There were three of them in the open, a priest and two fighters. Two sharpshooters lurked behind them, camouflaged. Badly. Jezriyah shot Ailinea a knowing look; she chuckled and shook her head. Humans might have gotten the hang of tracking and shooting, but they made pretty terrible hunters on the whole. A part of her really wanted to give them a hug, point out that even the mage could see them, and offer to take them home to their mamas.
But they did have guns, and the five of them had already slaughtered their way this far into the Deadmines. Udiyvli gave a great roar, rushing forward and slinging her mace at the priest.
Five.
Pomaikai rushed in behind her. The young Sunwalker spun around as she ran through, throwing one hand out and shouting a sharp word in Taurahe. Light flashed from her fingers, and a beam of sunlight materialized from thin air, striking one of the fighters blind. He clutched his head and howled, crumbling to his knees.
Four.
As the other fighter lunged for Udiyvli, Ailinea raised her hands, fingers twisting delicately in midair. The soldier's muscles stiffened, weapons falling to the ground. He gasped for breath as his body spasmed, collapsing in on itself. A tortured scream leapt in pitch as he folded inwards, flesh consuming flesh until his whole form tucked into that of a panicked swine, squealing in terror.
Three.
Udiyvli laughed, stomping a mighty hoof against the craggy ground. The walls of the cave shook, and the two erstwhile snipers lost their footing. Grunjin barely missed a beat, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The soft green healing mist swirling around Udi's body extended, tendrils coiling about one of the men's ankles. It coalesced into squirming vines, which dug into the ground and clenched tightly around the target's legs. He yelped sharply, trying to jerk away from the thorns digging into his flesh.
Two.
Jezi smiled darkly. She ran her fingers through her quiver, quickly discerning the fletching by touch. The arrow she drew had a small, blown-glass tip, filled with venom drawn from a wyvern's maw. She notched the arrow, pressed the end against her bow to crack it open, and fired. It caught the last dazed rifleman squarely in the throat. He gasped deeply, inhaling the vapors, and was quickly overcome, slouching against the stone wall in a daze.
One.
It was only a few seconds later that the priest finally staggered back from Udiyvli's blows, looking frantically around for her compatriots. Horror dawned upon her face as she found herself alone, and her last screams never escaped the oncoming wall of light and fire.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
The End of the Beginning
The silence was deafening.
It struck Jezriyah suddenly just how cold it was. Granted, they were on top of the Citadel itself on a platform made of ice -- the chill was no surprise. But her vision had been so tunneled since the fall of Sindragosa that now, at the end of the long final battle, it seemed that she was standing at the foot of the Frozen Throne for the first time.
The shock was beginning to break, now, and the ten of them began to grasp the gravity of what had just occurred. Qoholeth, head bowed in thankful prayer; Alessandrae crumbled on the floor, head in her hands, Ygdrasill on one knee and holding her tight to his chest. Peccator quietly healing the last of the group’s wounds. And Udiyvli, ever the leader, shaking snow and sweat from her mane as she walked towards the fallen Prince’s prone body, opening the small cache he had possessed.
“Jezi!” She gestured briefly, and the hunter walked over, to be presented with one of the stranger crossbows she’d ever seen. “I think you’re the only one of us who could make use of this.”
Jezriyah took the weapon gingerly, turning it over in her hands. It was a Scourge weapon at first glance, with all the skulls and spikes and deathly trappings they’d been so fond of. But its lath was awfully long, and made of a completely different wood than the other pieces of the weapon. She squinted, and turned it on its side. “Huh. Looki’ this, Udi. S’jes’ a longbow attached to a secon’han’ stock.”
“So it is,” the warrior murmured, brow furrowing. “And look at the detailing on the front. That’s not even Scourge, it’s--”
“--elvish,” Jezriyah finished. Their eyes met for half a second, the same idea flitting across both their eyes. She bit her lip. “Linny may know... Tayllia would fa’ certain.”
“Know what?” Ailinea drew closer, pulling her hood back over her head and tucking her shivering ears underneath it.
Jezriyah reached over and brushed the snow from her friend’s shoulders affectionately. “Th’ origin a’this weapon.” She held the bow out with her other hand.
The mage’s breath caught in her throat -- Jezi was certain that was her answer, but she waited for confirmation. Ailinea ran her fingers over the lath, seeming to feel a remnant of arcane power in it. “It’s definitely quel’dorei in provenance,” she said slowly. “And... I can’t speak for certain of who it would belong to, but... it’s much more ornate than anything a lay ranger would have carried in battle. It must have belonged to a Farstrider of significant rank.”
The three of them exchanged quiet glances. “Actually askin’ be th’only way ah kin think t’be sure,” Jezriyah murmured. She looked to Ailinea. “Would -- would you be willin’ ta come wit’ me? Ah always feel so out-a-place down there...”
“Of course.”
They approached Qoholeth after he’d finished his prayers and helped Peccator and Bosorn with the last of the immediately-necessary healing. “Q, dear--” Ailinea rested a hand on his elbow. “Do you think you could get us in touch with the right people to obtain an audience with the Dark Lady? We... need her advice on a subject of some import.”
The priest blinked slowly, before offering a soft smile. “I find it hard to imagine you’d be able to avoid addressing her, considering what just happened here.”
“A valid point.” Ailinea glanced between her two comrades. “We’ll all need some time to rest... and it’s much later than it feels now. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Ay, tha’ soun’ good. Poor Miga’s got ’is leg nearly tore open.”
“Oh, goodness, I didn’t even see that. Let me go have a look...”
---
Jezriyah did notice a few odd looks as she headed towards the Royal Quarter, but not nearly so many as there would have been were she not accompanied by a blood elf mage and Forsaken priest. She was grateful for their presence as they stepped into the imposing confines of the Banshee Queen’s throne room.
“Your Majesty,” intoned one of the officials, reading from a scroll. “Priest Qoholeth of the Undercity, Dame Ailinea Phoenixborn of Silvermoon, and...” A momentary pause, as usually came from the eastern races. “Jez... rye-ay, of the Darkspear Tribe.” It was wrong, but not as badly wrong as it had been said before, so she let it be. “Veterans of the battle at Icecrown Citadel.”
It was at this last statement that Sylvanas’ gaze turned sharp, her jaw setting as she looked at them appraisingly. “Thank you, herald.” She looked around the room briefly. “You are all dismissed; we require privacy. You may return after our visitors have left.”
The circled Deathguards bristled. “My Lady, as your bodyguards--”
“These soldiers are known to me; they pose no risk.” Jezriyah’s spine straightened uncomfortably at that revelation. “You will be told when you may return.”
The varied guards and ambassadors in the room all filed out, most of them looking quizzically or suspiciously at the troll as they left. The doors were pulled shut, and Jezriyah stood awkwardly before the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken.
“Word of Arthas’ fall reached the Undercity almost instantaneously,” Sylvanas said, her voice perfectly even -- if she had any emotional reaction to this news, she certainly wasn’t showing it. “You and your comrades have won an incomparable victory for all of Azeroth, and not least the Forsaken, including myself.” Her voice softened. “It is not often I find myself in a position to offer my sincere gratitude to anyone, but you have all certainly earned it.”
“It be nothin’ compared ta your own sacrifices fo’ your people, Your Majesty,” Jezriyah said slowly, the words carefully rehearsed -- both for content and to minimize her heavy island accent. “But tha’ is part of why ah wished ta speak wit’ you today. We... obtained some items from Icecrown after th’ Lich King’s defeat. One of them in pa’ticular we think may have belonged to you or one of ya colleagues. An’ we wished ta return it to you if dat were th’case.”
She unwrapped the bundle of linens wrapped around the weapon and stepped forward to present it to Sylvanas, her head bowed slightly. “It seems t’be an elven longbow, attached to a crossbow stock...”
The room went silent as Sylvanas took the weapon, examining it closely. Jezi searched her face for some hint of recognition, but found none, until the Queen spoke. “This is the Heartseeker,” she said brusquely, “or at least it once was. It did belong to me, though it wasn’t my preferred weapon. It must have been taken from the Farstrider base after Silvermoon fell.”
Jezriyah bit her lip, unsure how to react to the matter-of-fact way Sylvanas spoke of such terrible events. “Then ah’m glad to have returned it to you,” she finally said.
Sylvanas scoffed. “I appreciate the sentiment, I suppose, but I’ve certainly no need for it now.” She offered the weapon back to the troll, who took it gingerly.
Jezriyah glanced to Ailinea. “Ah s’pose we could return it to th’ Farstriders fa’ safekeeping, den.” Her mage friend nodded her approval.
The Dark Lady’s eyes shifted downward to the stout gray wolf at her visitors’ side. “Whose companion is this?”
Jezriyah smiled without thinking of it, patting her partner’s shaggy mane. “This be Mig’atali. He fought wit’ us at th’ Frozen Throne as well.”
“Indeed. A hunter of your people, then.” She looked at the troll for a long moment before speaking again. “What sort of weapon do you use now?”
“Oh--” She pulled the bone bow she’d salvaged from Icecrown from its place on her back, holding it out for Sylvanas’ inspection. “I go’ it from some skeleton archer t’ing up nort’. It ain’ much for finesse, but it hit like an angry kodo.”
The Queen’s nose wrinkled. “Standard Scourge craftsmanship. Strength in numbers. Ten thousand shambling skeletons firing these and something’s bound to find a target.” Jezriyah couldn’t stifle a soft laugh -- it was just the comment she’d have made herself, and the reminder of the inviolable Dark Lady as a fellow marksman made her smile.
Sylvanas caught the expression and returned it, though in a distant way that seemed to chill the room. “Silvermoon and the ranger corps have more than enough left to remind them of the scourging of Quel’Thalas. As the rightful owner of the Heartseeker, I think it fitting that you wield it. It would serve Azeroth better in the battlefield than displayed on a wall.”
Jezriyah’s eyes shot open. “I -- yah Majesty, I couldna possibly --”
“Enough. You are both devoted to the defense of your people and capable of facing the most dire threats our world has seen. Consider it your just reward for your contribution to the war effort.” She let her gaze flick between the three of them. “Have any of you further business?”
They did not, and after another minute or so of formalities, they were escorted back onto the streets of the Undercity. A few minutes after that, Ailinea had summoned a portal, and Jezriyah found herself back in Orgrimmar under the pounding heat of a Durotar drought. She thought of visiting her parents, but instead headed to her own small rented room upstairs from Kaya’s gun shop.
The Heartseeker was wrapped carefully in a thick bundle of linen, tucked under the bed with the rest of her battle gear. She might get it out in a couple of days on the training dummies, get used to firing with a trigger again -- but for now, the war was over. Azeroth was safe. It would be a long time before it was needed again.
It struck Jezriyah suddenly just how cold it was. Granted, they were on top of the Citadel itself on a platform made of ice -- the chill was no surprise. But her vision had been so tunneled since the fall of Sindragosa that now, at the end of the long final battle, it seemed that she was standing at the foot of the Frozen Throne for the first time.
The shock was beginning to break, now, and the ten of them began to grasp the gravity of what had just occurred. Qoholeth, head bowed in thankful prayer; Alessandrae crumbled on the floor, head in her hands, Ygdrasill on one knee and holding her tight to his chest. Peccator quietly healing the last of the group’s wounds. And Udiyvli, ever the leader, shaking snow and sweat from her mane as she walked towards the fallen Prince’s prone body, opening the small cache he had possessed.
“Jezi!” She gestured briefly, and the hunter walked over, to be presented with one of the stranger crossbows she’d ever seen. “I think you’re the only one of us who could make use of this.”
Jezriyah took the weapon gingerly, turning it over in her hands. It was a Scourge weapon at first glance, with all the skulls and spikes and deathly trappings they’d been so fond of. But its lath was awfully long, and made of a completely different wood than the other pieces of the weapon. She squinted, and turned it on its side. “Huh. Looki’ this, Udi. S’jes’ a longbow attached to a secon’han’ stock.”
“So it is,” the warrior murmured, brow furrowing. “And look at the detailing on the front. That’s not even Scourge, it’s--”
“--elvish,” Jezriyah finished. Their eyes met for half a second, the same idea flitting across both their eyes. She bit her lip. “Linny may know... Tayllia would fa’ certain.”
“Know what?” Ailinea drew closer, pulling her hood back over her head and tucking her shivering ears underneath it.
Jezriyah reached over and brushed the snow from her friend’s shoulders affectionately. “Th’ origin a’this weapon.” She held the bow out with her other hand.
The mage’s breath caught in her throat -- Jezi was certain that was her answer, but she waited for confirmation. Ailinea ran her fingers over the lath, seeming to feel a remnant of arcane power in it. “It’s definitely quel’dorei in provenance,” she said slowly. “And... I can’t speak for certain of who it would belong to, but... it’s much more ornate than anything a lay ranger would have carried in battle. It must have belonged to a Farstrider of significant rank.”
The three of them exchanged quiet glances. “Actually askin’ be th’only way ah kin think t’be sure,” Jezriyah murmured. She looked to Ailinea. “Would -- would you be willin’ ta come wit’ me? Ah always feel so out-a-place down there...”
“Of course.”
They approached Qoholeth after he’d finished his prayers and helped Peccator and Bosorn with the last of the immediately-necessary healing. “Q, dear--” Ailinea rested a hand on his elbow. “Do you think you could get us in touch with the right people to obtain an audience with the Dark Lady? We... need her advice on a subject of some import.”
The priest blinked slowly, before offering a soft smile. “I find it hard to imagine you’d be able to avoid addressing her, considering what just happened here.”
“A valid point.” Ailinea glanced between her two comrades. “We’ll all need some time to rest... and it’s much later than it feels now. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Ay, tha’ soun’ good. Poor Miga’s got ’is leg nearly tore open.”
“Oh, goodness, I didn’t even see that. Let me go have a look...”
---
Jezriyah did notice a few odd looks as she headed towards the Royal Quarter, but not nearly so many as there would have been were she not accompanied by a blood elf mage and Forsaken priest. She was grateful for their presence as they stepped into the imposing confines of the Banshee Queen’s throne room.
“Your Majesty,” intoned one of the officials, reading from a scroll. “Priest Qoholeth of the Undercity, Dame Ailinea Phoenixborn of Silvermoon, and...” A momentary pause, as usually came from the eastern races. “Jez... rye-ay, of the Darkspear Tribe.” It was wrong, but not as badly wrong as it had been said before, so she let it be. “Veterans of the battle at Icecrown Citadel.”
It was at this last statement that Sylvanas’ gaze turned sharp, her jaw setting as she looked at them appraisingly. “Thank you, herald.” She looked around the room briefly. “You are all dismissed; we require privacy. You may return after our visitors have left.”
The circled Deathguards bristled. “My Lady, as your bodyguards--”
“These soldiers are known to me; they pose no risk.” Jezriyah’s spine straightened uncomfortably at that revelation. “You will be told when you may return.”
The varied guards and ambassadors in the room all filed out, most of them looking quizzically or suspiciously at the troll as they left. The doors were pulled shut, and Jezriyah stood awkwardly before the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken.
“Word of Arthas’ fall reached the Undercity almost instantaneously,” Sylvanas said, her voice perfectly even -- if she had any emotional reaction to this news, she certainly wasn’t showing it. “You and your comrades have won an incomparable victory for all of Azeroth, and not least the Forsaken, including myself.” Her voice softened. “It is not often I find myself in a position to offer my sincere gratitude to anyone, but you have all certainly earned it.”
“It be nothin’ compared ta your own sacrifices fo’ your people, Your Majesty,” Jezriyah said slowly, the words carefully rehearsed -- both for content and to minimize her heavy island accent. “But tha’ is part of why ah wished ta speak wit’ you today. We... obtained some items from Icecrown after th’ Lich King’s defeat. One of them in pa’ticular we think may have belonged to you or one of ya colleagues. An’ we wished ta return it to you if dat were th’case.”
She unwrapped the bundle of linens wrapped around the weapon and stepped forward to present it to Sylvanas, her head bowed slightly. “It seems t’be an elven longbow, attached to a crossbow stock...”
The room went silent as Sylvanas took the weapon, examining it closely. Jezi searched her face for some hint of recognition, but found none, until the Queen spoke. “This is the Heartseeker,” she said brusquely, “or at least it once was. It did belong to me, though it wasn’t my preferred weapon. It must have been taken from the Farstrider base after Silvermoon fell.”
Jezriyah bit her lip, unsure how to react to the matter-of-fact way Sylvanas spoke of such terrible events. “Then ah’m glad to have returned it to you,” she finally said.
Sylvanas scoffed. “I appreciate the sentiment, I suppose, but I’ve certainly no need for it now.” She offered the weapon back to the troll, who took it gingerly.
Jezriyah glanced to Ailinea. “Ah s’pose we could return it to th’ Farstriders fa’ safekeeping, den.” Her mage friend nodded her approval.
The Dark Lady’s eyes shifted downward to the stout gray wolf at her visitors’ side. “Whose companion is this?”
Jezriyah smiled without thinking of it, patting her partner’s shaggy mane. “This be Mig’atali. He fought wit’ us at th’ Frozen Throne as well.”
“Indeed. A hunter of your people, then.” She looked at the troll for a long moment before speaking again. “What sort of weapon do you use now?”
“Oh--” She pulled the bone bow she’d salvaged from Icecrown from its place on her back, holding it out for Sylvanas’ inspection. “I go’ it from some skeleton archer t’ing up nort’. It ain’ much for finesse, but it hit like an angry kodo.”
The Queen’s nose wrinkled. “Standard Scourge craftsmanship. Strength in numbers. Ten thousand shambling skeletons firing these and something’s bound to find a target.” Jezriyah couldn’t stifle a soft laugh -- it was just the comment she’d have made herself, and the reminder of the inviolable Dark Lady as a fellow marksman made her smile.
Sylvanas caught the expression and returned it, though in a distant way that seemed to chill the room. “Silvermoon and the ranger corps have more than enough left to remind them of the scourging of Quel’Thalas. As the rightful owner of the Heartseeker, I think it fitting that you wield it. It would serve Azeroth better in the battlefield than displayed on a wall.”
Jezriyah’s eyes shot open. “I -- yah Majesty, I couldna possibly --”
“Enough. You are both devoted to the defense of your people and capable of facing the most dire threats our world has seen. Consider it your just reward for your contribution to the war effort.” She let her gaze flick between the three of them. “Have any of you further business?”
They did not, and after another minute or so of formalities, they were escorted back onto the streets of the Undercity. A few minutes after that, Ailinea had summoned a portal, and Jezriyah found herself back in Orgrimmar under the pounding heat of a Durotar drought. She thought of visiting her parents, but instead headed to her own small rented room upstairs from Kaya’s gun shop.
The Heartseeker was wrapped carefully in a thick bundle of linen, tucked under the bed with the rest of her battle gear. She might get it out in a couple of days on the training dummies, get used to firing with a trigger again -- but for now, the war was over. Azeroth was safe. It would be a long time before it was needed again.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Delivered to the Regent-Lord of Quel'Thalas
The note is written in patchwork Thalassian -- nearly fluent, but not quite -- on fine, though unpersonalized, parchment, the best available to the layman from the vendors of Dalaran. The handwriting is painstaking, the carefully-lettered work of one whose native alphabet isn't nearly so graceful. The wax seal is a plain insignia of the Horde.
Regent-Lord Theron,
I pray this letter finds you well, if it reaches your hands at all. I write to you concerning the events that transpired at the Sunwell when I arrived with the reforged Quel'Delar.
While I am an outsider to your people, I'm sure you're keenly aware of what strange bedfellows a shared strife can make. The sin'dorei joined the Horde at roughly the same time that I came of age and joined my brethren on the battlefield. In that way, we somewhat joined the Horde together. I have spent countless days sharing bunkers and battlefields with your people, and count many of them among my dearest friends.
It is through these friends and some bit of study that I gained what knowledge I have of your people's background and history. The Darkspear as well have suffered displacement and near genocide. I know well the feeling of uncertainty for your entire people's future on Azeroth. Despite your mistreatment at the hands of the Amani, most of your people have welcomed me as a friend and ally. Your collective loyalty and kindness remain near my heart, and I am honored to count you all as brothers and sisters of the Horde.
Save for the bane of Trol'kalar, I am mostly unfamiliar with even the idea of such powerful weapons as the one that rests beside me now, but I can appreciate its historical significance to your people. I can also understand how unsettling it may have been for you to see me carrying it, and your desire to see it restored to your own people. I wish to assure you I hold no ill will towards you or the sin'dorei for your actions at the Sunwell. (Nor do I believe you deserved the scolding you were given by an ambassador who had no deserved concern for the matter, but that is irrelevant to the subject at hand.)
I do not know why this weapon has chosen me as its wielder, but I do know that its mission is greater than either your people or mine. Tonight, with Quel'Delar at my side, I will be joining the forces of the Ashen Verdict in breaching the defenses of Icecrown Citadel. The sword will continue its delayed journey into the heart of the Scourge, and if the loa, the Well, the Light, and whatever other powers we may appeal to be willing, defeat the threat that has taken so much from both of us. If it should fall, then it shall fall as it did before: in the defense of not only Silvermoon and Orgrimmar, but all of Azeroth.
I remain at your command as a leader and at your side as a sister of the Horde.
Jezriyah, of the Darkspear
Regent-Lord Theron,
I pray this letter finds you well, if it reaches your hands at all. I write to you concerning the events that transpired at the Sunwell when I arrived with the reforged Quel'Delar.
While I am an outsider to your people, I'm sure you're keenly aware of what strange bedfellows a shared strife can make. The sin'dorei joined the Horde at roughly the same time that I came of age and joined my brethren on the battlefield. In that way, we somewhat joined the Horde together. I have spent countless days sharing bunkers and battlefields with your people, and count many of them among my dearest friends.
It is through these friends and some bit of study that I gained what knowledge I have of your people's background and history. The Darkspear as well have suffered displacement and near genocide. I know well the feeling of uncertainty for your entire people's future on Azeroth. Despite your mistreatment at the hands of the Amani, most of your people have welcomed me as a friend and ally. Your collective loyalty and kindness remain near my heart, and I am honored to count you all as brothers and sisters of the Horde.
Save for the bane of Trol'kalar, I am mostly unfamiliar with even the idea of such powerful weapons as the one that rests beside me now, but I can appreciate its historical significance to your people. I can also understand how unsettling it may have been for you to see me carrying it, and your desire to see it restored to your own people. I wish to assure you I hold no ill will towards you or the sin'dorei for your actions at the Sunwell. (Nor do I believe you deserved the scolding you were given by an ambassador who had no deserved concern for the matter, but that is irrelevant to the subject at hand.)
I do not know why this weapon has chosen me as its wielder, but I do know that its mission is greater than either your people or mine. Tonight, with Quel'Delar at my side, I will be joining the forces of the Ashen Verdict in breaching the defenses of Icecrown Citadel. The sword will continue its delayed journey into the heart of the Scourge, and if the loa, the Well, the Light, and whatever other powers we may appeal to be willing, defeat the threat that has taken so much from both of us. If it should fall, then it shall fall as it did before: in the defense of not only Silvermoon and Orgrimmar, but all of Azeroth.
I remain at your command as a leader and at your side as a sister of the Horde.
Jezriyah, of the Darkspear
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The Broken Front (Requiescat)
Originally intended for the LoreCrafted/Too Many Annas Midsummer writing contest. Didn't finish in time, but a handful of Netherbanes insisted I finish, so here it is.
~~~
Jezriyah could still hear the proud laughing behind her as she unhitched her nether ray from the posts. She tucked the ceremonial torches into her bag and slid up onto his sleek back.
"Brotha' Keltan?" She turned towards the priest, who cast her a curious look. She opened her eyes wide, trying her best to look earnest. "I was'na told tha' your people were among th' fallen, but... should I find any... have ya some token of th' Light or ritual I could perform f'them?"
"Of course, sister troll," the elf replied, a bit taken aback, but appearing grateful. He gave her an amulet he'd kept around his wrist, and recited to her a simplified form of their traditional last rites. She repeated it to herself as her mount glided over the side of Orgrim's Hammer -- the name of the ship made her want to spit now. She'd never known Doomhammer; she had no idea how proper it was to do what had been done here in his name. She wished she did. If he'd have approved of this "glorious assault", she could save herself the trouble of respecting his memory.
She'd gotten clearance to go back onto the field to provide funeral rites for the fallen. She knew her own people's ceremonies by heart, as well as those of the orcs, and the druidic rituals of the tauren were similar enough that she could wing it. The Blood Elves received the piecemeal blessing of the Light, best that she could recall it... she was still unsure by whom exactly its power was granted, but the naaru, at least, she felt confident would overlook her haphazard attempts. After some hesitation, she delivered this to the Forsaken as well, on the basis that their souls and bodies had originated in human form.
She worked as quickly as she could while maintaining proper reverence, and kept a careful eye upwards. As soon as the zeppelin was far enough away that she couldn't be effectively observed, she slipped back onto the ray's back and headed towards the northern end of the battlefield, where the remnants of the Scourge forces were still picking over the remains of the slaughtered armies.
Upon reaching the first Alliance corpse -- a gnome -- she hesitated. From what little she knew of them, they seemed like slightly less malicious goblins, with no real gods or allegiances beyond themselves. What would be the agnostic engineer's equivalent of a funeral pyre? A pile of saronite grenades and a crisp salute? After a few minutes of deliberation, she decided if they didn't have any gods, she'd appeal to her own. Hopefully whatever higher power judged the souls of gnomes would forgive them. It couldn't be any worse than being left to rot on the battlefield and picked up again to serve your enemy's master.
With that confusion handled, the rest of the "enemy" rites were easy. The blessings of the Light to all of them, save the small number of night elves; she couldn't quite force herself to invoke Elune's blessing, so she appealed to Mu'sha and hoped for the best. She fell into a rhythm after some time, looking up to see which races lie three or four bodies ahead of her and mentally organizing which words and gestures came next. The slow, methodical pace of the work made it that much more jarring when the plate-clad hand shot up to grab her wrist.
"Nether... take you," the dwarf hissed, blood dripping between his bared teeth. "Beasts!"
"Calm yourself, paladin," she replied softly, not pulling her hand away for fear of startling him into attacking. "I am not part of this offensive."
"You wear their colors," he growled, trying in vain to sit upright, his weakened body unable to move his plate armor.
"They wear our colors, dwarf, and disgrace them," she snapped, anger flooding her. She wrenched her hand from his, rubbing her wrist. After a brief pause she leaned closer to him. "I know I speak your language poorly, but please listen. The Horde does not seek war."
The paladin's eyes narrowed. "Then what was this? Why would you attack us instead of joining the assault on the Scourge?"
"I do not know." Jezriyah closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "There are some among my people who think honor comes in battle, no matter what battle it is. And some are so proud of the Horde they refuse to put aside old grudges for the greater good."
"Then they doom us all." His voice was hoarse, thickened by blood pooling in his throat.
She was silent for a long moment before looking back down at him. "Some," she whispered. "Not all. There are still some clear minds among our ranks, the Warchief and Saurfang... and plenty who follow them. And Lady Proudmoore, and the Argent Crusade, and all of us who still love our home and want it to be safe." Her voice cracked softly. "And I swear to you we will fight until we can fight no more."
Their gazes met for a long moment, her deep red eyes surely as alien to him as his squinty blue ones were to her. He took a few more labored, rattling breaths. "Then fight on," he whispered, barely able to force the words out.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she lifted Keltan's amulet, whispering a string of Thalassian words that neither of them understood, but the paladin seemed to recognize. He closed his eyes, the pain on his face subsiding. "Light be with you, soldier," he murmured, as his breaths slowed.
She slipped the token back in her pocket as she pushed to her feet. "Light be with us all," she whispered, before walking down the battlefield toward the rest of the fallen.
~~~
Jezriyah could still hear the proud laughing behind her as she unhitched her nether ray from the posts. She tucked the ceremonial torches into her bag and slid up onto his sleek back.
"Brotha' Keltan?" She turned towards the priest, who cast her a curious look. She opened her eyes wide, trying her best to look earnest. "I was'na told tha' your people were among th' fallen, but... should I find any... have ya some token of th' Light or ritual I could perform f'them?"
"Of course, sister troll," the elf replied, a bit taken aback, but appearing grateful. He gave her an amulet he'd kept around his wrist, and recited to her a simplified form of their traditional last rites. She repeated it to herself as her mount glided over the side of Orgrim's Hammer -- the name of the ship made her want to spit now. She'd never known Doomhammer; she had no idea how proper it was to do what had been done here in his name. She wished she did. If he'd have approved of this "glorious assault", she could save herself the trouble of respecting his memory.
She'd gotten clearance to go back onto the field to provide funeral rites for the fallen. She knew her own people's ceremonies by heart, as well as those of the orcs, and the druidic rituals of the tauren were similar enough that she could wing it. The Blood Elves received the piecemeal blessing of the Light, best that she could recall it... she was still unsure by whom exactly its power was granted, but the naaru, at least, she felt confident would overlook her haphazard attempts. After some hesitation, she delivered this to the Forsaken as well, on the basis that their souls and bodies had originated in human form.
She worked as quickly as she could while maintaining proper reverence, and kept a careful eye upwards. As soon as the zeppelin was far enough away that she couldn't be effectively observed, she slipped back onto the ray's back and headed towards the northern end of the battlefield, where the remnants of the Scourge forces were still picking over the remains of the slaughtered armies.
Upon reaching the first Alliance corpse -- a gnome -- she hesitated. From what little she knew of them, they seemed like slightly less malicious goblins, with no real gods or allegiances beyond themselves. What would be the agnostic engineer's equivalent of a funeral pyre? A pile of saronite grenades and a crisp salute? After a few minutes of deliberation, she decided if they didn't have any gods, she'd appeal to her own. Hopefully whatever higher power judged the souls of gnomes would forgive them. It couldn't be any worse than being left to rot on the battlefield and picked up again to serve your enemy's master.
With that confusion handled, the rest of the "enemy" rites were easy. The blessings of the Light to all of them, save the small number of night elves; she couldn't quite force herself to invoke Elune's blessing, so she appealed to Mu'sha and hoped for the best. She fell into a rhythm after some time, looking up to see which races lie three or four bodies ahead of her and mentally organizing which words and gestures came next. The slow, methodical pace of the work made it that much more jarring when the plate-clad hand shot up to grab her wrist.
"Nether... take you," the dwarf hissed, blood dripping between his bared teeth. "Beasts!"
"Calm yourself, paladin," she replied softly, not pulling her hand away for fear of startling him into attacking. "I am not part of this offensive."
"You wear their colors," he growled, trying in vain to sit upright, his weakened body unable to move his plate armor.
"They wear our colors, dwarf, and disgrace them," she snapped, anger flooding her. She wrenched her hand from his, rubbing her wrist. After a brief pause she leaned closer to him. "I know I speak your language poorly, but please listen. The Horde does not seek war."
The paladin's eyes narrowed. "Then what was this? Why would you attack us instead of joining the assault on the Scourge?"
"I do not know." Jezriyah closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "There are some among my people who think honor comes in battle, no matter what battle it is. And some are so proud of the Horde they refuse to put aside old grudges for the greater good."
"Then they doom us all." His voice was hoarse, thickened by blood pooling in his throat.
She was silent for a long moment before looking back down at him. "Some," she whispered. "Not all. There are still some clear minds among our ranks, the Warchief and Saurfang... and plenty who follow them. And Lady Proudmoore, and the Argent Crusade, and all of us who still love our home and want it to be safe." Her voice cracked softly. "And I swear to you we will fight until we can fight no more."
Their gazes met for a long moment, her deep red eyes surely as alien to him as his squinty blue ones were to her. He took a few more labored, rattling breaths. "Then fight on," he whispered, barely able to force the words out.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she lifted Keltan's amulet, whispering a string of Thalassian words that neither of them understood, but the paladin seemed to recognize. He closed his eyes, the pain on his face subsiding. "Light be with you, soldier," he murmured, as his breaths slowed.
She slipped the token back in her pocket as she pushed to her feet. "Light be with us all," she whispered, before walking down the battlefield toward the rest of the fallen.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Friday Five Hundred: To Battle!
From Too Many Annas, as always:
In 500 words, write up a battle between your character and a bad guy. This can be a monster, a player, an enemy, an instance boss - anything goes, so long as you’re writing an actual fight scene, and not a “mental” scene. If your character is totally against all fighting, today’s the day to pick a more aggressive alt to write about. Whether your character wins or loses is up to you.
~
Jezriyah ducked off the road and behind a stone column, Micropterus swift on her heels, holding perfectly still as she watched her breath cloud softly in the frigid air.
A moment later, the two Drakkari berserkers ambled by, unaware of their southern cousin's presence. The Darkspear raised a hand to cast a faint red mark over the head of the (only slightly) larger one. She glanced down to the scorpid at her feet, giving him a soft nod. He skittered forward, weaving through the ferns alongside the stone path. A moment later he exploded from the leaves in a burst of waving claws and angry hissing clicks, slashing the massive troll's ankles twice before flicking his tail forward to inject a dose of poison into the target's calf.
The berserker gave an angry roar, looking down as he jumped back. "What crazy evil loa is this?!"
"A measly bug-spirit!" the other barked, heaving his axe from his back.
Micropterus dodged the oncoming attacks deftly, weaving between their feet. He moved masterfully around them and down the road, luring them away and turning their backs to his mistress.
"That's a good love," Jezriyah purred, raising her gun and reaching into her ammo pouch. By touch alone she fished her first two bullets out. The first went off flawlessly into the berserker's back, a slow-releasing serpent's venom, barely noticeable in the melee. The second landed squarely in the center of his spine, between the shoulderblades, loaded with a highly reactive chimera-blood poison. The second the two fluids combined, the berserker howled in blistering pain, spinning around to face her. "Miserable whelp!" he roared, charging towards her, steps faltering, as his companion continued to swing in vain at the scorpid.
She let out a barking laugh, loading in a third bullet, this one coated with an arcane enchantement. "Die like your gods did, wretch!" she yelled back, firing directly into his throat. The berserker stopped, stumbling, as blood seeped from the singed hole in his skin. He could only squint and hiss angrily at the hunter as he crumbled to the ground.
Jezriyah turned her attention to the second warrior, still scrapping with her pet, his movements already clumsy from the effect of the scorpid poison. She moved more slowly this time against her weakened target, aiming carefully at the back of his skull. Two carefully placed shots were enough to dispatch him, his body dropping like a rock.
Micropterus just barely dodged the falling troll, pausing a moment before darting back to Jezriyah's side, chirping happily.
"Ya done good, chile," she cooed, rummaging through the two dead trolls' meager belongings. She smiled as she picked up the carved stone idol she'd been looking for. "Perfect."
The huntress stood up, gazing at the bodies on the ground that, save for the extra muscle, could pass for her brethren back home. "Waste of perfectly good troll blood," she spat, before clicking her tongue to beckon her pet as she headed back towards Ebon Watch.
In 500 words, write up a battle between your character and a bad guy. This can be a monster, a player, an enemy, an instance boss - anything goes, so long as you’re writing an actual fight scene, and not a “mental” scene. If your character is totally against all fighting, today’s the day to pick a more aggressive alt to write about. Whether your character wins or loses is up to you.
~
Jezriyah ducked off the road and behind a stone column, Micropterus swift on her heels, holding perfectly still as she watched her breath cloud softly in the frigid air.
A moment later, the two Drakkari berserkers ambled by, unaware of their southern cousin's presence. The Darkspear raised a hand to cast a faint red mark over the head of the (only slightly) larger one. She glanced down to the scorpid at her feet, giving him a soft nod. He skittered forward, weaving through the ferns alongside the stone path. A moment later he exploded from the leaves in a burst of waving claws and angry hissing clicks, slashing the massive troll's ankles twice before flicking his tail forward to inject a dose of poison into the target's calf.
The berserker gave an angry roar, looking down as he jumped back. "What crazy evil loa is this?!"
"A measly bug-spirit!" the other barked, heaving his axe from his back.
Micropterus dodged the oncoming attacks deftly, weaving between their feet. He moved masterfully around them and down the road, luring them away and turning their backs to his mistress.
"That's a good love," Jezriyah purred, raising her gun and reaching into her ammo pouch. By touch alone she fished her first two bullets out. The first went off flawlessly into the berserker's back, a slow-releasing serpent's venom, barely noticeable in the melee. The second landed squarely in the center of his spine, between the shoulderblades, loaded with a highly reactive chimera-blood poison. The second the two fluids combined, the berserker howled in blistering pain, spinning around to face her. "Miserable whelp!" he roared, charging towards her, steps faltering, as his companion continued to swing in vain at the scorpid.
She let out a barking laugh, loading in a third bullet, this one coated with an arcane enchantement. "Die like your gods did, wretch!" she yelled back, firing directly into his throat. The berserker stopped, stumbling, as blood seeped from the singed hole in his skin. He could only squint and hiss angrily at the hunter as he crumbled to the ground.
Jezriyah turned her attention to the second warrior, still scrapping with her pet, his movements already clumsy from the effect of the scorpid poison. She moved more slowly this time against her weakened target, aiming carefully at the back of his skull. Two carefully placed shots were enough to dispatch him, his body dropping like a rock.
Micropterus just barely dodged the falling troll, pausing a moment before darting back to Jezriyah's side, chirping happily.
"Ya done good, chile," she cooed, rummaging through the two dead trolls' meager belongings. She smiled as she picked up the carved stone idol she'd been looking for. "Perfect."
The huntress stood up, gazing at the bodies on the ground that, save for the extra muscle, could pass for her brethren back home. "Waste of perfectly good troll blood," she spat, before clicking her tongue to beckon her pet as she headed back towards Ebon Watch.
Monday, April 20, 2009
In Her Own Words: Specializations and Diplomacy
For the second time, I am shamelessly ganking someone else's character for my own nefarious purposes. This time, 'tis the master of the Blueberry Workshop over at Stabilized Effort Scope who makes an appearance.
~
As much as the Argent Crusade rubs me the wrong way -- something about the human inability to just do the right thing without ascribing the will of some higher power to it -- this tournament seems to have been a good idea. It's relaxing, mostly; a way for those of us hardened in battle to showcase our skills without lives being on the line. Not to mention that mounted combat is uncommon in the field, so a little practice in being able to handle a weapon (any weapon) from the saddle could prove to be an advantage in some situations.
And yet the harsh reality is never far away. You can occasionally glimpse Orgrim's Hammer or its Alliance counterpart floating over the horizon, and it's impossible to get here from Dalaran without coming in direct eyesight of Icecrown Citadel. So as much lip service as they give to the grounds being for tournament use only, it's not at all uncommon to find people on the sidelines appropriating unused target dummies for standard combat practice.
I purposely strip out of my heavy combat armor when attending the tournament. I see no use in getting it any more beat up than it has to be -- it's fairly expensive to repair, and the closer to top condition I can keep it, the better. And I've gotten well-practiced enough as a valiant not to need such heavy protection, anyway. The offshoot of this is that when I do choose to practice my standard combat, it's without the powerful enchantments that Sayriha and others have channeled into my armor and weapons, specifically my treasured polearm. So they're weak shots, and my aim isn't always as sharp as usual, but improving my skill without those accoutrements can only help me in the long run. At least, that's what I told myself as I watched yet another bullet go careening at least two finger widths from the center of the bullseye.
In the half-second it took the shot to reach the target, a soft golden glow appeared around it, and the air seemed to arc around the bullet, careening it directly into its mark. I'd barely had a moment to recognize the effect before a familiar voice rang out through the cold air in lilting Common. "Seems as though the lady Riverwing is losing her touch, eh?"
I rolled my eyes, turning around to face the draenei who'd walked up behind me. "The lady is at a distinct disadvantage, boy," I snapped, offering Rilgon a weary smile. "This is my jousting gear. It ain't made for shooting." (It's worth noting that I didn't say it quite so clearly -- my Common is even more harshly accented than my Orcish, but if Brann Bronzebeard can be conversational in all twelve of Azeroth's major languages, then I can at least figure out how to speak properly to the Alliance.)
He chuckled under his breath. "Good to see that Durotar has its champions as well," he replied, his chest puffing out a bit beneath the tabard of the Exodar -- I was on par to receive Sen'jin's equivalent by nightfall. He reached into his bag and produced a small chunk of meat, which he tossed to Micropterus, exchanging some soft clicks with him. I reached up to stroke Ayamiss' head gently, to which she responded with a polite nuzzle; showing affection to another's pet is one of the more common greetings between hunters of all races.
"Azeroth needs champions now," I said curtly. "She don' care where they be from."
Rilgon gave only a soft nod in reply. We'd had only brief discussions regarding the politics of our world, but enough to know that our opinions of the mortal races' conflicts in the face of such grave evils was similarly low.
"Hunting good of late?" I shielded my eyes from the bright sunshine as a cloud moved out of its way.
"Well as can be expected. More battle than hunting, lately." His tone softened. "My guild is beginning preliminary expeditions into Ulduar."
The dread temple-prison of the titans; just as menacing a view from northern Icecrown as the Citadel itself. Rilgon and I had first met in the Borean Tundra under the auspices of the red dragonflight; my own guild had struggled in battle against Malygos and his drakes, and I was frustrated with my ineffectiveness. I'd trained as a beastmaster from my tenth season on, but my dear Pumpkin was sorely thwarted by their aerial maneuvers, and I just plain wasn't strong enough a shot to make up for it. I decided to take the plunge, to trust my tiger friend to his own devices and focus my energy on my marksmanship. Questioning a few other hunters, I heard his name come up several times, and sought out his guidance.
"Indeed." I bit my lip. "We've done some work against the defenses outside but not moved in yet. Xendayr has called for a meeting tonight, so I imagine we'll be moving in further soon..." I grinned. "I'd think that defense system would be right up your alley, all those mechanical bits and things to blow up."
"Well, of course." Some of the light came back to his face then; he's always been more an engineer than a hunter. "I've nearly mastered most of them. As soon as the others catch up it will be rote."
"You're ahead of us then." My mind flashed back to seeing a priest fly helplessly over the Flame Leviathan, the flash of light from his fingers just before he hit the ground barely enough to keep him conscious, let alone functional.
"I'm sure with you along they'll be fine." He offered a comforting smile. We were poor at keeping in touch -- it's not exactly easy to get someone in Warsong Hold to take a message to the Exodar, and I'd imagine it works no better the other way around -- but these conversations were among my favorites, when we did manage to cross paths on neutral ground. Amid the clanging shields and stomping mounts of the tournament grounds, it was impossible not to realize that each such meeting may be the last.
I think I was as shocked as he was when I leaned forward to embrace him, though he returned the gesture in kind with little hesitation. "You be careful, squid face," I chided, poking him gently in the ribs. "I need you around so I have someone to try and be better than."
"And I'm no teacher without a student, two-toes," he replied, patting my shoulder gently. "You be sure to do the same."
He called for Tempidormi then, heading towards the flight master to retrieve her from the stables. I couldn't keep a weary smile from my face as I picked up my gun, taking another cock-eyed, poorly aimed shot.
~
As much as the Argent Crusade rubs me the wrong way -- something about the human inability to just do the right thing without ascribing the will of some higher power to it -- this tournament seems to have been a good idea. It's relaxing, mostly; a way for those of us hardened in battle to showcase our skills without lives being on the line. Not to mention that mounted combat is uncommon in the field, so a little practice in being able to handle a weapon (any weapon) from the saddle could prove to be an advantage in some situations.
And yet the harsh reality is never far away. You can occasionally glimpse Orgrim's Hammer or its Alliance counterpart floating over the horizon, and it's impossible to get here from Dalaran without coming in direct eyesight of Icecrown Citadel. So as much lip service as they give to the grounds being for tournament use only, it's not at all uncommon to find people on the sidelines appropriating unused target dummies for standard combat practice.
I purposely strip out of my heavy combat armor when attending the tournament. I see no use in getting it any more beat up than it has to be -- it's fairly expensive to repair, and the closer to top condition I can keep it, the better. And I've gotten well-practiced enough as a valiant not to need such heavy protection, anyway. The offshoot of this is that when I do choose to practice my standard combat, it's without the powerful enchantments that Sayriha and others have channeled into my armor and weapons, specifically my treasured polearm. So they're weak shots, and my aim isn't always as sharp as usual, but improving my skill without those accoutrements can only help me in the long run. At least, that's what I told myself as I watched yet another bullet go careening at least two finger widths from the center of the bullseye.
In the half-second it took the shot to reach the target, a soft golden glow appeared around it, and the air seemed to arc around the bullet, careening it directly into its mark. I'd barely had a moment to recognize the effect before a familiar voice rang out through the cold air in lilting Common. "Seems as though the lady Riverwing is losing her touch, eh?"
I rolled my eyes, turning around to face the draenei who'd walked up behind me. "The lady is at a distinct disadvantage, boy," I snapped, offering Rilgon a weary smile. "This is my jousting gear. It ain't made for shooting." (It's worth noting that I didn't say it quite so clearly -- my Common is even more harshly accented than my Orcish, but if Brann Bronzebeard can be conversational in all twelve of Azeroth's major languages, then I can at least figure out how to speak properly to the Alliance.)
He chuckled under his breath. "Good to see that Durotar has its champions as well," he replied, his chest puffing out a bit beneath the tabard of the Exodar -- I was on par to receive Sen'jin's equivalent by nightfall. He reached into his bag and produced a small chunk of meat, which he tossed to Micropterus, exchanging some soft clicks with him. I reached up to stroke Ayamiss' head gently, to which she responded with a polite nuzzle; showing affection to another's pet is one of the more common greetings between hunters of all races.
"Azeroth needs champions now," I said curtly. "She don' care where they be from."
Rilgon gave only a soft nod in reply. We'd had only brief discussions regarding the politics of our world, but enough to know that our opinions of the mortal races' conflicts in the face of such grave evils was similarly low.
"Hunting good of late?" I shielded my eyes from the bright sunshine as a cloud moved out of its way.
"Well as can be expected. More battle than hunting, lately." His tone softened. "My guild is beginning preliminary expeditions into Ulduar."
The dread temple-prison of the titans; just as menacing a view from northern Icecrown as the Citadel itself. Rilgon and I had first met in the Borean Tundra under the auspices of the red dragonflight; my own guild had struggled in battle against Malygos and his drakes, and I was frustrated with my ineffectiveness. I'd trained as a beastmaster from my tenth season on, but my dear Pumpkin was sorely thwarted by their aerial maneuvers, and I just plain wasn't strong enough a shot to make up for it. I decided to take the plunge, to trust my tiger friend to his own devices and focus my energy on my marksmanship. Questioning a few other hunters, I heard his name come up several times, and sought out his guidance.
"Indeed." I bit my lip. "We've done some work against the defenses outside but not moved in yet. Xendayr has called for a meeting tonight, so I imagine we'll be moving in further soon..." I grinned. "I'd think that defense system would be right up your alley, all those mechanical bits and things to blow up."
"Well, of course." Some of the light came back to his face then; he's always been more an engineer than a hunter. "I've nearly mastered most of them. As soon as the others catch up it will be rote."
"You're ahead of us then." My mind flashed back to seeing a priest fly helplessly over the Flame Leviathan, the flash of light from his fingers just before he hit the ground barely enough to keep him conscious, let alone functional.
"I'm sure with you along they'll be fine." He offered a comforting smile. We were poor at keeping in touch -- it's not exactly easy to get someone in Warsong Hold to take a message to the Exodar, and I'd imagine it works no better the other way around -- but these conversations were among my favorites, when we did manage to cross paths on neutral ground. Amid the clanging shields and stomping mounts of the tournament grounds, it was impossible not to realize that each such meeting may be the last.
I think I was as shocked as he was when I leaned forward to embrace him, though he returned the gesture in kind with little hesitation. "You be careful, squid face," I chided, poking him gently in the ribs. "I need you around so I have someone to try and be better than."
"And I'm no teacher without a student, two-toes," he replied, patting my shoulder gently. "You be sure to do the same."
He called for Tempidormi then, heading towards the flight master to retrieve her from the stables. I couldn't keep a weary smile from my face as I picked up my gun, taking another cock-eyed, poorly aimed shot.
Friday, February 20, 2009
In Her Own Words: Wintergrasp
I'm a marksman -- markswoman, I suppose -- like my father. Sharpshooter. Occasionally, depending on the situation, sniper. Anyone who's ever faced me in battle could tell you that I've no great skill in hand-to-hand combat. There's a reason I hate fighting warriors and rogues so; anything that stays close enough to me to keep me from raising my gun or bow can best me without too much trouble.
Maybe that's why I've never taken joy in the physical effects of my enemies' demise, the way some of our fighters do. To a melee fighter, pools of blood and bits of bone on the ground represent the strength of their blows. To a spellcaster, scorched skin and tortured screams are a measure of their arcane power.
To a hunter, any shot besides the killing one is wasted ammunition.
So the swaths of red (and patches of blue, courtesy of the draenei) covering the snows surrounding the Wintergrasp Fortress evoked no emotion from me. The knowledge that we'd been victorious, yes, but I could tell that by the fact that we were standing in the fortress, and the Alliance soldiers were not. My goal in battle is not to cause pain -- it is to eliminate the threat against the Horde, whatever it may be. While I find little regret in the suffering of our enemies, I don't take particular joy in it either.
The laughter I heard from the campfire behind me made it clear I was in the minority.
"And then when you hit him! He squawked like a harpy!" Udiyvli clapped her hands excitedly. "Did you see his face when he spun around? Like a frightened little gazelle --"
"-- and he comes at me, and forgets all about the giant angry tauren he was just fighting with --" Lothloren was laughing, the tips of his ears bouncing as he gestured wildly. "And he's dizzy already from the poison, and then WHACK!" He swung his comparatively-slender arm in a meager representation of her shield slamming into the back of their shared opponent's skull. "You played him like a drum! It was beautiful!"
I hate fighting warriors and rogues, but they make excellent teammates.
"It was a paladin," I snapped jokingly, turning from the battle-scarred landscape and heading back toward the celebratory feast. "They're almost as powerful as they are foolhardy. If it weren't for the shaman healing you both up as soon as he pulled his sword back, he'd likely have taken you both down."
Campitor smiled warmly, proud as always of his contribution. "I do what I'm called to."
"And we appreciate it." Udi patted the other tauren's knee affectionately. "We all knew you'd rather have been hurling lava at them."
"Oh, I don't know," Campitor mumbled, taking a bite of bread. "Perhaps I'll follow Goetic's lead and start fighting with axes."
"He's an orc," Lothloren shrugged, taking a long drink of wine. "That's what orcs do -- hit things. Battle is a part of them, like magic is part of my people, even if I don't use it in battle."
Udiyvli nodded softly. "And the hunt is a part of ours, hunters though some of us are not." She looked to me, clearly expecting the trollish insight on the issue.
I thought about it for a moment. "And the loa for us," I finally said, sitting down with them and reaching for a piece of roasted mammoth. "We all talk to the spirits, even if not all of us wield their power."
I thought back to my first days in Northrend, long nights awake by a lonely fire, meditating for hours on end to try and reach the spirits of the north. I'd had precious little communication with them -- troll though I may be, I am no priestess -- but I managed to reach a bear spirit, slow and weary, as though it had walked the entire length of the continent to answer my meager plea. I offered it honor from a child of the South and the East, and thanked it for permitting us to tread in its home. I told it that the great evil which had infested its northern peaks had invaded our home, and that we had come to defeat it, to clean its blight from the world. The spirit did not go so far as to bless our assault, but it told me that we were welcome, providing we attacked only the evil we had come for and stayed our wrath from the North's own children. I vowed my own obedience, and to take the message to my people. The spirit offered its limited approval, knowledgeable of how little the spiritual guidance of a single hunter would count to the Horde, and then departed.
I have tried to contact it since then, to ask its guidance when confronted with its sons and daughters which have been irredeemably corrupted by the Scourge. I receive no answer.
"Your mother's a priestess, isn't she?" Lothloren poked me in the shoulder, talking around a mouthful of meat. "Is that kind of thing passed down?"
Usually so, I thought, looking at a nearly-healed wound on my forearm, at the half-Darkspear blood still seeping from it. Probably why I don't have it. "All depends," I replied, poking him in return. "All kinds of things can influence it. It's not our place to question who the loa choose to be their vessels. Besides, someone has to hunt food for the witch doctors to eat."
Maybe that's why I've never taken joy in the physical effects of my enemies' demise, the way some of our fighters do. To a melee fighter, pools of blood and bits of bone on the ground represent the strength of their blows. To a spellcaster, scorched skin and tortured screams are a measure of their arcane power.
To a hunter, any shot besides the killing one is wasted ammunition.
So the swaths of red (and patches of blue, courtesy of the draenei) covering the snows surrounding the Wintergrasp Fortress evoked no emotion from me. The knowledge that we'd been victorious, yes, but I could tell that by the fact that we were standing in the fortress, and the Alliance soldiers were not. My goal in battle is not to cause pain -- it is to eliminate the threat against the Horde, whatever it may be. While I find little regret in the suffering of our enemies, I don't take particular joy in it either.
The laughter I heard from the campfire behind me made it clear I was in the minority.
"And then when you hit him! He squawked like a harpy!" Udiyvli clapped her hands excitedly. "Did you see his face when he spun around? Like a frightened little gazelle --"
"-- and he comes at me, and forgets all about the giant angry tauren he was just fighting with --" Lothloren was laughing, the tips of his ears bouncing as he gestured wildly. "And he's dizzy already from the poison, and then WHACK!" He swung his comparatively-slender arm in a meager representation of her shield slamming into the back of their shared opponent's skull. "You played him like a drum! It was beautiful!"
I hate fighting warriors and rogues, but they make excellent teammates.
"It was a paladin," I snapped jokingly, turning from the battle-scarred landscape and heading back toward the celebratory feast. "They're almost as powerful as they are foolhardy. If it weren't for the shaman healing you both up as soon as he pulled his sword back, he'd likely have taken you both down."
Campitor smiled warmly, proud as always of his contribution. "I do what I'm called to."
"And we appreciate it." Udi patted the other tauren's knee affectionately. "We all knew you'd rather have been hurling lava at them."
"Oh, I don't know," Campitor mumbled, taking a bite of bread. "Perhaps I'll follow Goetic's lead and start fighting with axes."
"He's an orc," Lothloren shrugged, taking a long drink of wine. "That's what orcs do -- hit things. Battle is a part of them, like magic is part of my people, even if I don't use it in battle."
Udiyvli nodded softly. "And the hunt is a part of ours, hunters though some of us are not." She looked to me, clearly expecting the trollish insight on the issue.
I thought about it for a moment. "And the loa for us," I finally said, sitting down with them and reaching for a piece of roasted mammoth. "We all talk to the spirits, even if not all of us wield their power."
I thought back to my first days in Northrend, long nights awake by a lonely fire, meditating for hours on end to try and reach the spirits of the north. I'd had precious little communication with them -- troll though I may be, I am no priestess -- but I managed to reach a bear spirit, slow and weary, as though it had walked the entire length of the continent to answer my meager plea. I offered it honor from a child of the South and the East, and thanked it for permitting us to tread in its home. I told it that the great evil which had infested its northern peaks had invaded our home, and that we had come to defeat it, to clean its blight from the world. The spirit did not go so far as to bless our assault, but it told me that we were welcome, providing we attacked only the evil we had come for and stayed our wrath from the North's own children. I vowed my own obedience, and to take the message to my people. The spirit offered its limited approval, knowledgeable of how little the spiritual guidance of a single hunter would count to the Horde, and then departed.
I have tried to contact it since then, to ask its guidance when confronted with its sons and daughters which have been irredeemably corrupted by the Scourge. I receive no answer.
"Your mother's a priestess, isn't she?" Lothloren poked me in the shoulder, talking around a mouthful of meat. "Is that kind of thing passed down?"
Usually so, I thought, looking at a nearly-healed wound on my forearm, at the half-Darkspear blood still seeping from it. Probably why I don't have it. "All depends," I replied, poking him in return. "All kinds of things can influence it. It's not our place to question who the loa choose to be their vessels. Besides, someone has to hunt food for the witch doctors to eat."
Monday, February 2, 2009
In Her Own Words: Jezriyah
The autobiography of my main World of Warcraft character. This should serve as a good starting point to explain the direction I come at things from, lore-wise.
~
On a warm night in Sholazar I asked my lover about his life. At somewhere past a hundred and eighty years, I knew there must be something interesting there. When he finished his story, he asked the same in kind, and I found some of the details becoming unclear. So for my own recollection, and that of my children and grandchildren when I grow old and my mind fades, and perhaps for all the world many centuries from now when these days become tell-tale and lore, I will write it down here.
I was born to the hunter Zuele and the priestess Jiyoti of the house Riverwing, some twenty-ish years ago, on the Broken Isles in the South Seas. In the interest of honesty I will say I was conceived when my mother was attacked during a Skullsplitter raid on our village. This is something that I hid for a long time and was once ashamed of. It is not public knowledge even now, but I will no longer go to such effort to hide it. It is mostly irrelevant; the troll I know as my father showed no regard for my blood, and raised me as his own, as did the rest of my tribe. Many nations would have rejected a child whose veins ran with the blood of their enemy. The fact that mine did not was my first lesson in individuals' independence from their birthrights.
I do not remember a time without war. From my earliest memories, I was not allowed outside the edges of the village by myself, for fear of murlocs or humans attacking while I was defenseless -- not defenseless, truly, as all trolls are born with some ability to fight. But young and inexperienced enough to be a vulnerable target. I recall going out with my father to train in the hunt. We spent more time hiding, avoiding patrols and explorers, than we spent tracking the beasts we pursued. The irony of trying to hunt while being hunted was not lost on either of us. This aspect of my childhood lent itself well to my later tracking abilities -- I know, instinctively, the behavior of prey, from years of being prey myself.
Battles came and went. There would be weeks of relative peace, then weeks of nearly nightly attacks. There were nights we cowered in crudely dug burrows on the outskirts, watching the men or murlocs (or some nights, both) raiding our already meager food stores, setting torch to homes, clothing, precious family heirlooms, sacred objects, all of it. The innocent, carefree days that I hear other cultures describe as childhood were a rare treat, and even those came with the knowledge that they could dissolve into violent upheaval at any moment.
I don't know what peace is like. Not in the long term, not for more than a few sweet days at a time.
After spending that long surrounded by nothing but enemies -- when it seemed as though Azeroth herself was disgusted with us, trying to scrub us from her surface -- to see an unknown ship come to your shores is not a curiosity but an imminent threat. To see such a creature as an orc walk off it, seemingly built of nothing but muscle, wearing thick armor and carrying massive axes as easily as fishing spears, appears as nothing but Death itself walking forth to give its final judgment. And to see the one they clearly treat as their chief hold his empty hands upward before your meager, battered army, lay his hammer on the ground, and kneel before your leader, seems nothing short of a miracle.
Sen'jin was not old -- he'd just survived longer than most of us -- but he was frail. We all were. Too much battle and too little rest; too much hunting and not enough food. We cut a very different figure then than the trolls the Horde is familiar with today. He did his best to stand proudly and look menacing as he approached the foreign warriors, but even the weakest of them could have bested him, and everyone watching knew it. Through the language barrier they managed to express a mutual lack of aggression, and the short green people set up camp within a few minutes' walk from the village. Many were upset; some thought we shouldn't trust them. I think Sen'jin knew that whether we trusted them or not didn't matter. If their intentions were good, they could prove to be powerful allies... and if not, they'd wipe us out no matter what resistance we showed.
Days passed. Languages were learned. We began to understand the story of the orcs, and they began to understand ours. And then -- they pledged their help. More a savior than the sun after a hurricane, Thrall offered the blades of his people in defense of our tribe and our home. It was the first selfless act I had ever seen done toward the Darkspear from an outsider.
With the help of the young Horde, we began to assert ourselves. We fought back when attacked. We didn't fight to live, we fought to win, and were surprised to find ourselves succeeding. The humans finally gave up on us, but the murlocs were less wise -- even as the tide turned against them, in their amphibious nature they only swam deeper. We'd begun to absorb the orcish passion for honorable battle, and combined with our own thirst for vengeance, it was an unstoppable force. When our leaders took the fight to the sea witch's abode, we young ones pranced about the shore all day, declaring the trout to be murloc-kin and killing them in humiliating ways, waiting for our warriors' triumphant return. The warchief didn't so much as look at us when he stepped off the boat, his expression solemn as he walked back toward the village.
Sen'jin's funeral, of all things, was the most beautiful thing I've yet to witness. The orcs honored him as they did their own fallen heroes, and our traditions combined to create a fitting tribute to our wise, humble leader. While we'd fought together many times, it was the first time I saw our two nations truly come together as one. The shamans' lightning and the smoke from the witch doctors' incense combining, reverent and joyful, solid and yielding, fierce and passionate. He was a hero to the orcs, because despite being of an entirely different race, with different ideals and values, they knew a good person and a strong leader when they saw one. The lesson was reinforced for me: good can be found in all colors, all races, all tongues, just as can evil.
The next day was quiet. There were sporadic murloc attacks, though their ferocity waned without the witch's guidance -- nothing that we couldn't defend ourselves from easily enough. Vol'jin, our apprentice turned sudden leader, spent the day huddled away with Thrall and some of the elders of both our races. At one point I tried to eavesdrop, but they would have to be in the only hut in the village with walls too thick to hear through, wouldn't they? I don't know what was said in that long conversation, but I barely recognized Vol'jin's expression when he came out. In retrospect, I know what I was seeing on his face -- hope. For the first time in my life, and probably in his as well.
The Horde would follow its prophecy and its fate west to Kalimdor, he said. And the Darkspear would be part of it.
I was afraid for half a moment; for some reason, I expected outcry and anger, that we couldn't abandon our home to sail off into unknown seas with people who had just washed out of nowhere. After a moment's pause, I was proven wrong. Shouts went up from orc and troll alike, shouts of triumph, joy, after all these years, hope. One of our young warriors, taken under the wing of an older orc, threw his arm around his mentor's shoulders and let out our new battle cry first: "FOR THE HORDE!"
Even today when those words leave my throat, my heart hearkens back to that first time -- the sound of victory, of determination, of knowing naught but death itself can stop you. The echo of our voices may have shaken the earth as far back as Stranglethorn. I hope the old Gurubashi tribes heard it, and realized the fate they had sown for themselves when they drove us out of the jungle.
My father insisted that Mama and I go to Kalimdor immediately; as one of our most skilled marksmen, he would stay behind with the last of our forces to ensure the murlocs' defeat. He was certain we would be safer with the orcs, an assumption we have yet to quit ribbing him for. We were sent into conflict almost immediately, finding what was left of the noble Shu'halo in the Barrens, driven in circles and to the brink by raiding centaur. There was no question as to what our actions would be; we suddenly found ourselves on the other side of the coin from a few short months before, trying to convince a desperate, paranoid nation that we weren't just one more hateful force to contend with. I'd grown up surrounded by battle, but as a child, and a female one at that, never been in the thick of it. In the new Horde, neither allowance was made. Surrounded by the seasoned fighters of three separate nations, those of us just coming of age at the time were immersed in training. The Tauren hunters in particular were among my best teachers, and probably part of why I'm so comfortable among their people today. It was in those days I first began to discover some form of self-worth; for the first time, I was able to be the hero, the one who brought help to the helpless, instead of the victim. After the centaur were driven out and the Tauren safely settled into Mulgore, their chief told Thrall of a legendary prophet, hidden deep in the mountains to the north. Surely, Cairne said, he could help us divine our next steps. And that he did -- in the form of the Burning Legion, the demonic army of a fallen titan who'd driven the possessed orcs to Azeroth to begin with.
I'll save the grand stories of what happened at Hyjal for those who can tell them more eloquently. I was on the outskirts of it, anyway -- sent on a few small tracking missions, but due to my relative inexperience, I mostly stayed back with my mother at the infirmary. While she commonly deals with the war loa even today, the light heard her call just as clearly. But she and the other healers still had their hands more than full, so I spent a lot of time treating and bandaging the more minor injuries while the priests, shamans and druids tended to the gravely wounded.
I don't remember much in the way of specifics about that war. But I remember being face to face with demons, and for the first time in my life, seeing genuine evil. The petty cruelty of our brother tribes and narrow-minded anger of the humans and centaur paled in comparison to this. That may be another reason that I am so cautious of ascribing villainous traits to other mortal races... I've seen the darkest, cruelest creatures in this universe, beings comprised from the inside out of nothing but pure, seething hate. And I know no champion of the Alliance could ever compare.
After that war, for a brief time, it was finally calm. Battle was never far away -- Allies, quilboars, the betrayal of some of our own on the Echo Isles -- but we never saw such insurmountable odds as we had in the South Seas. Slowly but surely, the Horde began carving out its niche in Kalimdor. Wyverns and kodo caravans took trade, diplomacy and visiting brethren between Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff. After some time we were contacted by the Forsaken of Lordaeron -- like the orcs, once commanded by forces beyond their control, and now hated for acts they committed against their own will. To be frank, their inclusion in the Horde was the first time I ever seriously doubted my new Warchief's judgment. And yet, like every other race, I've met as many bright spots as dark in their number. I still sometimes question their collective motivations, but I won't hesitate to fight alongside one... though I may try to keep them where I can see them. The opposite, meanwhile, seemed to hold true for the Blood Elves -- their previous fierce battles and gruesome defeat at the hands of the Amani made them highly suspicious of me. And yet with time, many of them have become some of my dearest friends.
But any soldier knows that old battle scars never really heal, and while some grudges can be lived with or moved on from, others will never fade. By the time the Dark Portal was reopened, I had become a full-fledged member of the Horde, fully grown and a formidable combatant. When I struck into the remains of Draenor to fight back the Legion a second time, it was as a willing and able soldier, entrenched for the first time on the front lines. My time in Outland was what solidified me, what pulled together all the bits and parts and lessons and truths and experiences from the previous nineteen years and molded them into a woman and a warrior. It felt good to finally be the attacker, to be on the offensive, tracking the Legion down onto their own territory to stop them before they destroyed our world like they had this one. And yet even this war wasn't a mere bloody march from one end of a continent to another -- there was the discovery of the Mag'har, the first tangible evidence of the peaceful, uncorrupted bloodline of the orcs. The justification for everything Thrall had tried so hard to make the Horde stand for, everything he'd fought for years to help his people understand. My heart nearly broke when I saw him first lay eyes on the Greatmother... our larger-than-life Warchief, impossible and godlike as he seemed, who'd come to represent strength and freedom to so many of us, who put so much faith and labor into defending and strengthening entire races of people to whom he owed nothing. To see him finally find a peace and resolution of his own was almost more than my heart could bear.
Then came the Scourge.
I had never faced them, not as a force. The bedraggled remnants in the Ghostlands, the small armies east of Tirisfal, I had seen and bested early on. Though I'd heard the stories from elves and Forsaken alike, and could clearly see what a threat they would have been in larger numbers, I hadn't witnessed it myself.
It's been two months now -- is that really all? -- since I was eating lunch in Orgrimmar with my mother, when one of my leatherworking trainer's other students stuck his head in my front door, shouting that Garrosh Hellscream had challenged the Warchief in the arena. I didn't doubt for a moment that Hellscream was fool enough to do it, so of course I immediately followed him across the Valley of Honor to the seats around the ring. I walked in to precisely what I expected to see: Garrosh charging from one end of the arena floor, and suddenly being yanked skyward by bolts of lightning. (I have long felt Thrall was far too tolerant of young Hellscream's cutlass-rattling bravado, and I thought his comeuppance well overdue.)
Midway through the fight, the walls began shaking. Roars of excitement rose from the crowd, thinking Thrall had some incredible elemental trick up his sleeve, but the puzzled look on his face quickly proved that wrong. Myself and a few other hunters and rogues -- trained in observation -- were the first to hear the frightened screams from outside, piercing through the noise in the arena. I had never before met the Forsaken rogue who darted out the door with me first, nor have I seen her since, but I'll never forget her face as we looked at each other in sheer disbelief, then cast our eyes back to the skies.
I've since learned that the appropriate nomenclature is "frost wyrm", but at the time, it was just some kind of screwy undead thing breathing ice over the fishing hole and scaring the orphans. The terminology doesn't change my reaction. It was the first time since we'd first joined the orcs that I saw my home come under a focused outside attack, and I was positively incensed. How dare they, how dare anybody move against the Horde, after all we'd collectively been through, after everything we'd accomplished, now that we finally had a foothold in the world and dared to think we all might survive? We took to the streets without question, every able-bodied citizen taking steel, shield, bow and magic to the enemy. We repelled the invasion without too much trouble, but this time there was no question of dodging conflict, or even of merely defending ourselves. Any enemy that could stage coordinated attacks on Orgrimmar and Stormwind was too much of a threat to be left standing. The Horde would march on Northrend.
Of my many battles in life, this is the first one that I entered as an adult. I was done growing up, I knew who I was, and the difference has been like night and day. I reported for forward scouting during the last phases of Warsong Hold's construction, and have rarely been back to Kalimdor since. I nearly went to the Warchief myself at the news that Hellscream would be leading the offensive, but with High Overlord Saurfang present to keep him in check, I felt much better. I'm not ashamed to say I ended up as his agent behind the commander's back more than once -- there may well have been a lot more war than there already is if I hadn't been. It astounds me that with calm, level heads like Thrall and Saurfang at the top, the third and fourth levels of hierarchy within the Horde are rife with egomaniacal blowhards who value the supposed glory and honor of warfare over the survival of their people. Going to war in defense of your people and homeland and the rights of the innocent is honorable; going to war just so you can call yourself a warrior is stupid. Leading others into war for the sheer sake of glory, and doing so at the expense of your people's safety, is outright treason.
And then there was the Scourge itself. The Horde has always relied on fear tactics in battle -- our sheer physical size compared to most of our enemies, the echo of war drums and the shouts of our soldiers. We make our ferocity and fearlessness well known, and just the idea of us does significant damage to the opposition before we ever land a blow. Our forces are significantly less effective against an enemy that knows no fear, knows no emotion, only lurches forward with all its might. The sheer mindlessness of the Lich King's forces is their greatest asset. Admittedly, in the scale of individual battles, it's also a weakness -- it's easy to outwit that which has no wits about it to begin with. But in the grander scheme, they rely on the commands of their King, who isn't nearly so easily bested.
I've seen him before. Face to face. More than once. He's looked me in the eye and told me he would be rid of me. And yet, he hasn't managed to be, not yet. He's lost almost everything that ever made him mortal, but he's still human enough to glean arrogance from power. That may be our only hope.
That quality existing in the living human king, meanwhile, is yet another problem to be dealt with. The betrayal at the Wrathgate shook the Horde to the core. I made myself ill for days afterwards. The lengths to which I'd gone to help the apothecaries perfect that plague, this dream weapon against the Scourge, turning their own tactics against them... and the fact that I'd have been down there in the melee if young Saurfang hadn't put me on sniper duty from atop the base. The sheer amount of death. The stink of it. And having, indirectly and misled though it may have been, my fingerprints all over those catapults...
And to him, that pain never existed. He honestly thinks that we staged it. That we sacrificed the son of our greatest hero, and countless of our own soldiers, just for the chance to obliterate a squadron of their troops. That sort of underhanded sneakiness is an entirely Forsaken quality; the vast majority of the Horde just isn't that wily. If we'd wanted to destroy the Alliance forces at Angrathar, we'd have done it the old-fashioned way -- with our teeth.
To be perfectly honest, Sylvanas' second-in-command being a demon lord had never sat quite right with me anyway. And given that she, Thrall and myself all had copious experience fighting the Legion -- the Dark Lady in particular has a knack for Dreadlords -- I never quite feared for the future of the Undercity. But the unexpected intrusion of the king of Stormwind, if one can even find it in one's heart to call such an arrogant, self-centered, narrow-minded and spiteful creature as that a king, made the victory a hollow one. To hear the way he spoke to my Warchief... to throw such callous insults to the man who put so much of himself on the line to protect his people. I know most of the orcs' history, and much of the ways of the old Horde. And I know there are many within our ranks today who'd gladly revert to those old ways in a heartbeat. But Thrall is not one of them. There's only so much that any leader can do to control his people, and with the number of threats facing the Horde at any given time, we usually don't have the time or forces to drive every single dark element out of the underbelly of Orgrimmar. He does his best, and from the few glimpses beyond his public facade I've ever had, is wracked with guilt that he cannot do more.
Orcs did terrible things to Varian Wrynn, once. So he thinks that all orcs, and all their allies, need to be destroyed. Humans have been terrible to me, too, but I have the sense to realize every single one of them isn't like them. At barely two decades old, I've figured this out; the king of the human kingdoms of Azeroth cannot. This doesn't bode well for anyone on either side, not with the Lich King breathing down our necks. The Horde will not move against the Alliance; Thrall won't allow it. But if the Alliance declares a full-fledged attack -- or, for that matter, if some isolated Horde forces decide to attack against the Warchief's orders, and the Alliance retaliates -- it will trigger a full-on war the likes of which neither side has seen since we fought together in Hyjal. Tempers will flare, loyalties will burn, soldiers will be slaughtered, followed quickly by innocents and children on both sides. The battles will rage endlessly until one side finally crumbles, defeated, and either the human or orcish race is wiped entirely from the face of Azeroth. Then, as the exhausted victors drag their battered forces home, the full and untiring armies of the Scourge will descend upon them like locust. And it will be finished.
No amount of faith in the Horde or hatred for the Alliance can make me willing to die with that weighing on my conscience. I can only pray that somewhere below their brash pride, the king of Stormwind and the dissidents of the Horde -- the ones whose actions will decide this outcome -- feel the same way.
This is where we stand today. Both the Horde and Alliance are making inroads against the Scourge, but neither is strong enough to topple them alone. What meager peace manages to stand between us is being more sorely tested every day. It appears more and more clear that the fate of our world lies not in the hands of our mighty leaders, but in the hearts and minds of individual fighters on the front lines... those of us who can put aside our ancient grudges and lifelong hate to defend our world itself from an evil that cares nothing for our differences. Try as we might, there's no reliable way to see the whole of the future. My only wish is that far in the future, this will be read as the life of a warrior of the victorious Horde, one of the thousands of unintentional heroes who drove an unthinkable evil from our world. Whether it be from our triumph or eventual defeat, let the lessons we have learned be retained.
On a warm night in Sholazar I asked my lover about his life. At somewhere past a hundred and eighty years, I knew there must be something interesting there. When he finished his story, he asked the same in kind, and I found some of the details becoming unclear. So for my own recollection, and that of my children and grandchildren when I grow old and my mind fades, and perhaps for all the world many centuries from now when these days become tell-tale and lore, I will write it down here.
I was born to the hunter Zuele and the priestess Jiyoti of the house Riverwing, some twenty-ish years ago, on the Broken Isles in the South Seas. In the interest of honesty I will say I was conceived when my mother was attacked during a Skullsplitter raid on our village. This is something that I hid for a long time and was once ashamed of. It is not public knowledge even now, but I will no longer go to such effort to hide it. It is mostly irrelevant; the troll I know as my father showed no regard for my blood, and raised me as his own, as did the rest of my tribe. Many nations would have rejected a child whose veins ran with the blood of their enemy. The fact that mine did not was my first lesson in individuals' independence from their birthrights.
I do not remember a time without war. From my earliest memories, I was not allowed outside the edges of the village by myself, for fear of murlocs or humans attacking while I was defenseless -- not defenseless, truly, as all trolls are born with some ability to fight. But young and inexperienced enough to be a vulnerable target. I recall going out with my father to train in the hunt. We spent more time hiding, avoiding patrols and explorers, than we spent tracking the beasts we pursued. The irony of trying to hunt while being hunted was not lost on either of us. This aspect of my childhood lent itself well to my later tracking abilities -- I know, instinctively, the behavior of prey, from years of being prey myself.
Battles came and went. There would be weeks of relative peace, then weeks of nearly nightly attacks. There were nights we cowered in crudely dug burrows on the outskirts, watching the men or murlocs (or some nights, both) raiding our already meager food stores, setting torch to homes, clothing, precious family heirlooms, sacred objects, all of it. The innocent, carefree days that I hear other cultures describe as childhood were a rare treat, and even those came with the knowledge that they could dissolve into violent upheaval at any moment.
I don't know what peace is like. Not in the long term, not for more than a few sweet days at a time.
After spending that long surrounded by nothing but enemies -- when it seemed as though Azeroth herself was disgusted with us, trying to scrub us from her surface -- to see an unknown ship come to your shores is not a curiosity but an imminent threat. To see such a creature as an orc walk off it, seemingly built of nothing but muscle, wearing thick armor and carrying massive axes as easily as fishing spears, appears as nothing but Death itself walking forth to give its final judgment. And to see the one they clearly treat as their chief hold his empty hands upward before your meager, battered army, lay his hammer on the ground, and kneel before your leader, seems nothing short of a miracle.
Sen'jin was not old -- he'd just survived longer than most of us -- but he was frail. We all were. Too much battle and too little rest; too much hunting and not enough food. We cut a very different figure then than the trolls the Horde is familiar with today. He did his best to stand proudly and look menacing as he approached the foreign warriors, but even the weakest of them could have bested him, and everyone watching knew it. Through the language barrier they managed to express a mutual lack of aggression, and the short green people set up camp within a few minutes' walk from the village. Many were upset; some thought we shouldn't trust them. I think Sen'jin knew that whether we trusted them or not didn't matter. If their intentions were good, they could prove to be powerful allies... and if not, they'd wipe us out no matter what resistance we showed.
Days passed. Languages were learned. We began to understand the story of the orcs, and they began to understand ours. And then -- they pledged their help. More a savior than the sun after a hurricane, Thrall offered the blades of his people in defense of our tribe and our home. It was the first selfless act I had ever seen done toward the Darkspear from an outsider.
With the help of the young Horde, we began to assert ourselves. We fought back when attacked. We didn't fight to live, we fought to win, and were surprised to find ourselves succeeding. The humans finally gave up on us, but the murlocs were less wise -- even as the tide turned against them, in their amphibious nature they only swam deeper. We'd begun to absorb the orcish passion for honorable battle, and combined with our own thirst for vengeance, it was an unstoppable force. When our leaders took the fight to the sea witch's abode, we young ones pranced about the shore all day, declaring the trout to be murloc-kin and killing them in humiliating ways, waiting for our warriors' triumphant return. The warchief didn't so much as look at us when he stepped off the boat, his expression solemn as he walked back toward the village.
Sen'jin's funeral, of all things, was the most beautiful thing I've yet to witness. The orcs honored him as they did their own fallen heroes, and our traditions combined to create a fitting tribute to our wise, humble leader. While we'd fought together many times, it was the first time I saw our two nations truly come together as one. The shamans' lightning and the smoke from the witch doctors' incense combining, reverent and joyful, solid and yielding, fierce and passionate. He was a hero to the orcs, because despite being of an entirely different race, with different ideals and values, they knew a good person and a strong leader when they saw one. The lesson was reinforced for me: good can be found in all colors, all races, all tongues, just as can evil.
The next day was quiet. There were sporadic murloc attacks, though their ferocity waned without the witch's guidance -- nothing that we couldn't defend ourselves from easily enough. Vol'jin, our apprentice turned sudden leader, spent the day huddled away with Thrall and some of the elders of both our races. At one point I tried to eavesdrop, but they would have to be in the only hut in the village with walls too thick to hear through, wouldn't they? I don't know what was said in that long conversation, but I barely recognized Vol'jin's expression when he came out. In retrospect, I know what I was seeing on his face -- hope. For the first time in my life, and probably in his as well.
The Horde would follow its prophecy and its fate west to Kalimdor, he said. And the Darkspear would be part of it.
I was afraid for half a moment; for some reason, I expected outcry and anger, that we couldn't abandon our home to sail off into unknown seas with people who had just washed out of nowhere. After a moment's pause, I was proven wrong. Shouts went up from orc and troll alike, shouts of triumph, joy, after all these years, hope. One of our young warriors, taken under the wing of an older orc, threw his arm around his mentor's shoulders and let out our new battle cry first: "FOR THE HORDE!"
Even today when those words leave my throat, my heart hearkens back to that first time -- the sound of victory, of determination, of knowing naught but death itself can stop you. The echo of our voices may have shaken the earth as far back as Stranglethorn. I hope the old Gurubashi tribes heard it, and realized the fate they had sown for themselves when they drove us out of the jungle.
My father insisted that Mama and I go to Kalimdor immediately; as one of our most skilled marksmen, he would stay behind with the last of our forces to ensure the murlocs' defeat. He was certain we would be safer with the orcs, an assumption we have yet to quit ribbing him for. We were sent into conflict almost immediately, finding what was left of the noble Shu'halo in the Barrens, driven in circles and to the brink by raiding centaur. There was no question as to what our actions would be; we suddenly found ourselves on the other side of the coin from a few short months before, trying to convince a desperate, paranoid nation that we weren't just one more hateful force to contend with. I'd grown up surrounded by battle, but as a child, and a female one at that, never been in the thick of it. In the new Horde, neither allowance was made. Surrounded by the seasoned fighters of three separate nations, those of us just coming of age at the time were immersed in training. The Tauren hunters in particular were among my best teachers, and probably part of why I'm so comfortable among their people today. It was in those days I first began to discover some form of self-worth; for the first time, I was able to be the hero, the one who brought help to the helpless, instead of the victim. After the centaur were driven out and the Tauren safely settled into Mulgore, their chief told Thrall of a legendary prophet, hidden deep in the mountains to the north. Surely, Cairne said, he could help us divine our next steps. And that he did -- in the form of the Burning Legion, the demonic army of a fallen titan who'd driven the possessed orcs to Azeroth to begin with.
I'll save the grand stories of what happened at Hyjal for those who can tell them more eloquently. I was on the outskirts of it, anyway -- sent on a few small tracking missions, but due to my relative inexperience, I mostly stayed back with my mother at the infirmary. While she commonly deals with the war loa even today, the light heard her call just as clearly. But she and the other healers still had their hands more than full, so I spent a lot of time treating and bandaging the more minor injuries while the priests, shamans and druids tended to the gravely wounded.
I don't remember much in the way of specifics about that war. But I remember being face to face with demons, and for the first time in my life, seeing genuine evil. The petty cruelty of our brother tribes and narrow-minded anger of the humans and centaur paled in comparison to this. That may be another reason that I am so cautious of ascribing villainous traits to other mortal races... I've seen the darkest, cruelest creatures in this universe, beings comprised from the inside out of nothing but pure, seething hate. And I know no champion of the Alliance could ever compare.
After that war, for a brief time, it was finally calm. Battle was never far away -- Allies, quilboars, the betrayal of some of our own on the Echo Isles -- but we never saw such insurmountable odds as we had in the South Seas. Slowly but surely, the Horde began carving out its niche in Kalimdor. Wyverns and kodo caravans took trade, diplomacy and visiting brethren between Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff. After some time we were contacted by the Forsaken of Lordaeron -- like the orcs, once commanded by forces beyond their control, and now hated for acts they committed against their own will. To be frank, their inclusion in the Horde was the first time I ever seriously doubted my new Warchief's judgment. And yet, like every other race, I've met as many bright spots as dark in their number. I still sometimes question their collective motivations, but I won't hesitate to fight alongside one... though I may try to keep them where I can see them. The opposite, meanwhile, seemed to hold true for the Blood Elves -- their previous fierce battles and gruesome defeat at the hands of the Amani made them highly suspicious of me. And yet with time, many of them have become some of my dearest friends.
But any soldier knows that old battle scars never really heal, and while some grudges can be lived with or moved on from, others will never fade. By the time the Dark Portal was reopened, I had become a full-fledged member of the Horde, fully grown and a formidable combatant. When I struck into the remains of Draenor to fight back the Legion a second time, it was as a willing and able soldier, entrenched for the first time on the front lines. My time in Outland was what solidified me, what pulled together all the bits and parts and lessons and truths and experiences from the previous nineteen years and molded them into a woman and a warrior. It felt good to finally be the attacker, to be on the offensive, tracking the Legion down onto their own territory to stop them before they destroyed our world like they had this one. And yet even this war wasn't a mere bloody march from one end of a continent to another -- there was the discovery of the Mag'har, the first tangible evidence of the peaceful, uncorrupted bloodline of the orcs. The justification for everything Thrall had tried so hard to make the Horde stand for, everything he'd fought for years to help his people understand. My heart nearly broke when I saw him first lay eyes on the Greatmother... our larger-than-life Warchief, impossible and godlike as he seemed, who'd come to represent strength and freedom to so many of us, who put so much faith and labor into defending and strengthening entire races of people to whom he owed nothing. To see him finally find a peace and resolution of his own was almost more than my heart could bear.
Then came the Scourge.
I had never faced them, not as a force. The bedraggled remnants in the Ghostlands, the small armies east of Tirisfal, I had seen and bested early on. Though I'd heard the stories from elves and Forsaken alike, and could clearly see what a threat they would have been in larger numbers, I hadn't witnessed it myself.
It's been two months now -- is that really all? -- since I was eating lunch in Orgrimmar with my mother, when one of my leatherworking trainer's other students stuck his head in my front door, shouting that Garrosh Hellscream had challenged the Warchief in the arena. I didn't doubt for a moment that Hellscream was fool enough to do it, so of course I immediately followed him across the Valley of Honor to the seats around the ring. I walked in to precisely what I expected to see: Garrosh charging from one end of the arena floor, and suddenly being yanked skyward by bolts of lightning. (I have long felt Thrall was far too tolerant of young Hellscream's cutlass-rattling bravado, and I thought his comeuppance well overdue.)
Midway through the fight, the walls began shaking. Roars of excitement rose from the crowd, thinking Thrall had some incredible elemental trick up his sleeve, but the puzzled look on his face quickly proved that wrong. Myself and a few other hunters and rogues -- trained in observation -- were the first to hear the frightened screams from outside, piercing through the noise in the arena. I had never before met the Forsaken rogue who darted out the door with me first, nor have I seen her since, but I'll never forget her face as we looked at each other in sheer disbelief, then cast our eyes back to the skies.
I've since learned that the appropriate nomenclature is "frost wyrm", but at the time, it was just some kind of screwy undead thing breathing ice over the fishing hole and scaring the orphans. The terminology doesn't change my reaction. It was the first time since we'd first joined the orcs that I saw my home come under a focused outside attack, and I was positively incensed. How dare they, how dare anybody move against the Horde, after all we'd collectively been through, after everything we'd accomplished, now that we finally had a foothold in the world and dared to think we all might survive? We took to the streets without question, every able-bodied citizen taking steel, shield, bow and magic to the enemy. We repelled the invasion without too much trouble, but this time there was no question of dodging conflict, or even of merely defending ourselves. Any enemy that could stage coordinated attacks on Orgrimmar and Stormwind was too much of a threat to be left standing. The Horde would march on Northrend.
Of my many battles in life, this is the first one that I entered as an adult. I was done growing up, I knew who I was, and the difference has been like night and day. I reported for forward scouting during the last phases of Warsong Hold's construction, and have rarely been back to Kalimdor since. I nearly went to the Warchief myself at the news that Hellscream would be leading the offensive, but with High Overlord Saurfang present to keep him in check, I felt much better. I'm not ashamed to say I ended up as his agent behind the commander's back more than once -- there may well have been a lot more war than there already is if I hadn't been. It astounds me that with calm, level heads like Thrall and Saurfang at the top, the third and fourth levels of hierarchy within the Horde are rife with egomaniacal blowhards who value the supposed glory and honor of warfare over the survival of their people. Going to war in defense of your people and homeland and the rights of the innocent is honorable; going to war just so you can call yourself a warrior is stupid. Leading others into war for the sheer sake of glory, and doing so at the expense of your people's safety, is outright treason.
And then there was the Scourge itself. The Horde has always relied on fear tactics in battle -- our sheer physical size compared to most of our enemies, the echo of war drums and the shouts of our soldiers. We make our ferocity and fearlessness well known, and just the idea of us does significant damage to the opposition before we ever land a blow. Our forces are significantly less effective against an enemy that knows no fear, knows no emotion, only lurches forward with all its might. The sheer mindlessness of the Lich King's forces is their greatest asset. Admittedly, in the scale of individual battles, it's also a weakness -- it's easy to outwit that which has no wits about it to begin with. But in the grander scheme, they rely on the commands of their King, who isn't nearly so easily bested.
I've seen him before. Face to face. More than once. He's looked me in the eye and told me he would be rid of me. And yet, he hasn't managed to be, not yet. He's lost almost everything that ever made him mortal, but he's still human enough to glean arrogance from power. That may be our only hope.
That quality existing in the living human king, meanwhile, is yet another problem to be dealt with. The betrayal at the Wrathgate shook the Horde to the core. I made myself ill for days afterwards. The lengths to which I'd gone to help the apothecaries perfect that plague, this dream weapon against the Scourge, turning their own tactics against them... and the fact that I'd have been down there in the melee if young Saurfang hadn't put me on sniper duty from atop the base. The sheer amount of death. The stink of it. And having, indirectly and misled though it may have been, my fingerprints all over those catapults...
And to him, that pain never existed. He honestly thinks that we staged it. That we sacrificed the son of our greatest hero, and countless of our own soldiers, just for the chance to obliterate a squadron of their troops. That sort of underhanded sneakiness is an entirely Forsaken quality; the vast majority of the Horde just isn't that wily. If we'd wanted to destroy the Alliance forces at Angrathar, we'd have done it the old-fashioned way -- with our teeth.
To be perfectly honest, Sylvanas' second-in-command being a demon lord had never sat quite right with me anyway. And given that she, Thrall and myself all had copious experience fighting the Legion -- the Dark Lady in particular has a knack for Dreadlords -- I never quite feared for the future of the Undercity. But the unexpected intrusion of the king of Stormwind, if one can even find it in one's heart to call such an arrogant, self-centered, narrow-minded and spiteful creature as that a king, made the victory a hollow one. To hear the way he spoke to my Warchief... to throw such callous insults to the man who put so much of himself on the line to protect his people. I know most of the orcs' history, and much of the ways of the old Horde. And I know there are many within our ranks today who'd gladly revert to those old ways in a heartbeat. But Thrall is not one of them. There's only so much that any leader can do to control his people, and with the number of threats facing the Horde at any given time, we usually don't have the time or forces to drive every single dark element out of the underbelly of Orgrimmar. He does his best, and from the few glimpses beyond his public facade I've ever had, is wracked with guilt that he cannot do more.
Orcs did terrible things to Varian Wrynn, once. So he thinks that all orcs, and all their allies, need to be destroyed. Humans have been terrible to me, too, but I have the sense to realize every single one of them isn't like them. At barely two decades old, I've figured this out; the king of the human kingdoms of Azeroth cannot. This doesn't bode well for anyone on either side, not with the Lich King breathing down our necks. The Horde will not move against the Alliance; Thrall won't allow it. But if the Alliance declares a full-fledged attack -- or, for that matter, if some isolated Horde forces decide to attack against the Warchief's orders, and the Alliance retaliates -- it will trigger a full-on war the likes of which neither side has seen since we fought together in Hyjal. Tempers will flare, loyalties will burn, soldiers will be slaughtered, followed quickly by innocents and children on both sides. The battles will rage endlessly until one side finally crumbles, defeated, and either the human or orcish race is wiped entirely from the face of Azeroth. Then, as the exhausted victors drag their battered forces home, the full and untiring armies of the Scourge will descend upon them like locust. And it will be finished.
No amount of faith in the Horde or hatred for the Alliance can make me willing to die with that weighing on my conscience. I can only pray that somewhere below their brash pride, the king of Stormwind and the dissidents of the Horde -- the ones whose actions will decide this outcome -- feel the same way.
This is where we stand today. Both the Horde and Alliance are making inroads against the Scourge, but neither is strong enough to topple them alone. What meager peace manages to stand between us is being more sorely tested every day. It appears more and more clear that the fate of our world lies not in the hands of our mighty leaders, but in the hearts and minds of individual fighters on the front lines... those of us who can put aside our ancient grudges and lifelong hate to defend our world itself from an evil that cares nothing for our differences. Try as we might, there's no reliable way to see the whole of the future. My only wish is that far in the future, this will be read as the life of a warrior of the victorious Horde, one of the thousands of unintentional heroes who drove an unthinkable evil from our world. Whether it be from our triumph or eventual defeat, let the lessons we have learned be retained.
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