Satisfying Needs

Gortak looked out over the rolling green fields of Shadowmoon Valley, his spyglass held to his eye as he scanned the distant terrain. Standing atop the barricade that his twenty or so Iron Horde orcs had created around their damaged supply wagon, he was essentially Warchief of his own little fortress. Thus far the Draenei had left him and his orcs alone, more concerned with the aftermath at Karabor than with a small group of soldiers who seemed content to eat the supplies they'd been traveling with while waiting for back-up or orders.

As he moved the spyglass across the horizon, he finally spotted the sight that one of the scouts had reported; a lone figure rode towards the encampment. He adjusted some lenses on the spyglass and the image became clearer. A blonde haired human galloped towards them at high speed, her black horse seemingly having blue flames licking around its hooves. He could make out few details about the woman beyond the fact that she appeared to be wearing a black dress and had glowing blue eyes.

Gortak grunted and shook his head; clearly the woman was either insane or a spellcaster, given that she was riding alone and unarmored towards a hostile position. That she knew they were there was beyond a doubt; her course lead directly towards the gap in the makeshift barricade that the orcs had made. He lowered his spyglass and folded it up, gesturing to the orcs behind him, "Snipe her."

One of his top scouts grinned and pulled out his long-barelled rifle. Leaning on the edge of the earthen and wood barricade, he sighted down the scope, adjusting a knob on the side of the lens as he took aim. A moment later his rifle emitted a loud crack and recoiled as it discharged. In the distance, the blonde woman shuddered once as she was struck with the projectile, and the orcs cheered.

Until they realized she was still riding towards them.

Gortak frowned and brought his spyglass up again. She did indeed ride towards them, a gaping hole in the front of her dress showing she had been struck. He'd studied the races of the so called 'Alliance' carefully, and he knew he was dealing with a human. As far as he was aware, a bullet would definitely resolve any problems with unarmed civilians or captured prisoners, so why was she still riding? Annoyed, he held his fist up and gave a signal. In the camp behind him, five more orcs with rifles took up positions, and they began to fire on the woman as Gortak watched.

Her body shuddered. Dirt exploded from the ground around her steed. Gunpowder filled the air around them. And yet despite all of this, she continued to ride towards them, getting ever closer. Gortak lowered his spyglass, now easily able to see the bloody woman as she galloped towards the encampment. Concerned now, he signaled again, his men opening up in a full barrage, "Shoot her horse out from under her!"

Dozens and then hundreds of rounds cracked out from the orc position. The ground around the woman exploded as shots slammed into it or ricocheted off the armored horse. The steed gave a rather disturbing howl, but continued to gallop towards them even as black looking gore exploded from it. Gortak cursed and turned towards one of his orcs, yanking the rifle from his hands, "Give me that! It looks like if I want something done right I have to do it myself!"

With that he stood atop the barricade, holding the gun at his hip and pumping round after round into the steed that was only a few dozen yards away now. The beast shuddered as its flesh exploded, giving off another howl before one of its legs snapped and it collapsed into a heap, its rider falling off to land motionless beside it only a few feet from the barricade. With a satisfied grunt, Gortak tossed his rifle back to the orc behind him, "That's how it's done."

The orcs on the barricade cheered, and Gortak gestured down to the corpse, "Check it."

One of the orcs nodded and scurried down the side of the earthen barricade, rifle in hand. He reached the corpse of the woman, his rifle reaching out to prod her. After a moment he looked back at Gortak and nodded, and the orc turned away, "Clean the mess up."

Even as he uttered the command, an unearthly wail came from the ground below the barricade. He turned in shock as he saw the blonde woman rise up, a glowing sword in her hand plunging through the back of his soldier and out his gut. The horrific wound would take hours to kill him, and the orc screamed as the blade was twisted. Gortak opened his mouth to shout a command but before he could, pandemonium broke out.

The blonde woman flicked her sword, the dying orc falling from the blade. She pointed up at the barricade, tendrils of black magic lashing out of her hand and wrapping around another orc. He was yanked down to her and impaled on her sword as she howled again, this time killing her target. The corpse fell to the ground and then began to twitch even as the blonde woman began to climb the barricade, rising up behind her with the same blue glow in its eyes, drawing a weapon on his companions.

"Kill her! Kill her quickly!" Gortak shouted, drawing his own ax. The blonde woman wailed again, even as several orcs pumped rounds into her from their rifles. The bullets passed through her body and she continued on, as if she didn't need to breathe and her organs were unimportant. She impaled a third orc before whirling and lopping an arm off of a fourth.

And then she was too close to fire rifles at.

Orcs charged in, and the woman went berserk. Her blade met an ax in the air and then came low to remove a leg from one of the orcs. Another was smashed in the face with the hilt and then beheaded, even as the woman ignored a sword cut to her side. Her eerie wailing continued, even as she slaughtered, the violence something that would have made any of Gortak's best soldiers proud.

He charged her, only to have her whirl and badly gash his arm, forcing him to fall back. Orcs died around him, the fact seemingly impossible considering that he was fighting only a single human woman. Several that died rose, that glow in their eyes as they attacked the woman's enemies. Those she didn't kill she maimed, their screams rising up above the sounds of battle and seeming to energize the woman, encouraging her to move quicker and strike more and more deadly blows.

Gortak fell back towards the command tent he had set up, blood gushing from his wounded arm. His honor guard rushed to him and he waved them on, stumbling into his command center and desperately seeking out something to stem the flow of blood from his limb. Howls rose up from outside the tent, and Gortak knew the woman had met his honor guards in combat. The sound of steel clashing on steel echoed out, a fierce battle errupting outside of the canvas tent even as Gortak found a tourniquet and wrapped it around his upper arm to stop himself from bleeding to death.

Silence fell outside of the tent, the only sounds the moans of the mortally wounded. A shadow passed across the entrance to the tent, blocking the light there before a glowing blue blade parted the tent flaps and allowed the blonde woman to enter. Gortak growled and lunged at her with his ax, the weak attack easily deflected. The woman responded by lashing out and lopping off Gortak's unwounded arm, the limb falling to the floor as blood gushed from him. In shock, he slid to the floor, the woman standing over him.

"H-how...how c-could a human survive t-this...?" he muttered in broken Common. He had studied the enemy well, and wanted his question answered before he died.

As she stood over the orc, Beckyann Eastberg sighed. A minor wound on her face glowed with green magics, the flesh there knitting together as necromancy closed the damage. Behind her, the howls of the dying were like a sweet beverage to her and she inhaled them deeply, shuddering with obscene joy at their suffering. She looked down at the mortally wounded creature and grinned, "You have made the same mistake that I myself have made; you assume I am a human. In point of fact, I am something far worse now. It is a lesson we both should remember."

She smiled, bending down to plunge her weapon into the orc's gut, sighing again as he howled, her need to feed finally sated with the agony and suffering of the dying Iron Horde orcs. She twisted the blade, severing the creature's spine and finally killing him, turning to leave the tent.

As she moved, her boot connected with the orc's dismembered limb. She glanced down, pausing as she saw a tattoo on his arm. She studied it, noting how it depicted a bond of love between the now-deceased orc and his mate. Deep inside, something stirred within Beckyann and she found herself considering the orc's life, his hopes and dreams and fears. His loves.

A shuddering wail came up from deep within Beckyann's chest as she allowed the emotions to crash over her again, remembering her own love and the reason why she had come to this state to begin with. Wracking sobs escaped her, and she sunk down to the floor, sitting in a pool of gore as she cried bitterly, the moans of the dying outside mixing with her heartache.

She cried for a good hour, letting all of the sorrow at what she'd done to Frederick, to herself, escape her. In the encampment beyond the remaining orcs slowly perished, their death-agony feeding her even as she slowly freed her soul of the weight of her guilt. After a time, the black tears stopped running from her eyes, and she found herself idly picking dried and congealed blood from the edge of her runeblade, her heart somewhat lighter for letting all of it out.

Finally, when she felt she'd let enough of it go, she rose from the sticky mess within the tent, sheathing her gore-crusted blade and walking from the dark confines of that place into the killing field beyond. As she studied the corpses of her enemies, she realized at last that the answer was not so simple, not so black and white. What she had said to the orc was true; she was not a human any longer. But it was also wrong, because somewhere deep within her, she still craved to be who and what she once was. It was a war that would never end in her thoughts, and allowing it to drown her in sorrow and freeze her into immobility would serve no one and nothing any good.

At last seeing a glimmer of light beyond the depression that had gripped her for so long, Beckyann walked confidently out of the camp, heading towards the nearest Alliance garrison. She was a filthy mess, and she'd be damned if she let anyone see her this way until she got cleaned up.

Depression

The room was almost pitch black, with only flickering, pale blue scourgelight coming from lamps that had begun to run low on magic. The chamber had not been disturbed in some time, a fine layer of dust having settled over all of the objects within the dim confines of the enclosed space. The air was stagnant, the scent of dried flowers mixing with the stench of decay and rot.

In the darkness, a figure lay in repose, its unmoving form stretched out upon a regal looking bed, hands crossed at the chest and black dress draped around it. Unmoving, the woman's chest did not rise and fall, and her arms were crossed over her bosom as if someone had laid her in state after her passing. A fine layer of dust clung to tanned flesh, time having taken its toll on both the corpse and the bed upon which is rested.

The room had been thus for weeks, or was it months now? It was had to recall exactly when things had come to such a state. When a mind is locked in a downward spiral, constantly battling itself, time begins to lose meaning. When one has no physical requirements to care for, it becomes even more ethereal, fading away to a nothing that can be ignored.

At what point did one admit that they were in the wrong? After having come to such a realization, for how long could one lash oneself with blame? Was it possible to remain in such a state of self-loathing forever? Worse, when the cause of such self-loathing was the result of pain inflicted on others, when was enough suffering and penance really enough? Such thoughts went beyond merely feeling inadequate or being 'upset' and delved deep into a fetid stew in which one regularly reviewed one's own character and found it wanting, until it was decided most firmly that one's existence was a pointless waste of time and that one had absolutely no purpose in anything anymore, freezing a person into immobility.

A person might think about taking their own life once they reached such a depth, and yet that was not an option. When life had fled, what was left but a seething cauldron of hateful spirit that would continue on exactly as it had when it was alive? When one knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no end to the suffering and that the only way to move past such thoughts was to forgive oneself, it became clear that there would be no victory and that wallowing in misery and self-loathing would be a permanent course.

Of course, nature had its own cures for such things, even when one existed in an unnatural state. In the darkness, the unmoving figure shuddered once as wracking agony passed through the undead form. In the blackness of the room, two burning points of scourge-light flared to life as eyes that had been closed for so long sprang open, unable to process the sudden pain.

The figure shot up out of her 'final' resting place, her mouth opening and a chilling wail echoing from her, the sound penetrating the stone walls of the sealed chamber and carrying far into the corridors beyond. A sound of terrible pain and hate, it was like a banshee's shriek and was enough to alert others who also dwelled in that place to come investigate.

In a moment pounding began on the door, the inhabitants of Acherus concerned that someone had summoned or accidentally released a banshee within the confines of the structure. When the pounding was met with more wailing, those outside of the chamber began to beat against the barricade, eventually bursting into the room and allowing a stream of torchlight to illuminate the dim chamber beyond. They entered warily, blades drawn as they took in the scene.

A blonde-haired woman was crouched on the edge of the bed, one hand grasping a bedpost as she glared at them. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her body shuddering with the agony that came from a death knight neglecting to feed herself for weeks or months at a time. Her hair was ragged and fell around her face, making her look like a wild animal as she dug her overly long nails into the wood that she grasped.

"C-captain Eastberg...?" one of the death knights murmured as he took in the scene. Beckyann Eastberg had not been seen for many months, and those who had been nominally under her command had assumed that she had either deserted or died long ago. Her quarters had been sealed, and no one had thought to enter them.

The figure on the edge of the bed actually hissed at them, like a scourge creature. The two death knights that had entered the room gave each other a look before advancing towards her, their blades drawn. "Captain...have you been in here the entire time?"

There was no response beyond additional hissing, but as one of the death knights drew close enough, the blonde figure sprang from the bed, her body flying through the air and colliding with his, hurling him back against a dresser. Although she was unarmored, the blonde woman's weight was enough to unbalance the death knight, and he stumbled sideways, tripping over a pile of discarded clothing in the room. He fell with a crash, Beckyann landing atop him and battering him with her hands, which clawed at his face and neck like a zombie might.

"Captain! Compose yourself!" the second knight yelled. He brought his own blade around and smacked the flat of it against Beckyann's head, hurling her off the first knight. She tumbled, her victim rising and cursing as black blood oozed from the superficial wounds her nails had made. A third death knight entered the room behind the duo, his weapon also drawn.

Beckyann turned rapidly in place on the floor, spinning around and launching herself at the knights again. This time they were prepared for her attack, and she was body-checked by her first plate armored foe. The second sprang at her, wrapping his arms around her waist and driving her to the floor, his weight falling atop her. She struggled beneath him, inarticulate hissing coming from her.

"Damn...would one of you grab her legs? She's going to get free..." the knight on top of Beckyann yelled. One of his companions dashed over and essentially sat on Beckyann's thrashing legs, while the third dropped his runeblade and ran around the group, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the floor.

The knight on top of Beckyann looked down into her eyes, seeing nothing but wild hate and a complete lack of conscious awareness. He reached down and slapped the blonde woman hard, the action only eliciting more hissing and additional thrashing. "Captain! Get hold of yourself! You haven't fed have you?! What in the nether is wrong with you? You know better than this!"

The beast beneath him merely hissed some more, and he slapped her again and again. The blows seemed to dull her fury for a moment, and after a time and a good, sound beating, she calmed enough that she was no longer thrashing, her glowing eyes fixed on his. He leaned closer, studying her expression for a moment.

"It looks like she's totally gone," the knight said, turning to look at his companions. "We're going to have to destro-"

As he was speaking, Beckyann lurched up, her teeth sinking into his neck and ripping the flesh from it. Although the wound was superficial, the plagues within Beckyann's mouth ate at his flesh enough to cause him to howl, black blood gushing from the hole she had torn in his neck. The pain she inflicted on the death knight made Beckyann shudder, her eyes dilating for a moment and glowing more brightly. It had been just enough to pull her from the brink, although not enough to stop her from her need to feed.

Beckyann shuddered again, and her eyes snapped into focus just in time to see his fist descending towards her face. The snap of the blow rocked her head to the side, and when she looked back at him, black blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She blinked a few times, her voice low, "W-why are you on me..."

"Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with you?!" the knight on top of Beckyann cursed. "You're like an animal. You need to feed now. Or at least get the fuck out of this fortress. I don't care if you're a Captain or not, wild scourge are thrown off the edge or used for parts. So either get control of yourself right now, or we'll cut your head off ourselves! Got it?!"

Beckyann took in the knights looming over her and nodded once, blood still oozing from the welts on her face. When she spoke, her voice was a croaking echo, "My blade. My horse. Show me where to go."

The death knight on top of Beckyann rose off her, the other two nodding and releasing her. One of them turned and stumbled through the darkness of her chambers, muttering curses to himself as he stumbled over her things. He came back into the light thrown from the open doorway, a runeblade in hand. He tossed the weapon, letting it land unceremoniously on her body where she lay on the floor.

"Get up and get the fuck out or I'm reporting this to the General. There's a portal opened to a place called Draenor below the citadel where you can be a fucking scourge construct all you want without us having to deal with you. Go kill some orcs and when you feel like yourself again, we can talk about what you owe the three of us for not reporting this. I'm thinking we're about to get some r&r time in," the death knight that had pinned Beckyann said with a smirk.

Beckyann rose from the floor slowly, her runeblade in her hand and her dress falling around her. She bowed her head, studying the blade and watching as the runes on it began to glow. She knew that the knight was right, and had every right to talk to her like he just had. Her rank meant nothing if she was going to become scourge because she hadn't fed herself. Light, how long had it been? Weeks? Months? A year? She didn't even know, but she could barely think straight and she knew that if she didn't kill soon, she would lose herself in it permanently.

She glanced at one of the knights, her eyes meeting his and understanding passing between them. They all had to face this after all, and she had let the blackness inside her mind blind her to the reality of what she was now. Her voice was more steady when she replied, "Thank you. I will go now. If the others come looking for me..."

"I will tell them that you set out on a patrol and we haven't heard from you in a week or so," the knight replied, his tone softening. "Go before it's too late."

Beckyann nodded once and then turned and walked from the room, not even bothering to don her armor as she left. There was no time to waste, because if she didn't feed soon, her depression would be the least of her worries.

After she left, two of the death knights looked at the one who had spoken, a question in their gazes. He grinned at them and shook his head, "Look, it's a win win. Either she is destroyed outright and we don't have to deal with her ever again, or she gets better and then she owes us a favor. Either way, we don't have to wonder what she is doing. Safer this way."

The other two nodded in agreement and in unison the three left Beckyann's room, pulling the oft-kicked in door closed behind them, leaving the blackness of the room to itself once more.

Mari Makeover

Mariskka squirmed under the heavy fabric, her view completely obscured for a moment as she shimmied in place, letting the material fall over her frame and ride down to her hips. The cloth had metal rings sewn into it, making the entire garment much heavier than a normal dress but not so heavy that it would hamper her movements. Even so, putting the thing on was quite the task, and she struggled for a few moments more before the dress fell into place around her hooves.

She sighed, looking down at herself and biting her lip, unsure of the entire thing. The past few months had brought many changes to her life, and this outfit was the least of them. After the fall of the Alliance vanguard at the Dark Portal, it had been one desperate battle after another, with the native Draenei of this Draenor aiding the Alliance as they escaped the Iron Horde and eventually began to recoup their losses and set up fortifications.

To Mariskka's surprise, she had not only been hailed as a champion by many of the Alliance soldiers she had fought beside, but her wisdom and knowledge of the original Draenor had been put to work in helping to guide Alliance forces through friendly territory and to make contact with more of the native peoples of Draenor. To her everlasting surprise, Mariskka had been asked to help set up a small fortification where Alliance soldiers could seek refuge and rebuild their forces. She had gone from being a wandering nomad content with communing with the elements to having soldiers saluting her and calling her 'commander' in a matter of months, and the changes had shocked her to her core.

She sighed again before stepping out from behind the privacy screen in her quarters, her hooves clicking lightly on the stone floor. In her room beyond, another Draenei waited for her, a thread and needle in hand along with a tape measure. The other Draenei clicked her tongue, quickly walking over to Mariskka and circling her, studying her critically.

The armor was a mixture of white and light blue colors, resembling the skies of Azeroth or perhaps the foam of a running, burbling river somewhere on that world. Mariskka had picked the fabric out, having fallen in love with it the minute she set eyes on it. It reminded her of the element of water, which she was deeply connected with, and if she had to wear something like this armor then it was going to be personally meaningful to her.

"Oh yes, this will do nicely, Mariskka," the tailor said in her native tongue, nodding in appreciation of her handiwork. "You look absolutely stunning."

Mariskka looked down at herself, enjoying the feel of the armor. It had been made by the Draenei living here, and reminded her of where she had come from and who she had been. Once, many years ago, she could have been found wearing a lighter dress or cloth armor that looked very similar to what she now wore. Back when she was an artificer and lived a peaceful life on a Draenor that was not so dissimilar from this one.

She looked up, glancing at herself in a full length mirror that the tailor had set up, studying the Draenei looking back at her in the reflection. The woman there did indeed look beautiful; she looked like she belonged here on this world, amongst her people. It was surreal to see such a sight after the decades of wandering and scrounging for armor that Mariskka had done; the only similarities between how she had been dressed just yesterday and today were the small metallic and stone fetishes she still wove in her hair. She nodded at herself, hearing the satisfying sounds of the small object clacking against each other as she moved.

"Thank you...it is very beautiful. I've not worn something like this in so very long," Mariskka finally replied, also in her native tongue.

"A commander must look the part," the tailor said with another smile. "Now your soldiers will know who their leader is."

Mariskka remained silent, studying herself in the mirror again. She shifted in position, admiring the way the artfully crafted armor fell into place and moved with her, light as a feather. She did indeed look like something more than she felt she was, and that was the point. When she had first come through the portal, she had fought beside the soldiers and suffered with them. Now she was expected to lead them, and they did not understand her or her ways. The people who inhabited Draenor did not understand the ragged Draenei that had appeared before them wielding the shamanistic powers that the orcs had once used. Likewise, the soldiers who were assigned to the fortification she was to command did not understand the Draenei who did not look like a paragon of the Light that so many of the others resembled.

It had been hard to maintain morale, to have the others listen to her when the wind whispered to her of dangers that approached them. The soldiers had been restless, had been unruly at times. It broke her heart, for she wanted to serve them, to help them survive the danger of the Iron Horde that she knew threatened not only their lives, but the very existence of their race. She had seen what the orcs could do, after all. Seen it on her own world so long ago.

There had been only one group that had taken to their new commander well; the Rangari. These rangers of the Draenei had understood her warnings, had appreciated her skills with shamanistic magic, with the natural world. They had encouraged her, had followed her commands, and had taught her something important; just as they had learned to blend into the environment to serve as scouts, so must Mariskka blend into the general population of the Alliance so that she could best serve them. Her appearance, her presence, was as important as her words and skills. They had convinced her to bring in one of the local tailors to help her look the part, to help her help the people that were relying on her.

And so here she was; wearing a set of mail armor that so resembled the dresses she wore long ago. An errant gust of wind whipped through the room, stirring the skirts of the armored dress playfully. It was the wind, caressing her form and giving its silent approval, the joy of the elements apparent in its game. Mariskka smiled, nodding at the reflection before turning to look at the tailor standing beside her, "Thank you so much. This is what was needed. I see this now. I will do my best to fill the role that this armor requires."

The tailor laid a hand on Mariskka's shoulder, squeezing it gently, "I am sure you will do fine. I have heard of your deeds and what you've done to help the people here. Come to me if you need more work done; I will work with our artificers to help craft more equipment for you and yours. It is you we should be thanking."

As the tailor finished speaking, a human burst into the room, his expression one of urgency. He took three steps into the room, his gait faltering and his eyes going wide as he took in his formerly ragged looking commander in her new dress, "Commander...I....Light, you look gorgeous!"

Mariskka felt her cheeks flush a deep blue in embarrassment. It seemed when one problem was solved, others would pop up. Such was life she supposed. The wind whipped through her hair, setting her silver-white locks to blowing around her face for a moment, its joke making her smile before she shook her head, the fetishes in her hair clacking again. She replied to the soldier in Common, somehow keeping the mirth from her voice, "Thank you! Are needing something?"

The soldier came to attention and saluted her. It was the first time one of the humans had truly and sincerely meant the gesture, and it made Mariskka happy. "Yes, Commander! The scouts have just returned and have urgent news from Talador. Your presence is requested in the command center."

"Ah, is always being trouble here, yes," Mariskka replied, her Common somewhat better than it had been in many years thanks to her practicing. "Let us be going then. Will be seeing what is so important!"

With that the soldier saluted her again and marched out of the room. Mariskka turned to give the tailor one more nod of thanks, only to see the woman beaming proudly at her and nodding at her in encouragement.

With a smile on her face, Mariskka set out to do what she had come here to do; help the Alliance and help the people of Draenor. Little did she know that she had been helping herself all along.   

Diary of a Magus- Part 3

Morning of January the ninth,

After several days of constant work on Azuremyst Isle, I feel that my body is beginning to become accustomed to moving and doing things once more. Although I am still exhausted at the end of each day, it is the good type of exhaustion one feels after a hard day's labor. I think in a few weeks it will not be so tiring for me to travel or use my magic, although in the case of the latter I must take care not to over-exert myself.

Today I will head towards Bloodmyst Isle, which I have been told was more contaminated than Azuremyst and which still has an abundant amount of work to be done with its restoration, despite the years that have passed. Before I depart though I wanted to write of something that has given me much to think of and that may be a lesson for me going forward.

I met a race of creatures called 'Furbolgs' while working on Azuremyst Isle. These creatures, much like those who make up the 'Alliance' have been welcoming and helpful to me. At first I was wary, for how could I not be after what happened on Draenor, but after a time I have seen their relative good intentions. This made me consider the rest of those who are part of this Alliance. 

I have been told, and can confirm from interviewing some of our allies, that once upon a time they encountered the Man'ari, and that they defeated them and the Legion in battle. This happened not once, but on multiple occasions on this world. I question how this can be, when I have seen untold numbers of worlds fall before them and have fled from them for so many eons. There is something about this place, about the varied peoples that call it home, that can repulse the Legion's advance. That there is magic here powerful enough to harm the Man'ari is astounding to me.

In addition, it seems that the demon-fueled orcish horde that laid my own people low caused great destruction on this world, but were checked and defeated. Some have even said the orcs living here now have been freed of demonic influence, not that I would ever trust them even for a moment. 

When taken all together, the facts that I have gleaned from my first walking in this world are encouraging. I am beginning to understand why we have not fled again, to go re-found our civilization elsewhere. Could it be that here we will finally make a stand, with allies who understand the threat the Legion poses? I want to believe with all my heart that this is the case, but I will keep myself prepared in the event that it is all yet another dream on the wind. 

 

Diary of a Magus- Part 2

Morning of the eighth of January:

I feel weary today; bone tired one might say. Yesterday I spent some time aiding those in Azuremyst Isle. Although the isle has mostly been tamed and much of the contamination that the Exodar apparently spread across the island in its crash has been cleaned up, there are still the odd rogue pockets of malformed creatures or irradiated crystals that require attention.

Using my magic is taxing to me, and I fear I still have not fully recovered my strength from my incapacitation. I can only muster enough strength to cast the most basic of spells that any apprentice should have little issue with, and yet when I am done I find my head spinning and that I am short of breath.

The priests say I should rest longer, should spend more time in study and prayer instead of trying to go out into the world yet, but I cannot sit idle any longer. I must regain my strength and ready myself for the next time my magic is needed. If anything, my injuries and near death experience have proven to me that I was not prepared enough the first time.

I've had a good night's rest, and despite this nagging weariness I am determined to set out once more. I have already met some of the peoples that have allied with us and heard remarkable tales about their fight against the legion. This gives me hope as I continue to heal that I am joining something grand and new that perhaps will at last tip the balance in our favor. If not, I will be prepared for whatever is to come. I must be ready. 

Diary of a Magus- Part 1

Early winter, morning of the seventh day of January: 

It has been several months since I awakened in the Exodar. During that time, I have learned much of current events that have affected my people. I am still in shock that I have been unconscious for so long. It is personally embarrassing that I put such a burden on the others with my incapacitation. I will have to make amends once I am strong enough to do so.

In regards to my strength, it is returning to me slowly. When I first awakened, I had no access to my power whatsoever. In such a state, I was unable to leave the Exodar for fear that I would be in danger without the protection of the Vindicators watching over me. After many months of recovery, I have found my power slowly returning, although I am only capable of performing the most rudimentary of spells.

I ventured out of the Exodar for the first time yesterday. The lands where it crashed, which I have been told are called Azuremyst and Bloodmyst Isles, are quite beautiful. Unfortunately the Exodar caused much contamination when it broke apart. In the intervening time, our people have made efforts to clean up here, and have had much success. Although I am late in lending a hand, I believe I am well enough now to aid in this process, and then to see where I can apply my talents in the world beyond.

I have heard that this 'Alliance' that we are now a part of has ventured through a portal back to Draenor, but not the Draenor from which I came. Once I am well enough, I will follow them, for there is much to be gained from the resources and magical reservoirs that were once on that planet. That is the future however; for now I will continue to heal, and do what little tasks that my feeble magics allow.

I will write more as I heal and travel, in the hopes that the journey itself is a useful learning tool. 

In the Dawn Times

Biarathiel winced, stretching her right arm out to the side and then bringing it up over her head and feeling the muscles in the lithe limb pop as they flexed. The bitter cold winds of Frostfire howled outside of the command building of her garrison, and she shivered despite the goblin-made gas burner that kept the interior of the building warm. The numbing cold seemed to try to make its way into every crack and cranny of the structure; a constant nuisance and invader. What was worse, it made her weary body ache bitterly in places where she'd been wounded in distant times.

With a sigh she brought her arm down again, rubbing it gently with her left hand at her right elbow, trying to soothe the raging pain that popped up after an excursion into the cold to check for more clues as to Telatha's whereabouts. There was only one solution for the ache; something she'd learned long ago. With a smile she began to hum to herself as she walked over to the small camp stove set up in the corner of her personal quarters. She lit a fire in the small gas burner, setting a pot of water to boil on top of it before turning towards a very small table that sat beside the hammock where she made her bed.

Reaching into a nearby jar, she took out several types of dried herbs and began to chop them up with a knife, the herbal remedy for the aches something she'd used a million times in the past. Soon she'd brew a nice, warm tea with a hint of the herbs in it and the pain would be numbed for a time. She shook her head, her mind wandering back to the time when her body didn't ache quite so much; to a time when her arm had originally been injured....

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*Long ago, far before the fall of Quel'Thalas to the Scourge. In Amani catacombs in Quel'Thalas."

Tel'athar Dayfire crouched low in the long, rough corridor, his shield held in front of him, a short sword steady in his other hand. He looked over his shoulder, concern on his face as he met Braeth'el's gaze, "She should have been back by now."

"She'll be back. You know Bia; sometimes curiosity gets the best of her and she tarries when she shouldn't," Braeth'el replied. Though his words were light-hearted, Tel'athar could sense the underlying concern for his sister in his tone.

"If she's not back in another minute or two, I'm going in there to get her whether she likes it or not," Tel'athar declared. He received no protest from Braeth'el, and the two knew that they would destroy the entire tunnel complex brick by brick if need be to get Biarathiel back in one piece. Her scouting mission had gone on far too long and both felt the rising anxiety caused by waiting.

Fortunately, the fears of the two Quel'dorei were alleviated a moment later when a figure stumbled from the end of the corridor, hurrying towards them. They could see the blue glow of Biarathiel's eyes as she approached. As she drew near the torches that lit the dim stones of the corridor, both elves could see that blood trailed down her arm and that she was wincing in pain.

"Bia!" Tel'athar shouted, rushing forward to help support the elf as she drew near. He could see that the wounds were superficial, perhaps caused by a blunt impact with the spiked head of a mace or morningstar. "What happened?!"

"There's an Amani voodoo priest in there, just as we feared," Biarathiel said quietly. "He's hexed a number of elves and also conjured the spirits of the mummified trolls that were buried in these catacombs. Basically the complex back there is full of zombies, and they're headed this way. We need to get out of here and get backup."

From further up the corridor the trio heard the sounds of shuffling and strange moans as the voodoo-cursed elves and summoned creatures began to approach. Tel'athar exchanged a grim look with Braeth'el before nodding, "Right. Let's get out of here then. We'll need to get some forces from Silvermoon to clear out this mess."

With that he turned towards the other end of the corridor, intent on leading the trio out of the darkness under the earth. They'd come in to explore the tunnels after rumors of elves disappearing had begun to surface, hoping to put an end to whatever creature may have lurked down in the depths. Finding the old Amani ruins under the ground, they had determined that something far more sinister was afoot.

They had not gone ten paces before cackling laughter echoed from the corridor behind them. Instantly all three whirled around, their gaze taking in the form of a troll shuffling down the corridor ahead of a mass of undead trolls and very dazed looking elves who had obviously been drugged, "Where ya be goin' mon? Ain't no way you gonna get outta 'ere alive!"

The Amani voodoo priest cackled again before reaching over and touching a snake carving on the wall. The eyes of the snake retracted, and a rumbling sound filled the corridor as the floor shook. The trio of elves shared concerned glances before the floor behind them began to collapse. Biarathiel felt her footing begin to fall as the stones beneath her fell away, and she shouted as she began to plummet into what she realized was a pit filled with snakes.

Just as she was about to fall, Tel'athar's hand shot down and grabbed hers, his strength holding her aloft before Braeth'el lent his own arm to pull her from the brink of the pit. As they set her on her feet, they surveyed the corridor, realizing the way out had been completely blocked by the new pit.

Thinking quickly, Braeth'el pointed to the wall over the pit, "The stones are jagged there. We can climb it, but it'll be slow going." He glanced back over his shoulder to see the laughing voodoo priest and his army of zombies looming closer. "We're not going to have time."

Tel'athar shook his head, his blonde hair framing his noble features as he spoke firmly, "No, we don't, but if one of us stays behind the other two will make it. I'll hold the corridor behind you. Go and rouse the guards, we can't leave this place intact or more elven lives will be in danger."

With that he turned, his chainmail armor clinking lightly as he set himself in place in the center of the corridor, his spellbreaker's shield held in front of him and sword firm in his other hand. Biarathiel looked at her brother, sadness written in her features as she realized one of them was going to have to be a sacrifice for the others. Braeth'el's look mirrored his sister's, even as he turned to appraise the stones along the corridor's edge to assess where they could start climbing.

In the hallway behind, the first of the zombies reached Tel'athar, and his shield lashed out, bashing the attacker aside. He tried to save his sword for the undead only in the hopes that the drugged elves could later be saved, but as more and more began to pile atop him he realized that any mercy he showed would only serve to undo him and put his friends at risk. Resolutely his weapon lashed out, and enemies fell around him.

In the distance, the voodoo priest cackled again, dark magic hurtling from his hands towards Tel'athar. The noble elf was a spellbreaker however, and he brought his shield up, its wards shearing the fabric of the spell apart and empowering runes on Tel'athar's armor and weapon. Empowered, he struck out again, clearing a space around him.

Behind him, Biarathiel paused as Braeth'el began his ascent, biting her lip and glancing back at Tel'athar as he stood alone. Finally she reached out, her hand on Braeth'el's shoulder to stop him, "No, B. We came in here together, we're leaving together or not at all. I'll not leave him."

Braeth'el paused, his gaze meeting his sister's as he turned and hopped down from the stone he'd been clinging too, "You sure, Bia?"

Her tone was firm when she replied, a fire in her eyes that Braeth'el knew well from their youth, "Yeah, B. The sun shines for only so long. Let us make the sunset fall on a day to remember, shall we?"

Braeth'el grinned and nodded, "Poetic, Bia. Let's go before he kills all the zombies without us."

Biarathiel gave her brother a punch to his shoulder before drawing her daggers, "You know me, always one with the words. And yes, let's not let Tel get all the glory."

With that the siblings turned, weapons in hand as they dashed back up the hallway. Braeth'el outpaced his wounded sister quickly, his twin swords swirling as he lashed into zombies that were about to overcome Tel'athar's flank. As the enemies fell away, he ducked low, his blades lightning fast as he cut the legs out from under the attackers behind them.

On Tel'athar's other flank, several zombies suddenly crumbled as daggers sprouted from their eyes; Biarathiel's deadly throws striking enough targets to ease up pressure on the spellbreaker as he pushed the enemy back. His voice was wry as he spoke to the two, never taking his eyes off the enemy, "You two don't follow orders too well, anyone ever tell you that?"

"You knew we couldn't leave you, Tel," Biarathiel said with a laugh as she jumped into the melee, daggers flashing.

"Yeah, besides if we did and you made it out, we'd all have to sit through your repeated exaggerated tales of how you fought off an army alone," Braeth'el joined in, a grin on his face.

All three of them laughed heartily at this, even as they cut down their enemies. Despite their light-heartedness, the three knew they were in deadly peril. This was emphasized when another spell slashed down between them, narrowly missing Braeth'el as he dodged out of the way.

"We can't let him keep hurling magic at us!" Braeth'el shouted. "Tel! Clear a path forward. We have to take the bastard out!"

Tel'athar didn't respond, instead shouting a warcry and suddenly lurching forward to slam into the ranks of milling zombies in front of him. Bones crunched as his shield bashed enemies aside, his blade cutting down their foes left and right. He made it fifteen feet before the zombies began to surround him, his life in grave danger as his flanks came under attack. Braeth'el turned towards his sister, nodding at her and dashing into the gap as he yelled to her, "Over the top, Sis!"

Biarathiel dashed forward behind her brother, knowing it was do or die. Just as Braeth'el reached Tel'athar he dropped to his knees, his hands cupped over his head. Biarathiel ran up her brother's back, one boot placed perfectly in his hands as he rose up beneath her, his momentum propelling her up and forward, her flight so high as to almost cause her to scrap against the raised ceiling of the catacomb's tunnel.

She flipped over in the air, a smile on her face as she sailed almost in slow motion over Tel'athar and his foes. He met her gaze in mid-flight and she winked at him as she brought both her arms out to either side, the pain of her wound forgotten for a moment as she just flew. The crowd of zombies passed beneath her in a flash, and she began her final descent, her body flipping again so her feet struck the ground first.

Directly behind the voodoo priest.

Her daggers lashed out, imbedding themselves in the troll's spine and neck in a heartbeat, his spellcasting instantly interrupted as he died, his magic flaring out of existence. A howling wail filled the corridor as his hexes and spells died with him, the crowd of zombies falling as if they too had been struck, the dazed and drugged elves amongst them collapsing and weeping quietly.

Biarathiel pulled her daggers free from the troll, grinning as blood gushed out of the wounds. His body toppled before her, leaving her view to Tel'athar and Braeth'el clear. A beautiful smile graced her face, and was returned by the other two as they silently congratulated each other on yet another successful adventure.

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Biarathiel's thoughts were interrupted by the wail of her teapot on the stove. She turned and took it off the heat, pouring hot water into a cup full of the prepared herbs. As the steam rose, she smiled and took a sip, her cup held up in silent toast to memories of better times and to friends long lost.