths of the forest, but did not bother to question why. Nevertheless, these skills proved useful to a Hunter, and most “pets” were not intelligent enough to comprehend anything more than commands and body language.
“Even the smallest insects mean something to the narrative of life,” explained Alakun, “They will feed the birds, who will in turn feed the larger predators like the sabers.”
It was an ecosystem. Something that all Hunters and naturefolk came to understand quickly. Ashamal himself was a predator in the ecosystem, and his enemies numbered beyond measure. He was once a beast of great power, and the gifts of Elune bestowed upon his race allowed him to stalk the wilds and fell the strongest prey. Still, he had never taken time to think about how his actions would send a small community of animals into chaos when he decided to slay a large saber. It is this balance that druids seek.
Alakun sought to strengthen Ashamal’s connection with nature. Over the days following, he explained that Ashamal’s last hope to maintain his vision and his way of life was not only to pray to Elune for help, but to access the cures she had already woven into the tapestry of life, “Elune does not only give us blessings upon request, but she has also scattered them upon the earth.”
Alakun’s massive paws would dig through the ground, scattering brightly-colored roots. Ashamal joined him, digging his fingers into the earth of the Emerald Dream. They combined these elements of nature into new alchemical creations, bathing them in the moonlit waters of the dreamscape. Ashamal consumed foul-tasting mixtures and spoke aloud the results as Alakun watched closely.
He had not known how far he and Alakun had wandered, but the landscape had fundamentally changed from where they began. They were walking amongst a land of large lakes that teemed with life. Alakun swept his paw over the surface of the water, catching a flailing fish in his maw, and asked Ashamal to do the same. Ashamal swept his hand across the surface of the water, and missed the first couple of fish.
“In your time as a Hunter, you learned to appreciate the aspects of the beasts of the wild and assume them. You sharpened your sight with the Hawk’s eyes, and you ran with the grace and haste of a Cheetah across the battlefield.”
Alakun explained that the Hunter’s path was not dissimilar to the path of the Druid, who in reverence to nature transformed his body into that of a beast, “The distinctions between Hunter and Beast are very few. While a Hunter is a master of Beasts, he too is defined by them and depends upon them”
The Spirit Beast imparted these lessons upon Ashamal, driving him forward to a new knowledge and a new perspective. They stalked the wildlands for days beyond numbering until Ashamal’s facial hair had grown long and unkempt, and his hair was stuck with twigs, leaves, and chips of bark. Still, he took time to shave his face until his beard was at least ‘acceptable’ in his eyes.
Alakun dove into another lake, beckoning Ashamal into the waters. They both dove into a turquoise world filled with swimming schools of fish and other assorted creatures. Alakun breathed a green mist upon Ashamal that filled his lungs with fresh air every few moments, and they explored the bed of the lake. With immense concentration, Ashamal was able to sit at the bottom of the lake bed and pray to Elune.
My mind is a fortress of your will, Elune. Guide me and allow me to once again walk in the waking world. Once I have learnt the lessons you have planned out before me in this realm, I ask that you return me to my family and my home so I may continue my duties as a father and my duties to the Alliance as one of it’s commanding officers. I know that you will hear me, for I am faithful and righteous in my deeds. My ills number many, but so do my acts of kindness and zealotry. Please reveal to me what lay before me, and I will follow your word until the end of time. Elune’adore.
He ended the prayer and watched as Alakun paddled through the water, extending his muscular, fur-covered limbs. He swam quickly to the surface with Alakun, and upon the shore were collected three sabers. He immediately recognized them as his companions in life: Shahaveda, Ashaid, and Anshalar.
The sabers joined the bear and the Hunter on his travels through the Emerald Dream. He lost count of how long he had wandered there; perhaps it had been more than a month. The sabers revealed that they too were to impart upon him individual lessons.
Shahaveda led Ashamal through the woods to hunt down the largest beasts using a makeshift spear that the party had crafted from a sharpened branch. After each kill, Shahaveda requested that he drink the blood of the animal and string his neck with the teeth of each bear and saber he had slain. He wore the jawbones of the immense beasts over his armor, paying proper respect to each one that he had killed.
Anshalar led the Hunter to temples within the Dream that stood upon floating platforms of dirt. There, they leapt from stone to stone across the void, testing their agility and endurance against great physical challenges. Ashamal found it easier to jump further and further, as if the new strength of his youth had been restored to his body.
Ashaid, who was the quietest of the three, taught Ashamal to stalk through the forest as a predator would. In his time using rifles and the inventions of the new world, he had lost some of his natural subtlety as a Kaldorei.
These lessons continued for weeks, and Ashamal had grieved that he would never see his family again, but worked diligently to learn the lessons so he might leave this realm and return to him. Alakun told him that if he willed to leave, he would only remain in the Dream longer. While Alakun understood Ashamal’s grief and he himself had come to bond with Leafsong and his family, he knew that these lessons were far more pressing than worldly obligations, as they would save the Hunter’s life.
The four beasts and the Hunter gathered in one place. They sat a steaming bowl before Ashamal and he drank from the mixture. Painfully, he felt his skin and bones popping and stretching until his body took on the shape of a bear. He immediately fled the temple that stood around them, running into the wilderness as the four spirits watched. He was thrown into an uncontrolled rage as he bashed his new skull into the hardened bark of ancient trees.
His new eyes were low to the ground and saw the small things crawling through the earth, and his ears heard the feet of distant animals. He observed disturbances in the soil that he had never noticed before as a humanoid, and his nose filled with the scents of beasts and druids who had wandered through the grove countless ages ago.
Alakun came up beside Ashamal, who now took the shape of a black-furred bear marked with flakes of wood and grass. Ashamal despaired as he pressed his face into the earth, trying to hide his vision of the world that had drove fear into his very core. It was a realm where his deeds no longer mattered, and where his shape changed into that that he once Hunted and called a companion, but now he was beast, and the world around him was a kingdom of unrestricted growth and life, marred not by machine nor man.
“It will be comforting to you to know that the pains of transformation are only temporary. Elune and the Ancient have chosen to bestow upon you this ability, but you must control it. There is still much to learn here.” Alakun whispered to Ashamal.
Ashamal tried to form words, but a roar only came from his throat. It echoed through the night, and he continued to roar loudly in sadness. Alakun shaved away at the side of a tree with his claws until an acorn dropped from the branches. He bit a hole through the top of the acorn and looped a cord of leathery flesh through it. He dangled it from Ashamal’s thick, muscular neck.
“Go with this. This acorn will be a memory of your transformation here, and a piece of this dream. Shahaveda and Anshalar have much to teach you.”
And Ashamal’s last light of hope evaporated into the mists of the forest. Alakun was gone, and Ashamal’s body was transformed anew.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Ashamal Shalah’aman was known for his prowess as a marksman across Kalimdor. Even through his long exile, his feats were still discussed amongst awestruck novices. He could mark most targets are two hundred, even three hundred yards with a standard Darnassian longbow, and in more recent times could cut down a fireteam of Horde marksmen with two pulls of a trigger.
Ashamal squinted his eyes, wrapping a finger around his bowstring. The targets in the distance were lit with the morning glow that poured down from the clear skies of Redridge. For a Kaldorei his age, he was strong and well-muscled, and compensated for his near-fatal injuries at the hands of the Horde and countless other enemies with daily training and strength exercises.
He would usually release an arrow from his longbow, and the fletched projectiles would smack into the wooden target dummies, sometimes even making a crack from the sheer force of the impact of the blade. Old, weathered arrow shafts jutted from the wooden dummy’s torso and head.
The inn behind his back cast a long shadow over the field. Mountains towered above his head as he knelt down in the long grasses, and the winds passed in a way that laid the green and gold blades flat on their sides. Ashamal sensed the direction of the wind from the cool sensation rushing over his skin, estimating that he’d have to curve the arrow slightly to the right to hit it at the center of the torso.
Still, the target didn’t look nearly as clear as it usually did in his eyes. He reached both of his hands up, closing his eyelids as he rolled his fists over each eyeball. He opened his eyes after a moment and noticed that the targets in the distance were washed over with oily color, as if they were blurred. He raised both of his hands up in front of his face, and clearly discerned minute details such as old scars and wrinkles, but everything more than forty yards away appeared to blur together in spots of color.
Determined to make sense of this strange vision, he splashed water into his eyes from a nearby bucket, washing his eyes out of any dirt or impurities. After he came back to his feet, he noticed no difference. After taking a few test shots at the target dummy, all three arrows narrowly missed the dummy’s torso and landed in the dirt behind it. Ashamal shook his head, then walked with purpose back towards the front of the inn, bumping his shoulder into a couple of townspeople along the way.
He rushed upstairs; pressing his eyes almost an inch away from a wardrobe mirror. He could see his own face clearly, and it was marked with many lines and scars as his hands were. As he backed away from the mirror, his figure began to blur. Each step made his body and facial features less and less discernable.
With a breath caught in his throat, panic began to set in. He depended on his perfect vision to operate on the field. If he could not make out the Horde from a mile away, he would never be able to lead his men as efficiently as he could now.
He hurried over to the potions cabinet, and cursed loudly as an emergency healing potion came tumbling from it, shattering as it hit the counter. Leafsong called from the room below, “Shan’do? Are you okay!?”
Ashamal squinted to read the labels at arm’s length, and then pulled them closer to his eyes. He read “For Eyestrain” on one of the labels, then popped the cork and tipped it into his lips. The first dose didn’t seem to work whatsoever, so he shook it until foam rose to the top of the mixture, then tipped his head back and swallowed the foul drought.
Had Leafsong not rushed to help her lifemate that morning, he could have been blinded for good. Her quick response to call his soldiers and the local guard meant everything, for Ashamal Shalah’aman was rushed to the Cathedral of the Light’s infirmary after an on-site priest discovered some sort of curse or negative magic on Ashamal.
For hours, priests, paladins, and shaman like worked to discover the nature of Ashamal’s ailment, and his lifemate was informed that he teetered on the edge of complete blindness.
As he awoke several days later, he removed a bandage from his eyes and could only see objects in his immediate vicinity clearly. Everything else was clouded with a hazy blur.
His career was over.
Damn them!
I take her to the front and she is injured. It is all my fault for letting her go. I should have never brought her along to the warzone, but what am I to do? It seems that every time I turn the corner, another person arises to harm Leafsong.
Now she is injured, so I’ve been tending to her wounds and making sure she is fine. The Orc mercenary who broke the wooden pole across her head lay on the ground, but that does not matter. As soon as I saw that weapon connect with her skull, I fired a bolt at the Orc. The maggot was killed instantly, but Leafsong was knocked unconscious.
It’s going to be a bloody battle pushing forward into Quel’thalas. I do not expect us to arrive there without sacrificing many more, nor did I ever anticipate that our march would ever begin to slow down. I was a fool for placing such a level of confidence into my army, for even our combined division is outnumbered by the legions that staff those forests. We haven’t even crossed into their lands, yet.
The apothecary recommends that Leafsong rest for days to heal her injuries, but it’s mostly for the health of the unborn child. I’ll make certain to keep an eye on her, and do anything that she asks. Somehow, I feel responsible for this.
We cannot push further into Quel’thalas without more reinforcements. We’ve already lost three dozen men in the last battle, and I’m not about to let another three dozen die.
In war, there will always be death, but let us pray that the Avatars of Vengeance raise our fallen and unleash them upon the wicked.
Ash’thalam Elune dor ashal ethil,
General Ashamal Shalah’aman
Filed under: In-Character
I’ve recently discovered that Leafsong may have something else that is preventing her from grasping reading and writing concepts. She says that letters “blur together” and move around on the pages as she tries to write them down. She also says that when she’s finished writing or copying down text, she notices that all of the letters are backwards.
I think this might be some kind of mental disability, because I remember when that one Corpse doctor, the gnome, was mentioning his studies on subjects who had a difficult time reading and writing, though I’d never subject Leafsong to that kind of research.
I’ve constructed a number of tests for Leafsong that involve reading, writing, and perception. I’m not ruling out that she may have bad vision, but I think it’s something more elusive. These tests should give me more information, then I’ll peel through the medical archives in the Cathedral to see if I can unearth anything, and if all else fails, I’ll even talk to a doctor in the city.
I’m very worried, because I do want to teach her to read and write properly, but this impairment seems to be making a mess out of my attempts. I only hope I’m able to gather up enough information to find alternatives to traditional methods.
Elune can only hope: I’m not the best Shan’do in the world, that’s a fact.
TESTS:
Reading the following passage only once, attempt to remember how many times the word “yellow” appears in the text without re-reading.
The yellow rabbit bounced over the yellow moon and fell into a golden yellow spring.
—
Read and count from the following list of numbers:
1234567898765432123167589
Count how many errors are made and make note of when and where they are made.
—
VISION TEST
How many words can you read from 10 yards away?
BLUE
WATER
MOTORBIKE
LEGENDARY
BUSH
NECKLACE
Filed under: In-Character
It was not always so that the Kaldorei cared about upholding the balance of nature and protecting the wilds. The Highborne who came before they as the leaders of their society structured a nation dictated by division of class, birthright, and honorific titles. The society promoted and valued tradition and obedience, which were the two highest honors that could be upheld by any moral individual.
Perverted then were the value systems and beliefs upon which the society was built. It mirrors eastern society today, which is ruled by noble blood and concerned with honor.
While the following tells the story of one individual who was a part of this society, and it does seek to describe the circumstances of an era, it is not definitive. The man featured in this story has a unique viewpoint, but you would need to discover the struggles of members of the other caste, or even of the same caste, in order to absorb and meditate upon the age of antiquity.
Unfortunate it is that many of those stories and perspectives were lost to time, but this one that follows is well preserved, painted in blood, and cast in the fires of war, and it is because of this that it has lasted so long.
A tenacity unmirrored by most, and a will unbreakable. A lie that set in motion plans for murder and conspiring was what began it, and it ends in bloodshed.
This is the story of a soldier.
—
A torrent of rain absorbed the clear air as the mist set upon the wind. Each inch of stone was covered with dewy drops of rain that smelled sweet and tasted even sweeter. It carried with it a storm of petals from the balding trees, and the water droplets falling from the sky reflected colors of rich silky red, yellow, and orange.
Autumn had come to the temple city of Suramar, and it did not arrive unnoticed. The Autumnal Faire encircled the base of the stone spires that rose above the city. Alleyways were packed with Kaldorei and Highborne alike as the two castes intermingled in an ocean of people.
The streetways of Suramar were flanked on either side by a number of trees. A moss crawled up them that was bright green like the color of southern limes from the jungles of Feralas. This moss overtook even the growth of the ivy that tangled and weaved over the columns that held aloft massive floors filled with windows and door openings. The height of the buildings had grown substantially ever since Azshara’s Moon Guard had announced a cultural revival project; a project that sought to revisit the days of old and promote baroque design and features in both art and architecture.
Featureless was the mass of broken stones that acted as homes to Kaldorei in the slums. Chipped pieces of craggy rock lined unstable rooves, and they were all erected by wooden poles that teetered on the brink. Should any quake have suddenly hit the city, the entire slum would be decimated.
Unlike most days, the slum’s activity had ground to a halt. The villagers filled the terrace on the one day of each lunar year that they were permitted to walk amongst the Highborne. The richest of Highborne still kept to the rise above the terrace, as they were the ones who could afford servants and the pleasantries of having a life of complete and utter leisure.
Normally, the terrace was filled with palace guards and training soldiers of Ravencrest’s army who fell into line and practiced formations, but today it was lined with stands, shops, and minstrels.
A pale Highborne lady padded along the stone, pushing her way through the bustling crowds of people. She held aloft a frilly umbrella, protecting her long curls from the rain. A powdered chalk made her skin appear as pale as marble, but her lips were dyed red with berries.
“Azzie, darling. Come along and stay near your mother,” She looked over her shoulder.
A young Highborne boy with a ponytail followed suit, no older than a few years. He was dressed handsomely, and an unused monocle dangled from his collar. He looked up at his mother, who was clad in gowns that matched her umbrella. Men and women of the Kaldorei alike paused and looked at her. There were many fair women among the Highborne, and she was a prime example. A victim of the bindings of class, she was expected to be beautiful, act aloof, and remain quiet when her Lord spoke.
“Azhrim, you need to stay close to me. You’ll never know when some slimy Kaldorei is going to try and hurt you, darling.”
Little Azhrim kept his gaze at his mother, looking confused, “But Min’da, why do we have to be so careful during a fun day?”
“Azzie, darling,” She sighed, rubbing the top of his head as she knelt closer to him, “You know mum wants you to have fun, but you can’t just wander off without me. Your father would be mortified if anything ever happened to you.”
The two of them waded through the streets, hand in hand. Little Azhrim bought a meat pie from one of the Kaldorei vendors, much to the disapproval of his mother, who set it down on the ground for a lazy Nightsaber to snack on. Azhrim looked hurt.
“Darling, we don’t buy food from Kaldorei. They hate us, and they want to poison us.”
“But mum–”
“No buts! Now give me your silvers.”
Azhrim looked up at his mother pleadingly, then surrendered over his silver coins.
“Thank you sweetie, mummy will take care of them for you.”
Two armed bodyguards caught up with Azhrim and his mother, giving a regimented salute.
“M’lady!” They both cried.
“Hello boys. Keep the Little Lord safe, won’t you? Razshim would never forgive me if his son was to be harmed.”
Fireworks suddenly exploded above them, giving the guardsmen a jolt. The both of them had only recently left a military academy to take the relaxing job: bodyguards at a noble house. They could have chosen to fight trolls in the west, but both of them would have rather stared at a beautiful Lady than risked their lives.
“The Lady,” one of the guardsmen spoke to the other as they walked on through the crowd, escorting them.
“Yes? What about the Lady?”
“She’s so charming.”
The other guardsman nodded his head, “Yes, and what then?”
“I wish I could find myself such a beautiful woman one day. There is nothing I’d love more than to do so.”
“You reckon?”
“Oh, stop talking like a commoner.”
The two young guardsmen chuckled together as they kept a firm grip on their halberds.
The glow of the daylight evaporated into darkness, and now that the majority of the city had awoken, the real festivities began. An elf crowned in feathers and a long gown walked out onto a stone platform as he lowered a jeweled eagle mask over his nose.
“Presenting the Menagerie!” The man swooped his robed arm as the feathers on his mask flicked in the wind.
The stone structures of Suramar came alight with flame. Mammoths of the northern part of Kalimdor were paraded out onto the street, carrying flaming torches as a number of Highborne ladies feigned unconsciousness in their mates’ arms.
The view did not terrify Azhrim, and he stared at the massive creatures as his mother clutched his hand, more for her own reassurement than his.
“Mum? Are you scared?” Azhrim looked up at his mother, who had gone a shade paler.
“Darling, you cannot expect a Highborne Lady to not quake with fear at the sight of such a monster!”
The Highborne hunters poked and prodded at the beast with spears until it became agitated enough to rise up into the air, letting out a bellowing cry. The crowd began to stir and escape as the announcer yelled out over the balcony, “Ladies and gentlekind, we assure you that we have complete control over the beast of the wild!”
A number of Kaldorei skinners who had they themselves seen such animals in their travels looked in disgust. They were clad in hoods and leathers as dark as their hair. Unlike the Highborne who wore garish cloth and bright robes, these Kaldorei blended in easily with their environment.
“Melias,” one of the hooded skinners spoke to another, “Do you see the Lady Razshim?”
Easily melting into the darkness amongst the audience, the skinners shuffled about. One of them pulled out a brass scope and looked across the street, “Yes. In the corner.”
The Lady and Azhrim stood close to their bodyguards in the corner of the street. It was a circular intersection of marble roads, and tall buildings rose on each side of it. The skinners had taken this ample opportunity to create a number of vantage points. Among the rooftops were other skinners clad in dark leathers. They blended in well with the night sky, and so they remained unseen by the guardsmen below.
“Shall we kill her, Melias?” A skinner asked quietly.
“No, our employer asked us to deliver her specifically.” Melias Stoneroot replied.
“What then of the boy?” Another skinner whispered.
“Kill the seed. He is the descendant.”
One of the bodyguards of the Lady had grown a bit intoxicated, and he wandered into the back alleyway unnoticed.
“Quick, alleyway, now.” Melias commanded his troupe. The skinner faded into a blur of watercolor as they dashed at blazing speed, keeping their heads low.
The guardsman undid his trousers as he began to urinate on the edge of the wall. The skinners emerged in a matter of seconds, and one of them slammed directly into the guardsman as they plunged a dirk into his kidney.
“Gugh!” The tumbled, and the sound of his fall was drowned out by the cheer of the crowds in the square.
“Go, now. I’ve got this one.” The skinner began to undress the bodyguard’s corpse as the other emerged from the alleyway, pulling his hood over his eyes. He walked with purpose through the corner of the square, and grabbed the other bodyguard by the helm as he moved to the alleyway to check up on his companion.
The skinner forced the bodyguard’s head forward as he gripped it, sawing the edge of his blade under the plate helm and through the neck of the bodyguard. He walked the now-bleeding man into the alleyway, letting him drown in his plate mask with his own blood and vomit.
They body donned the costumes of the guardsmen, wiping the blood off of the tabards and plate. The two skinners-turned-assassins appeared to be no different from the guardsmen of the Lady, and so they walked back to her and Azhrim in the crowd.
The Lady turned around to face them, lowering the volume of her voice, but sounding nevertheless angered, “You two louts shouldn’t be wandering off randomly. My son’s life is at risk.”
Azhrim saw the men from a different angle from his mother. He looked up into the masks of the impostor guardsmen, noticing a difference in the color of their skin and hair; they were not as pale as they had been.
“Mum, those aren’t the guards.” He tugged on his mother’s sleeve.
The Lady was far too busy balancing her parasol and giving the men a good verbal whipping.
“Mum, those aren’t the guards.” He repeated.
“What is it, darling?” She asked.
“Those men aren’t your guards. They’re Kaldorei.”
She looked to the guardsmen, who decided on grabbing her by the arms as they heard the boy speak. They tossed silvers into the audience and watched as hundreds of Kaldorei crowded the area, covering their escape. The Lady tried to scream, but they held hands over her mouth.
Her muffled cries were drowned out by the excitement of the show as they pulled her into the back alleyway. The other approaching skinners grabbed Azhrim by the arms, tugging him along as well.
They held her arms against the wall as they looked her over.
“Is this the one? She’s very beautiful.” Melias approached through the dirty alleyway, the boots of his heels clicking behind him. The Lady was quaking with fear at the knees as she watched the lifeless, naked corpses of her bodyguards bleed on the ground.
“She is, master. When will our customer be here?”
Azhrim struggled against one of the men’s grip, and swore loudly, “Let mum go you slime fuckheads!” This was a word he learned from his father.
“Be quiet, Azhrim.” His mother said through a sob, beggingly of her son.
The guardsmen hoisted the boy up into the air, pulling on his ponytail as he cried out, “Mummy! Mummy!”
“No! Don’t hurt my boy!” She sobbed helplessly as the skinners held her roughly against the stone, checking for weapons and valuables. They recovered a number of goods that would sell for a decent price, and pocketed them.
“We intend to kill him.” Melias informed her, rubbing his fingers over her pale chin. Chalky powder stuck to his sweaty palm as he stroked her.
“No, that’s — that’s not honorable. My son doesn’t deserve that.” She began to realize the gravity of the situation.
“Sorry Lady, but we’re not a part of your caste. Honor is not our concern.” Melias gently slapped her on the cheek, pulling his hood down. He was a dark-green haired Kaldorei with a face marred with unsightly scars.
One of the skinners grabbed the Lady by the hair, crushing her parasol with his boot. “Maybe if you wrap those bright lips around my cock and show me how much of a little bitch you are, I’ll let you son go.” The skinner slammed her head against the wall as she cried out, blood pouring from her nose.
Melias grabbed his wrist, “That’s enough.”
The men fought amongst themselves, giving Azhrim a chance to slip out of the alleyway. He was told by his father that if anything was to happen to he and his mother, the Lady would be a more fitting sacrifice. He looked back and felt tears forming at his eyes, but he knew that the rage he would face from his father if he was hurt would be far worse than being cut apart by Kaldorei thieves.
He heard echoes from the alleyway:
“Oh come on, Melias. I bet you want to see what her cunt looks like.”
“That is not our intent. We are here to secure her and bring her to Illosien.”
Illosien. Azhrim knew the name “Illosien”. He was a Kaldorei who had ascended to high merchant class, and working for the richest of nobles gave him the right to own his own land. His father had spoken hatefully of Illosien and his ilk, the Shalah’aman family.
His mother cried out, “Illosien!? What would that rat want with me?! Where is my son?”
There was a sound of a sharp slap and a droplet of blood as the Lady’s face began to turn shades of purple and red from abuse by the men.
“We’ll return her slightly worse for wear, Melias. Come on!”
Azhrim began to fear for his mother’s safety. He cried, as his life had up until this point been sheltered. Was his mother right? Did this happen to families who spent time around the Kaldorei? This couldn’t be, because he knew of other boys who snuck out, but their mothers weren’t beaten in back alleyways. He was too young the know the difference, so he broke down and cried, holding the sides of his head as he whimpered.
A man in a robe passed him suddenly, pressing a series of long fingernails into his scalp, petting him on the head. Azhrim looked up to a face that would forever be engraved into his memory. It was a face with deep-set, amber eyes, silver hair, pallid skin, and a row of teeth that shined with malice and deception.
Illosien passed by the young Azhrim as he entered the alleyway, conversing with the men.
“I see you forgot to rid yourselves of the boy, no matter, you’ve got what I came for.”
Illosien chuckled as he approached the Lady, who was panting, exhausted from her beatings against the wall, “My little peach. I’ve wanted you since I saw you at the reception for the Shalah’aman estate. I’ve come to take your honor.”
She cried out repeatedly, “No, no, no, no, you can’t, no–”
There was the sound of tearing fabric and a shriek of fear as Illosien chuckled, “Take it and like it, girl.”
Azhrim heard it all. He heard Illosien cry out, “Join in, everyone!” His mother was deprived of her dignity and humanity as the entire gang of thieves and Illosien himself drove her up against the wall, raping her.
The last words he heard set him into a sprint: “Kill her now, and kill the boy.”
He heard thieves swoop behind him in the alleyways as his short legs carried him through the city, pushing through crowds of people as they watched animals parade through the city. The thieves bore behind him with knives and dirks hidden beneath their sleeves.
He did not know the way to his home, and as the landscape blurred through his eyes, he desperately looked for any city guard that would help him. Not one Kaldorei or Highborne looked at him with concern or pity as he dashed through the streets. He thought to himself: “Why tonight? Why this night?” Had it been any normal day, a young boy being pursued by men in dark leathers would have been questioned, but it was dismissed as a simple game of tag.
A street vendor tumbled over, breaking his leg as the thieves crashed into his display, “Oh Elune! Help me!”
Azhrim took a right down the middle of a dirty alleyway, landing in a pile of gravel as he jumped from the heights, landing in the rocky slums. He tried to lose them by cutting along the corners of the craggy shacks, but they pursued. He felt blood pour out his cheek as the sound of cold steel sung through the air. He gasped as a thief swung his knife, cutting the boy’s cheek open as his blood spilled.
He kept running, blood pouring down the side of his young face as he held his cheek, weeping along the way.
He felt another knife plunge into his back as he tumbled. The thieves leapt atop him, driving their knives into all of the places on his body. The young boy curled into a ball as splatters of blood erupted from him, and finally, a shower of gore hit his face.
A group of silver-plated men stood above them, cleaving the thieves into pieces with long halberds as they attacked the boy, who passed out into unconsciousness.
“Where is my son!? WHERE IS MY BOY!?-”
—
To be continued.
Filed under: In-Character
What is this, a dream?
I’m surrounded by sounds, and they drown out my thoughts. I lack the ability to discern between my own heartbeat and the explosions in the distance. Rain falling in such a high volume begins to insulate the air, filling the cracks of my armour.
There’s a prison, and it’s surrounded by tall, iron walls. One chamber has been completely destroyed, and missing too is whatever person — thing, it held.
Quickly, there is nothing more than a flash of light to signal my approach. My employers turn a mirror against a spotlight. Atop the tower is an orc guardsman, and I rush to kill him. With no effort spared, I storm his position in a cloud of smoke. There was, I believe, a short scuffle before I sliced through the air. I knew he was dead the moment I heard his body tumble off of the iron bulwark and hit the ground, but immediately then I could not tell if it was the rain or his corpse.
Kul Tiras, the nation was called. They had deployed men who call themselves “Baradin’s Wardens”, named after some human lord or another. They were here to imprison undead war criminals, demons, and the like. I was hired right out of Stormwind, and their magi deployed me to the front in under an two hours.
They told me they were short on money, and they didn’t have enough to provide me with my own battlegear. They were impressed when I brought my own set of armour, but I was just another mercenary, another “expendable”.
My task was to re-take one of their defensive positions, as it had been compromised by the Horde. I saw few faces that were recognisable amongst the crowd, but the rain didn’t make things easy for me.
As a good luck ritual, I kissed the photograph of Leafsong and the children. I was held in a meditative state for a moment as the smoke cleared, but my heart caught in my throat as I noticed something: the man who signaled me had been murdered.
A haze of blood absorbed the shine of the searchlight as his body dangled off the edge of the wall. A Forsaken assassin looked directly at me as he vaporised into a flash of magnesium. I sent a knife after him, but it bounced off of the wood, missing the rotten little bastard.
I contemplated pursuit, but I thought it better to continue to hold the position from a Shadowmelded state, and so I did.
An hour or two passed with no word from my employers. I was alone amongst the others dead who had been defending the position with their lives. I found a useful number of potions on the body of a fallen dwarf paladin, but nothing else was of use.
As I write this, I am headed back to Stormwind.
I will reflect on this later.
~A.S.
