(( I'm kicking off a long-format RP plot. I usually do these internally for the Netherbane, and they usually last around the length of an expansion (give or take a few weeks on either end). This time, I'd like to experiment with opening up the story to be a little more public. Maybe to try and help spark some RP and such here and there. Every little bit helps, doesn't it? I'll be posting entries to these forums (as well to the Netherbane guild site and Discords I'm a part of as well), to help advance the events as they happen in-game.
If any of you RPers are interested, please feel free to add a similar little character vignette to this post. What were your characters doing during this "thunderclap heard 'round the world"? ))
--
I remember it well. It was evening, and I thought it was the opening of a Horde attack against the city. They had been getting more and more aggressive with their incursions, and the Proudmoore guard was already straining to defend its home. The noise sounded like thunder--like a storm about to open up over our heads. The horizon, however, revealed that the storm was still far away, on the far side of Drustvar. That was why I thought it to be an attack.
And that's also when I had the visions. I am...not one prone to visions.
It was those visions that showed me the countless souls that heard this same sound--this same explosion. From Boralus, to Zandalar, to Dalaran, to Ashenvale, and to Elwynn. I even saw reactions from Silvermoon, Ironforge, Orgrimmar, and Silithus, too. It reminded me of when Sargeras's sword pierced the crust of our world, and the deep-earth rumble rolled beneath our feet after his strike. This one, however, did not come from the ground below. No, this one came from the sky above.
I now know that this thunder was heard across the entirety of Azeroth itself. Some, certainly, assumed it was nothing more than the weather. To others, it blended in with the cacophony of war. But there are still many out there who felt how out of place it was. How it didn't belong.
I could see it in their souls.
--Excerpt from "The Founders' War", author unknown
* * *
A draenei strides through the haunted forests of Drustvar. Creatures infused with dark witchery stalk her every step, keeping their distance from the halo of power that burns their very essence. The draenei's crystalline weaponry and armor--her very body, in fact--radiates the power of the Holy Light. This radiance bathes the twisted beasts with its searing judgement, causing the shadows to retreat and wither. She, however, walks forward with purpose and determination. She is looking for something. Perhaps someone?
The paladin fears nothing in these woods, not even the unseen shadows that try to close in upon her. Her concentration keeps her wreathed in Light, and it is the Light that keeps the darkness at bay.
A storm seems to be brewing above. A crack of thunder makes her turn her golden eyes up, to the overcast evening sky. Her concentration breaks. The shadows descend...
* * *
A demon hunter moves his way through the seedier parts of Boralus, his blindfolded gaze resting upon anyone foolish enough to try and accost him as he begins his nightly patrols. They cannot see this, as the night elf never turns his head. His eyeless vision is capable of seeing them, however, regardless of where his ruined sockets point. He wears little aside from a long red kilt, his red blindfold, and twin heavy swords that rest against his back. The two weapons pulse with a golden power, and they sing with a strange, almost discordant melody.
A heavy-set man in black clothing approaches the night elf from a dark alley to his left, brass knuckles fitting tightly around the fingers of a closed fist. Another approaches from the opposite street; a slender woman wielding an equally slender dagger.
"Yer kind don't belong 'ere, elf," the man says with a growl. He punches his metal-adorned fist into his other palm to underscore his statement. "Git yerself outta here, 'less we teach ya th' consequences of tresspassin'."
The boom of thunder seems to echo the demon hunter's mood as he draws the weapons from his back. The sky is only partially clouded, but there is a storm brewing in the far distance.
The demon hunter smiles, and the blades' song fills the alley with a sorrowful wail...
* * *
2 Likes
A man creeps around the slippery stones near the Tidesages' sacred shrine. Despite the clear skies, the rocks are still wet from seaspray and the constant moisture that hangs in the air. It makes traversing the terrain treacherous. Hanging from his belt are the pickaxes and ropes necessary for safe climbing, but he has not yet even reached the cliffs. He is still near sea level.
Reluctantly, the man shifts himself into a huge, humanoid wolf creature. His massive claws and stronger muscles will help to combat the slick terrain. He is able to move a little more easily now, making his way further up the rock formations. He reaches for a thick outcropping so as to try and pull himself to an upper ledge, some place closer to the dig-site that is his destination.
As his claws close around the slick rock, a sharp snap of thunder explodes overhead. Completely unexpected in the cloudless sky, the sudden noise causes the worgen to lose his grip, and he tumbles into the ocean below...
* * *
Reluctantly, the man shifts himself into a huge, humanoid wolf creature. His massive claws and stronger muscles will help to combat the slick terrain. He is able to move a little more easily now, making his way further up the rock formations. He reaches for a thick outcropping so as to try and pull himself to an upper ledge, some place closer to the dig-site that is his destination.
As his claws close around the slick rock, a sharp snap of thunder explodes overhead. Completely unexpected in the cloudless sky, the sudden noise causes the worgen to lose his grip, and he tumbles into the ocean below...
* * *
2 Likes
Hooves find uncertain purchase on the swamp-slick rocks as another draenei carefully picks her way around the edge of the troll village. Her eyes are fixed on the bodies — Alive... Please be alive. — tied to poles ringing a pit that looks half sacrificial altar, half midden heap. Bats circle overhead like overeager buzzards, watching as a white-skinned troll woman, a wash of brilliant red coating her arms, draws a knife from her belt. The blood priest raises her arms high, the gilded blade gleaming in reflected torchlight, and begins to chant. The draenei doesn't understand the words, but nonetheless feels the malice contained in them.
Overhead, thunder rolls ominously. The blood priest raises her voice in answer, her offered invocation becoming more impassioned. With each repetition, the chant becomes more fierce, more fervent, the priest working herself into a frenzy of devotion. Unseen, the draenei breaches the edge of the encampment, crouching low as she stalks toward the troll with the knife.
Thunder sounds again, not a low rumble this time, but a sharp, echoing crack. The troll draws in a startled gasp, her prayers forgotten. Breathing a grateful prayer of her own, the draenei springs forward, drawing a pair of heavy blades as she charges the troll, who stares in horrified wonder up at the sullen murk of the clouds.
Overhead, thunder rolls ominously. The blood priest raises her voice in answer, her offered invocation becoming more impassioned. With each repetition, the chant becomes more fierce, more fervent, the priest working herself into a frenzy of devotion. Unseen, the draenei breaches the edge of the encampment, crouching low as she stalks toward the troll with the knife.
Thunder sounds again, not a low rumble this time, but a sharp, echoing crack. The troll draws in a startled gasp, her prayers forgotten. Breathing a grateful prayer of her own, the draenei springs forward, drawing a pair of heavy blades as she charges the troll, who stares in horrified wonder up at the sullen murk of the clouds.
2 Likes
A dark iron dwarf swings his heavy swords at one of the lithe magical elves in front of him. Both blades, blazing with an elemental fire of their own, slice through the air and towards the midsection of the tall, dark blue nightborne. This is his final attempt--his last ditch effort to break past the mage's defenses and end this fight in his favor.
A sudden blast of cold slaps the dwarf in the face, and his weapons stop mid-swing. His arms and legs freeze, and the cursed cold seeps into his very bones. He finds himself locked in place by the wretched ice.
The nightborne's haughty expression shifts from disgust to glee as he sees the frozen dark iron in front of him, and he begins to chant something that, to the dwarf, sounds far more dangerous than words have a right to sound. The dwarf steadies his mind against whatever is to come, knowing that he is entirely outmatched in this fight. He should never have listened to old Grilgur, that stupid old man. Now he is going to die here, frozen, like some preserved strips of fish, on a troll-infested island.
The elf raises his hands, and a pale blue glow wreathes his fingers. He opens his mouth to speak whatever word of power triggers the spell that's still upon his lips. The dwarf closes his eyes, and the loud boom of thunder makes his heart stop.
Figuratively, not literally.
The dwarf opens his fiery eyes and sees the shal'dorei still standing in front of him, mouth still open and gaze cast to the clear sky above. He is looking for the source of that thunder. He is looking with an expression of utter horror...
* * *
A sudden blast of cold slaps the dwarf in the face, and his weapons stop mid-swing. His arms and legs freeze, and the cursed cold seeps into his very bones. He finds himself locked in place by the wretched ice.
The nightborne's haughty expression shifts from disgust to glee as he sees the frozen dark iron in front of him, and he begins to chant something that, to the dwarf, sounds far more dangerous than words have a right to sound. The dwarf steadies his mind against whatever is to come, knowing that he is entirely outmatched in this fight. He should never have listened to old Grilgur, that stupid old man. Now he is going to die here, frozen, like some preserved strips of fish, on a troll-infested island.
The elf raises his hands, and a pale blue glow wreathes his fingers. He opens his mouth to speak whatever word of power triggers the spell that's still upon his lips. The dwarf closes his eyes, and the loud boom of thunder makes his heart stop.
Figuratively, not literally.
The dwarf opens his fiery eyes and sees the shal'dorei still standing in front of him, mouth still open and gaze cast to the clear sky above. He is looking for the source of that thunder. He is looking with an expression of utter horror...
* * *
2 Likes
In one of the open air taverns in Boralus, an auburn haired woman tosses her drink back. Afterwards, she stares at the bottom of her cup and debates on buying another. She is off duty after all and her boss doesn’t expect her at work for another eight hours. Then again, she could sleep it off and plan to get to work early.
As she ponders, a crack echoes through the air causing her to frown. Her gaze sharpens, and her head whips up to the clear evening sky. Stars sparkle back at her revealing not a cloud in sight. There’s no way that’s a training exercise.
She sets the mug down and drops coins on the table. Pushing away from the table, the human woman saunters out of the tavern. It’s time to talk to the boss.
The streets are quiet this late except for the unsavory crowd, but she knows just how to avoid them. Coin always talks. After she passes through the rougher streets and into the academy, she ducks into the circle next to their temporary headquarters. Her footsteps are the only sound as she walks up to entrance. The key slips in with a quiet clink, and she opens the door to step inside. She closes it behind her.
“Ardell?” She doesn’t hear a reply, but he could have fallen asleep at his desk. She crosses the room and climbs the stairs to find his desk empty, papers neatly stacked on one side.
“Ardell!” A quick review of the building confirms her suspicions; he’d left without her again. She curses loudly.
As she ponders, a crack echoes through the air causing her to frown. Her gaze sharpens, and her head whips up to the clear evening sky. Stars sparkle back at her revealing not a cloud in sight. There’s no way that’s a training exercise.
She sets the mug down and drops coins on the table. Pushing away from the table, the human woman saunters out of the tavern. It’s time to talk to the boss.
The streets are quiet this late except for the unsavory crowd, but she knows just how to avoid them. Coin always talks. After she passes through the rougher streets and into the academy, she ducks into the circle next to their temporary headquarters. Her footsteps are the only sound as she walks up to entrance. The key slips in with a quiet clink, and she opens the door to step inside. She closes it behind her.
“Ardell?” She doesn’t hear a reply, but he could have fallen asleep at his desk. She crosses the room and climbs the stairs to find his desk empty, papers neatly stacked on one side.
“Ardell!” A quick review of the building confirms her suspicions; he’d left without her again. She curses loudly.
2 Likes
She despised this place. This... Boralus. It smelled of fish, was full of the unruly and always cold. The air whipping in from the sea brought a chill that Zaraldori was not use to. Nevertheless this was where she was to be to help build the reputation of her people back up in the Alliance. Oh the days of when it wasn't a question where the elves allegiances lie. Then again... that was back in the day when they were simply referred to as the Elves.
At the top of a tavern in the nicest part of Boralus near Proudmoore keep, Zaraldori sat back in the cushioned chair sipping what passed as wine in this place. This was even billed as elven wine as though that it was a rare thing. It didn't use to be... She supposed it was now with all the events that have happened in the last decade. Who amongst the elves has time for making wine? There either wasn't enough of us around for such things. More importantly elven land has been ravaged by war and battle across the board. Was there a good place to even plant anymore? By the taste of this particular vintage Zaraldori was sure she could peel back the label on the bottle and find another non-elven vintage.
A crack of thunder pierced her rambling thoughts. Zaraldori starts and the wine sploshes out of the glass onto her perfectly pressed robe. She sits up and curses knowing the stain would be stubborn. At least she would have cursed if she had any kind of voice. Sighing silently the mage stood and walked to the entrance to he balcony looking out while absently tracing a finger along the top of her glass. Wine stains were one thing however the crack of thunder has already pushed such triviality from her mind. Something felt different...
At the top of a tavern in the nicest part of Boralus near Proudmoore keep, Zaraldori sat back in the cushioned chair sipping what passed as wine in this place. This was even billed as elven wine as though that it was a rare thing. It didn't use to be... She supposed it was now with all the events that have happened in the last decade. Who amongst the elves has time for making wine? There either wasn't enough of us around for such things. More importantly elven land has been ravaged by war and battle across the board. Was there a good place to even plant anymore? By the taste of this particular vintage Zaraldori was sure she could peel back the label on the bottle and find another non-elven vintage.
A crack of thunder pierced her rambling thoughts. Zaraldori starts and the wine sploshes out of the glass onto her perfectly pressed robe. She sits up and curses knowing the stain would be stubborn. At least she would have cursed if she had any kind of voice. Sighing silently the mage stood and walked to the entrance to he balcony looking out while absently tracing a finger along the top of her glass. Wine stains were one thing however the crack of thunder has already pushed such triviality from her mind. Something felt different...
3 Likes
A demon huntress crouches in waiting among the trees in Drustvar. High in the limbs, her perch gives her a good angle on her prey. A member of the Heartsbane coven raises her arms to begin a shadowy ritual, chanting loudly. Seeing an opening, the night elf leaps down, purple flames surging from her blades as she swings.
A thundering crack follows her blows, but she doesn’t hesitate. Hesitating could cost her the battle. A few minutes later, she stands over the witch’s corpse. She sighs and hops back into the trees, running and leaping across the way to find her next target.
A thundering crack follows her blows, but she doesn’t hesitate. Hesitating could cost her the battle. A few minutes later, she stands over the witch’s corpse. She sighs and hops back into the trees, running and leaping across the way to find her next target.
3 Likes
The night elven huntress paces the path in Boralus’s trade district. The babe on her shoulder whimpers, resisting sleep. The boy plops his thumb into his mouth as she meanders closer to the herb garden. She hopes that the familiar greenery will relax him.
Once she believes he’s sleeping deeply, she smiles and turns to head to their current house. The cool evening air is nice, but her footsteps make her miss the feeling of dirt and grass under her bare feet. She hopes that her children will not miss out on the joys of the wild like her parents. Instead, they have been growing slowly in what feels like a stone prison. For all that she preaches tolerance of the stone, it wears at her. It is moments like now that she longs for the forests of Moonglade or the snows of Winterspring. Home.
A loud boom echoes through the sky. The sound felt wrong, pressing into her bones uncomfortably. The child on her shoulder stirs and cries out. Any thought she might have had is replaced by soft, soothing murmurs to her child.
As she walks to their house, she spares a moment for a scathing thought about a war that makes motherhood that much more worrisome.
Once she believes he’s sleeping deeply, she smiles and turns to head to their current house. The cool evening air is nice, but her footsteps make her miss the feeling of dirt and grass under her bare feet. She hopes that her children will not miss out on the joys of the wild like her parents. Instead, they have been growing slowly in what feels like a stone prison. For all that she preaches tolerance of the stone, it wears at her. It is moments like now that she longs for the forests of Moonglade or the snows of Winterspring. Home.
A loud boom echoes through the sky. The sound felt wrong, pressing into her bones uncomfortably. The child on her shoulder stirs and cries out. Any thought she might have had is replaced by soft, soothing murmurs to her child.
As she walks to their house, she spares a moment for a scathing thought about a war that makes motherhood that much more worrisome.
3 Likes
A pale skinned elf adjusts his monocle as he gazes at the fragments in his hand. He frowns in disappointment. This specimen had seemed promising at first. A little worn and dirty from its countless years buried, it had surprisingly not been corroded by the salt that seeped into everything here. It was even still intact--whole--that is, until the cloudless thunder had exploded over their heads. That was when the ornate brass sphere had fallen apart.
The void elf tucks the fragments into a satchel and slings that satchel around his shoulder. He knows that there are still other items here. This dig-site was thought to be the most promising of the seven they had found so far, and there are still diggers working to unearth its secrets even this very moment. The ren'dorei's expression shifts into a smile of satisfaction as he looks around at the activity. Just a matter of time now, he is certain of it.
"I am leaving," he announces to those within earshot. "Keep me informed of further discoveries. I will want to see any that are still whole."
Murmurs of "Yes, sir" flow across the assembled workers, most of whom still did not look up from their efforts in the dirt.
The elf nods, satisfied. He knows that time is short, but he is confident that they will uncover another one soon enough. The thunder had been expected, but not this soon. He will need to recalculate his countdown to compensate. He predicts that the next one will happen sooner still, and the spheres would need to be protected before then.
As he walks away from the dig, he sings a tune that has been playing in the back of his mind for weeks, now.
"First comes the thunder, upon the far horizon, then come the whispers, to call your soul home..."
The rest of the workers begin to sing with him.
* * *
The void elf tucks the fragments into a satchel and slings that satchel around his shoulder. He knows that there are still other items here. This dig-site was thought to be the most promising of the seven they had found so far, and there are still diggers working to unearth its secrets even this very moment. The ren'dorei's expression shifts into a smile of satisfaction as he looks around at the activity. Just a matter of time now, he is certain of it.
"I am leaving," he announces to those within earshot. "Keep me informed of further discoveries. I will want to see any that are still whole."
Murmurs of "Yes, sir" flow across the assembled workers, most of whom still did not look up from their efforts in the dirt.
The elf nods, satisfied. He knows that time is short, but he is confident that they will uncover another one soon enough. The thunder had been expected, but not this soon. He will need to recalculate his countdown to compensate. He predicts that the next one will happen sooner still, and the spheres would need to be protected before then.
As he walks away from the dig, he sings a tune that has been playing in the back of his mind for weeks, now.
"First comes the thunder, upon the far horizon, then come the whispers, to call your soul home..."
The rest of the workers begin to sing with him.
* * *
2 Likes
With a deep, soulful sigh, she stared at the narrow fissure in the wall and cursed the extinct race that could slip into the second dimension. The ancient planet's natives had liked closed rooms and tiny slits in this tumble-down old temple; not so much proper doorways. And though the tumble-down aspect of the place had served her well thus far, true to Ssa'varr's warning, the final chamber was barely breached.
As she looked down at her bulky teal plate, she reflected on how very, very three-dimensional she was.
Well. There was only one solution. The eredar’s nimble fingers made quick work of the buckles at the sides of her short breastplate, and soon she was peeling it off and setting it aside with more to follow until she stood in her abbreviated tunic and leather breeches, feeling chilly and exposed. Or at least moreso than usual when she was dressed in the midriff-revealing voidfrost armor Tza’kiel had given her to wear.
But idle musing wouldn't get the Soul Breaker his inane trinket.
Thus, significantly reduced in bulk, the knight let loose one more sigh, brushing a hand through her cropped black hair as she stepped up to the cracked gap in the frescoed wall. Sucking in a deep breath and her toned belly, she squeezed into the fissure. Her tail was uncomfortably crimped and her horns scraped if she turned her head wrong, but as long as she held her breath and ignored the way the ancient stone scratched her skin through the thin layer of her tunic, she could make progress in mincing little steps, her hooves clicking on the rough stone floor.
By the time she popped out on the other side, she'd decided to break down the fel-rotting thing for the trip out. As she caught her breath, she glanced at the swords hissing at her hips and wondered just how much damage they could do.
That was when a sound like thunder rolled through the alien world, through her body, through her soul and sent her staggering and curling forward around her chest. Her fist whipped up to press against the feeling there, the beautiful, awful pressure that sound brought with it and the answering something that screeched within her core.
The eredar caught herself against the wall, her horn tip scraping aeons-old paint from the surface as she blinked with wide, black eyes.
“L… Lightless Depths!” she cursed at a whisper, forcing words through numb lips. For the moment, the shadows crowded so close that she could barely see, and all she could force past the cacophony in her head was a singular thought:
I need to go home. Now.
As she looked down at her bulky teal plate, she reflected on how very, very three-dimensional she was.
Well. There was only one solution. The eredar’s nimble fingers made quick work of the buckles at the sides of her short breastplate, and soon she was peeling it off and setting it aside with more to follow until she stood in her abbreviated tunic and leather breeches, feeling chilly and exposed. Or at least moreso than usual when she was dressed in the midriff-revealing voidfrost armor Tza’kiel had given her to wear.
But idle musing wouldn't get the Soul Breaker his inane trinket.
Thus, significantly reduced in bulk, the knight let loose one more sigh, brushing a hand through her cropped black hair as she stepped up to the cracked gap in the frescoed wall. Sucking in a deep breath and her toned belly, she squeezed into the fissure. Her tail was uncomfortably crimped and her horns scraped if she turned her head wrong, but as long as she held her breath and ignored the way the ancient stone scratched her skin through the thin layer of her tunic, she could make progress in mincing little steps, her hooves clicking on the rough stone floor.
By the time she popped out on the other side, she'd decided to break down the fel-rotting thing for the trip out. As she caught her breath, she glanced at the swords hissing at her hips and wondered just how much damage they could do.
That was when a sound like thunder rolled through the alien world, through her body, through her soul and sent her staggering and curling forward around her chest. Her fist whipped up to press against the feeling there, the beautiful, awful pressure that sound brought with it and the answering something that screeched within her core.
The eredar caught herself against the wall, her horn tip scraping aeons-old paint from the surface as she blinked with wide, black eyes.
“L… Lightless Depths!” she cursed at a whisper, forcing words through numb lips. For the moment, the shadows crowded so close that she could barely see, and all she could force past the cacophony in her head was a singular thought:
I need to go home. Now.
3 Likes
The draenei struggles against her bonds, pulling against the ropes tied around her hands, arms, legs, and hooves. Her armor, a heavy plate that normally serves to protect her, instead helps to pin her to the altar with its weight.
They had taken her weapons, but left most of her armor upon her. Only her breastplate had been removed, exposing the soft padding that helped protect against the metal rivets that held pieces of the plate together. A slit had been cut through the padding, exposing the smooth flesh just over her heart.
She did not scream. Screaming would not suit her. If she was to die, it would not be as a sniveling weakling. She would die with dignity intact. She wants to spit in the witch's wretched face, but her mouth has been gagged.
That witch, cloaked in deep red robes adorned with wicker fetishes and hanging charms, grins with a nearly toothless smile. In her hands is a dagger, a twisted length of sharpened steel coated in the red blood of the surrounding wildlife. That dagger gets raised into the air as the witch begins to chant something unintelligible.
There is a faint roll of thunder in the distance; a storm is brewing off the coast. The witch does not pause in her incantation to consider the weather, however. Instead, she begins to speak louder and faster. Her words blur together into a exultant chant.
The next crack of thunder is the loudest. It comes as the dagger is plunged into the heart of the dreanei, its blade cutting through flesh with very little resistance.
The draenei gasps and squeezes her eyes shut against the pain--against the shock of her own death. She still does not scream...
* * *
They had taken her weapons, but left most of her armor upon her. Only her breastplate had been removed, exposing the soft padding that helped protect against the metal rivets that held pieces of the plate together. A slit had been cut through the padding, exposing the smooth flesh just over her heart.
She did not scream. Screaming would not suit her. If she was to die, it would not be as a sniveling weakling. She would die with dignity intact. She wants to spit in the witch's wretched face, but her mouth has been gagged.
That witch, cloaked in deep red robes adorned with wicker fetishes and hanging charms, grins with a nearly toothless smile. In her hands is a dagger, a twisted length of sharpened steel coated in the red blood of the surrounding wildlife. That dagger gets raised into the air as the witch begins to chant something unintelligible.
There is a faint roll of thunder in the distance; a storm is brewing off the coast. The witch does not pause in her incantation to consider the weather, however. Instead, she begins to speak louder and faster. Her words blur together into a exultant chant.
The next crack of thunder is the loudest. It comes as the dagger is plunged into the heart of the dreanei, its blade cutting through flesh with very little resistance.
The draenei gasps and squeezes her eyes shut against the pain--against the shock of her own death. She still does not scream...
* * *
3 Likes
The eredar sorceress, or rather, the part of her spirit that is still trapped in this place between places, wanders a blank emptiness. She does this--has been doing this--as a way to pass the moments between the quick glimpses of reality. Those brief windows into time allow her to look upon her daughters at times of great emotion. She laments.
The visions have happened a few times already, but she has lost count. It is difficult to maintain any sense of history here. It is difficult to gauge the passage of time when time only matters in life.
She is dead, afterall.
A voice calls to her from a distance behind. Her husband. At least, that was what he was in life. Now? Here? She does not know. They are still connected, however, or else he would not have been trapped here with her. The sorceress knew that his presence here was her fault, and the guilt made her walk faster. Away.
The large eredar appears in front of her, and she stops in surprise.
"My love," he begins with a faint grin on his lips, "distance matters nothing here. I have told you this."
She frowns. "It can be difficult to adjust."
His grin widens in silent amusement. "I know. I have been here longer than you."
Her frown deepens. "I'm not sure if I can handle existence here. There is nothing else but this...blankness."
His grin freezes on his face. "That...is not entirely true."
"What do you mean?"
As she asks the question, the bright nothingness of their surroundings darkens, as if a shadow is cast upon everything. Her words catch in what would be her throat, had her body been more than a construct of memory. She looks up.
A deafening crack of thunder hits them both like a wall of force. Her memories are torn from her, and her consciousness vanishes as the sound breaks her spirit.
Elsewhere, deep within a dark forest touched by nightmares and witchcraft, her flesh screams in reignited pain. She is cold. This new creature, recently expelled from her own personal hell, opens her eyes again...
The visions have happened a few times already, but she has lost count. It is difficult to maintain any sense of history here. It is difficult to gauge the passage of time when time only matters in life.
She is dead, afterall.
A voice calls to her from a distance behind. Her husband. At least, that was what he was in life. Now? Here? She does not know. They are still connected, however, or else he would not have been trapped here with her. The sorceress knew that his presence here was her fault, and the guilt made her walk faster. Away.
The large eredar appears in front of her, and she stops in surprise.
"My love," he begins with a faint grin on his lips, "distance matters nothing here. I have told you this."
She frowns. "It can be difficult to adjust."
His grin widens in silent amusement. "I know. I have been here longer than you."
Her frown deepens. "I'm not sure if I can handle existence here. There is nothing else but this...blankness."
His grin freezes on his face. "That...is not entirely true."
"What do you mean?"
As she asks the question, the bright nothingness of their surroundings darkens, as if a shadow is cast upon everything. Her words catch in what would be her throat, had her body been more than a construct of memory. She looks up.
A deafening crack of thunder hits them both like a wall of force. Her memories are torn from her, and her consciousness vanishes as the sound breaks her spirit.
Elsewhere, deep within a dark forest touched by nightmares and witchcraft, her flesh screams in reignited pain. She is cold. This new creature, recently expelled from her own personal hell, opens her eyes again...
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CLACK. WHISH…. CLACK.
The sound of the bo staves connecting and the smoothed wood whipping through the air filled the small clearing, playing well with the hint of labored breathing and the occasional grunt and groan. His opponent ducked under a high, whistling swing and stabbed for his foot, trying to trip him, but he tossed his staff high and threw himself to the side, his form folding just for one moment into a sleek, silver cat whose dextrous tail controlled his spin and landed him back on his paws at the young apparent-ren’dorei’s side. He shifted back to a night elf with a wicked grin and caught the staff out of the air, smacking it down roughly on the elf’s light-haired head.
“O-ow!” When he spoke, the timbre of the young man’s voice and the whine to his tone belied his tender age, and he staggered, grabbing his aching noggin. “An’da! That was too rough.”
The night elf chuckled, straightening from his ready stance and resting the end of the staff on the ground. He leaned indolently against the wood, waiting for his special oldest child to recover. “Is that what you’re going to say to your enemy when he bonks you too hard, Yami?”
“No.” Yamiriel Whispersong-Silverwing wrinkled his dusky nose, rubbing at his head. “I’ll just do … this!”
The youngling whipped out his staff and hooked his father’s feet out from under him in one swift motion, pitching him over with a distinct yelp that left him on the ground, blushing, while his son giggled.
“Alright, you-” Rhese was grinning wickedly and climbing to his feet when a crack of odd thunder rolled through the clear evening sky, and he blinked, looking up with a furrowed brow. “… a storm?”
And then he nearly tripped when a small form hit his calf, grabbing on with an iron grip. A trembling, tiny iron grip. The druid looked down at the silver-haired and black-eyed little night elven toddler clinging to his leg, his eyes widening.
“Y… Yami?” He leaned down and scooped the frightened child into his arms, as familiar with this form as with the dozens of others his foundling son could take. “What’s wrong?”
Yami looked up at the sky for a moment, fear written all over his cherubic little face, and then he buried his head against his father’s leather armor, managing a muffled, “Somethin’ bad, an’da. Tha’ sound means somethin’ bad!”
Rhese Silverwing frowned at that and looked up at the clear evening glowing above them once more, his gaze darting over the stars winking through the encroaching night. His big hand rubbed the toddler’s back with soothing strokes, and he said, “Don’t be afraid, dalah’alei. I’m here, and you know I won’t let anything hurt you.”
His little boy sniffled and nodded, clinging to him. The only father he’d ever known had always been able to banish his fears. But as Rhese started to hum softly under his breath, usually a familiar comfort, the child shuddered at the strange, new song that didn’t make him feel better at all.
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“Are you sure he said it was here, Gobmat?” Wintflink asked the imp beside her, who chittered impatiently in response and flipped in place once. Afterwards, he pointed along the coastline that lay in front of them.
Wintflink sighed and gazed ahead of them, then looked back east where the lights of Boralus beckoned. When she turned forward once more, she muttered a spell which made the green half-light around them glow a little more. She’d hoped the moon would light their path that evening, but it was so overcast there was no sign of it.
“Maybe we can still find it anyway. Did he tell you why he thought he lost it here?” she asked, turning to Gobmat once more.
He shook his head and looked around, and to her surprise, Wintflink realized her friend looked nervous.
“What’s bothering you?” she asked, but her attention immediately got pulled away towards the sky as she heard a rumbling sound above.
Gobmat grabbed her arm then and tried pulling her back in the direction of Boralus, looking upwards again.
“What is-”
Wintflink’s words got cut off by a loud crash of thunder, and the hilly coastline around them was illuminated momentarily. She could see the nearby hillock of grass as green as if it was day.
The darkness afterwards felt ominous, and she found herself becoming nervous as Gobmat chittered and pulled at her again.
“All right, let’s try this again tomorrow. We’re going back to town.”
The rain started pouring down on them just as they reached the ferry, and Wintflink spread her cloak over Gobmat as he perched next to her in the bottom of the boat.
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Her sister had always tried to tell her to be thankful for what she had–to always appreciate the gifts given to her. Her little sister’s surprising displays of maturity often reminded her to use the good to counter the evil so often prevalent in their lives since the flight from Argus.
“The Light does not only protect, it also guides and gives.”
She had been told to always remember that. That was in another lifetime, however, back when the Light would hear her. Back when she was alive.
She hates the term “Death Knight”, because it links her to a part of Azeroth’s history she had never witnessed. It places upon her shoulders baggage she does not deserve. “Death Knight” is a term that comes with a past explicitly tied to the entity known as the Lich King, and she had been on Outland for much of that conflict. She had not even died until recently, run-through by the very same little sister that had once given her hope. Her resurrection came from her mother, the very being that had tried to introduce them to the fel.
So, what is she, if not a death knight?
The draenei thinks on this as she stalks the ruins of Forest Song. The area, while peaceful, conceals a camp of demon hunters who had agreed to provide her shelter. Her sister had brought her here in an attempt to close the wound between them. This was to be a safe haven–a place of reflection and meditation. And it had been exactly that until the Horde had attacked.
A noise breaks her from her thoughts. Ever since the burning of Teldrassil, the Forsaken had entrenched themselves across northern Kalimdor. The Horde had been pressing their advantage across the entire region, and she had been told to remain alert. She is alert now.
A rotting corpse emerges from the trees and spits some guttural noise at her, the twisted non-words forming into a spell. She feels the heat of what she assumes is conjured flame manifest in front of her. This mage is likely the first of a nearby patrol group seeking to root out Alliance forces. The thought made her laugh. She is no more Alliance than Horde now, walking the path between both while committing to neither. Yet, the fact that does not fly a red flag instead of a blue one marks her clearly as an enemy to this fool.
So be it. She would show them what an enemy can do. She takes a step towards the Forsaken. A super-heated blast of fire erupts from the mage’s bony fingers and flies towards her. She wreathes herself in freezing air as the moisture around her crystallizes, and the orange flame disperses around her. She takes another step.
The mage snaps his fingers, and she feels tiny bursts of fire spark across her flesh, but they, too, are overpowered by her aura of cold. She draws the crystal-lined pickaxes at her hips and takes another step forward.
The Forsaken takes a cautious step backwards and begins to chant again. The indecipherable incantation causes the sky above her to swirl and glow. She knows to expect a pillar of flame–she has seen this invoked before–and is not worried. She has survived far worse.
She takes her final step towards the frail spellcaster and looms above him for a moment. He has no eyes, nor does he have a lower jaw. His tongue hangs down from the opening in his throat and waggles around like a worm on a fishhook as he furiously attempts to complete his incantation.
In a flash of movement, she hooks both pick blades against what remains of the Forsaken’s neck and scissors them outward. There is a popping sensation as the vertebrae separate, and a thud is heard as the skull hits the forest floor. The swirling sky above calms, and the small tongues of flame forming around the mage’s fingers evaporate in tiny wisps of smoke.
She wonders for a moment as she watches the corpse collapse to the ground: did he deserve this? Or was he merely as lost as she? Did he make his choice willingly, or was the shock of undeath so overwhelming that he latched on to the first savior he could find? Had this been who he truly was? She had known some humans in life. Perhaps this one could have been an ally, in a different time.
A wave of regret washes over her as she gazes at the unmoving form, and she quietly tries something she has not tried in months. She reaches out to the Light. She knew its warmth once. She knew the rush of peace and power that flooded through her when she could touch its radiant beauty. She longs for that, again. She can almost sense it out there, just waiting for her to touch it–encouraging her to remain strong and reach farther.
A crack of thunder explodes overhead. She can feel it press down upon her body and tug at the echo of her shredded soul. Something inside her shifts. The Light vanishes, and the radiant warmth just out of her reach goes cold. A new sensation flows through her, wrapping itself around her mind, her body, and the tatters of her spirit. It knows her desire and her intent. It listens.
The body at her hooves stirs. It reaches out for the severed head and pulls it towards its empty neck. Tendrils of dark sinew and muscle stretch out to reclaim the skull, and within moments, the Forsaken is whole again. He stands and turns to face his new mistress. His empty eye sockets glow with a cold, mindless light.
The draenei looks upon the undead minion now at her side, the wave of regret having given way to horror. This…this is not what she had intended. This goes against everything she had once believed–against everything she had been taught in life.
In life.
She is no long alive.
The trees around her rustle aggressively as shouts of alarm emerge from the foliage surrounding the ruins. The rest of the Horde patrol had apparently arrived…
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The priestess strolled the market beside Sarren, her slippers quiet on the cobbled portion of the Boralus streets. Dressed carefully in a gown and pauldrons of Kul’Tiran make and typical warm Kul’Tiran earth tones, she stood out as much for her attempt to blend in, her long, dusky ears and silvery hair marking her kal’dorei as surely as did the more traditional forest-hued leathers her older companion wore and the Darnassian bow and quiver that rested against the back of his shoulder.
Her luminous silver-blue eyes were narrowed on her brother’s bondfather, though her lips tilted up in a warm, amused smile.
“Surely, you jest,” she said with a giggle, shaking her head. “Celara is bold and forceful, but even she wouldn’t tell you something like that while you were asking her to court you!”
The taller elf chuckled and shifted the big basket of fruits, vegetables and other groceries that he carried to rest more on his left arm as he turned another corner around a milliner’s shop. “Come, now, Rhoelyn. Don’t tell me you’re truly surprised. Celara knows her mind, and she’s never been afraid to speak it.”
Rhoelyn Silverwing smiled warmly, raising her voice a bit to be heard over the renewed cacophony of the open core of the marketplace and the cries of the hawkers. “Yes… Yes, I suppose it is easy for me to imagine. Your wife is a woman who will not be stopped, much like N-”
She cut off when thunder rumbled through the sky, and the both of them looked up. Sarren’s brows furrowed while he wandered along, his short green hair bobbing slightly as he searched the cloudless evening sky.
“Huh. I wonder if the buildings are hiding a storm on the horizon,” he muttered, but when he looked over to where he thought the priestess would be, he stopped, blinking. “Rhoe?”
The seasoned hunter turned and found her standing still, a few paces back, staring at the sky with a pale face and a furrowed brow. Her right fist was clenched into a tight ball and pressed over her heart. He frowned and hurried back to the displaced healer’s side, setting the basket at his feet so that he could put a hand on her arm.
“Rhoelyn?” he tried again, as softly and soothingly as he could manage in the loud market. “It was just thunder.”
Her answer was a shudder and a quick, sharp exhale of the breath she’d been holding, but she tore her gold-tinged gaze from the clear sky and dragged it back to his face. Sarren watched the magic slowly fade from her eyes, and he wondered at it quietly.
“Yes. Yes, of course it was.” She forced a smile that might have been more convincing if he couldn’t feel the tremble of her arm beneath his hand. “How ridiculous of me to be so startled.”
“Hmm…” The older elf’s confusion softened into what he thought was understanding, and he slid his arm around his daughter’s sweet sister, pulling her into a little hug. “No, it’s not ridiculous. But you’re safe and not alone. There’s no need for worry. I bet we just can’t see the thunderclouds for all these crowded buildings.”
Rhoelyn’s nod was jerky against his shoulder, but she let herself sink a bit into his fatherly embrace, taking a few deep, shaky breaths.
She finally pulled away to offer him a shy smile. “Thank you, Sarren. You are kind to help when I … get anxious.”
His answering one was warm and bright. “Of course, Rhoelyn. Blood or not, we’re family. Now, let’s get back home. I’m willing to bet Alen and the twins are awake and Yami is trying to figure out how long he can put off changing their nappies.”
At the little priestess’ nod, the older man leaned down to retrieve their basket. When he resumed his stride along the marketplace, his companion fell back just enough paces to feel sure that he wouldn’t see when she reached into the pouch at her waist and brought out a dried, brown frond curling around a brilliant yellow flower petal and held it up in her open palm.
“Ferathal,” she whispered to it, sucking in another shaking breath. “Medimedi. Shhhh….”
The odd bud folded open immediately into a small plant creature that giggled until she pressed a finger over its little yellow mouth. “Shhhh…” the priestess repeated.
“Medi? Medimedi?” Ferathal whispered back, its squeaky voice pitched softly despite its excitement. Rhoelyn winced and glanced forward at the hunter, but in the hustle and noise of the market, he seemed suitably oblivious, trudging along ahead of her.
“Yes, Fera. Medicine. Please hurry,” she muttered.
It capered as it complied, lifting up a little leaf-hand to its own head and plucking free a vibrant yellow petal that grew there like hair. “Medi!” it announced proudly, handing it to her with a jig and a flourish.
Rhoelyn sighed with relief as she snatched it away and stuffed it under her tongue.
“Thank you, my little friend.” Already feeling the necessary languor slipping through her, she kissed what passed for the plant creature’s forehead before she whispered, “Rest now. We shall find some time to visit the garden, tomorrow.”
By the time Sarren paused and looked back at her, the priestess had already tucked the refolded frond back in her pouch and was strolling along with her hands clasped by her waist, looking much calmer.
“Are you coming?” he prompted, tapping his foot as the crowd flowed around him. His teasing smile eased the edge of impatience. “It’s much too easy to become separated here.”
Rhoelyn smiled gently and jogged the last two steps to his elbow. “I am coming. Let us get home to the children before we are left to discover just how dire the diaper situation has become in our absence.”
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