Oria - November 29, 2006 04:26 PM (GMT)
The time of harvests had past with little change among the boughs of Elwynn. Although the air carried a chill that nipped the nose, children continued their play in the boles and hallows of the woodland. Mothers would call, smiling yet for the life returned to their homes. A raising of hand would wave and welcome their husbands returning from toil among the mines and roads.
Soon the fall would give way to winter, the small flakes of snow would come and settle among the crisp leaves that rabbits and foxes would wander and roam, hiding from the hunger of wolves. What was would be, no matter the thundering of war and hatreds festering between two peoples long locked in a stare down across the continents.
Yet of this, the wandering eye could care less for. The township provided a sense of anonimity that Ironforge no longer allowed. Taking the stairs with a slow climbing pace, the figure seeming no more than that of a child make her way to a room.
A simple fare compared to the splendors she knew, yet it was better than most she had dropped her packs in. Wood worn golden hued, a sturdy bed large enough for her brothers and sisters to sleep with her as well, if they lived still. A wash basin and pitcher, even a small cup with wildflowers graced near it.
More routine than care, she unclapsed the threadbare cloak from her shoulders, slipped from her boots, and took to washing her face. Sprinkling sage an goldthorn into the waters, she scrubbed and cleaned with an angry hand. Next each finger, the palms, wrists leading up her rolled sleeves. Brows furrowed, she scrubbed her skin pink trying to wash away something she felt.
"It feels like I shall never be clean..." Yet as her eyes scanned her flesh for signs of soot, none could be seen. No sense of green or black marred her. Not like those caught in the blast, not like her brethren.
"You wish my service further?" Without raising her eyes, she waved a hand to dismiss the link of souls between herself and the other. With a sigh of redemption, the demonic force lost all nether cohesion, fading away as ghosts and shadows with the rising of sun. Two bracers clunked to the floor, golden and tarnished, darkening as if eaten by a rust from within. As the light failed in the crystals to a scattering of dust, she swept the remains of the voidwalker into a small sack so like another hanging from her belt.
Moving as if lost in a daze, she slipt from the traveling robes into a simple dress of dark dyed linen, slippers onto her small feet, and silken gloves over her hands still smarting from the washing. Again as slow as she climbed, she descended the stairs of the Goldshire inn to find a meal.
Bodies, filth, the press of humans and elves jostled her as she made a slow route to find a seat along the hearth of the fire. She did not feel as cold so much, in truth the place was as stifling as the vats of molten iron in Ironforge. Yet being so close to the hearth brought a sense of nostalgia of home.
Settling upon a worn red and gold brocade pillow, she gave a rare small smile to the mistress of the establishment.
"How be ye', Missus Riftseeker?" The innkeep's wife was a fine lady, polite and cordial, despite the rather unseeming state of the youth about her common room touching in ways most private.
"The roads are covered in many leaves. I have not seen such color and life in a such a time." Her voice was a soft hum amongst the din.
"Aye, I imagine yer home in the mountains must nah have had many trees in it? Livin' in a mountain I reckon?" Her hands fidgeted among the mugs and tankards, seeking a clean one to fill with sweet cider mulled for the coming cold.
Reaching to take the cup, she blew across the surface to watch the foam rise. "No, such woodlands and trees were of the dwarven hunters. Though I did live briefly among them, they did not thrive in the changing of seasons as your own. A simple and beautiful life, you know you are blessed."
The innkeep stopped a moment with a most curious glance. Slowly she gave thanks, wandering to other patrons. Yet the missus Riftseeker indeed no longer held a grudge, nor a hatred or anger over the plight of her people. Those things would only lead her astray.
Eyes wandering to the fire, she touched the brooch of etched mithril and inset black diamonds, the image of three spires upon it. "Soon my brothers and sisters. Soon."
Oria - November 29, 2006 04:41 PM (GMT)
Something was wrong. The walls and floor around her seemed to tremble as a pup afraid of lightening. Yet it was not a simple threat, this shivering in the metal and stonework of the hall. Running. She was running in a desperation to reach the door. The door. It rose before her, seeming so much taller, heavier. It stretched into a darkness above she could not pierce.
The etchings of their family stood out in leering relief upon the door, shadows and light a play most frightening from the swaying of her lantern. And the screams! The voices from within begging. "Help us, Larisa! They listen no longer! Save us!" The sound of flesh searing, the explosive screech of shadow bolts as the nethral skulls ripped into flesh.
Tears streamed down her face as she pulled at the rings of the door. Yet it would not budge. "Jhazlos! I demand your aid!" Yet the voidwalker remained impassive behind her. "The covenant!"
"Has never been fulfilled." The voice was a serpetine hiss...from within the room. She could smell it. Rents in the metal and stonework poured forth an ichorous green that burned her throat. Finally, the door began to shift and move. Hope flared within her eyes.
Until the etchings of her family sprung to strange life, reaching metal hands through the door to swat and pull at her hands. "No! Stop! I must open the door!" Their metallic visages cackled silently, becoming nightmarish shapes as they pulled her closer, to force and crush her into the very metal and stone of the doors themselves.
Eyes filckering open, she stared into the shadows above. Sweat poured over her body, soaking the twisted sheet of her bed. The acrid scent of shadowwork hovered around her. "Too...close... Too close. Just a dream. Just...just a dream."
Yet try as she may to think it nothing more than a phantom of the past, twisted by her night terrors, nothing could quell her shaking.
Oria - November 29, 2006 05:42 PM (GMT)
"My life has come to this? Feeding the livestock?" She dipped her hand into another bag of grain and oats, shoveling it as best as she could into another small bag. A husband and wife, estranged from their farm and homestead, had begged her aid. All they had left was a broken down cart and a cow.
A strange thing to be moved to help them, she tried as she must. Perhaps it was their heartbreaking situation, or their somber expressions of thanks when she accepted. But within she knew the truth. A family heirloom was stolen from the husband, lost to some cutthroat highwayman who ran with bandits that held the lands in fear.
"I, Larisa Riftseeker, pledge to return this watch to you good sir." The words had left her mouth before she realized she took a breath. So here she was, scooping up grain, as a guise to watch the far farm.
An acrid shiver of brimstone and heated air split reality as an imp appeared. Clawed hands folding over each other, he bent low in a staggered bow. "Mistress, the hoodlum indeed resides within."
Eyes of ice blue held the imp's. "Do others stand with him? Describe what you saw in every detail."
Bounding to a treestump, he sought a higher place to better see his keeper. "A human, strong and keen eyed. He would have seen me nearing if not for my deceptions. A few others lowly and ill-dressed wander around the house. Another stands with him, nervous. I believe you know what must be done."
A fine eyebrow of jet black rose above halting eyes. "The report is well, though you will remember your place, servant." No show of force was needed. The fiend long ago learned not to tempt such a fate.
Casting her eyes to the farmstead, a plan began to settle in her thoughts. "I shall need to perform a sacrifice for this. Come."
Together they wander closer, ever closer. And true to his word, scouts wandered around the farm, unruly and unkept. Minds such as their would be simple things to plunder. Digging into her pack, she brought forth a shard carved in the shape of wolf. Laying one hand upon the prickly, dry earth, she called. "Jhazlos, you are needed." The shard shatter from the strangeness of her voice, the images of sigils in her mind. Light and power of the soul colored the power welling around her, giving light to the sigil of calling becoming a violent violet hue.
The dust of tarnished bracers exploded from the simple cloth bag, refining to cleansed gold, crystals glowing with a scarlet hue, shadows becoming strength. "Send me back," the dark whisper demanded.
"Very well." And with a ripping of his power, took his existance painfully. His spirit surrounded her in power as she quickly called again to the imp. Holding forth a small bag smelling coppery, she demanded Zilpad to arrive. And so he did, taking the small offering.
Without word, she entered the homestead. The glow of Jhazlos bent and accepted the blows of the two ruffians. "Gnome! How dare you!"
Eyes burning with shadows, she stared down into the soul of the weaker, sending him running as if his world was caught in flames. "His screams will echo your own. You have taken something. I demand it."
Twirling his blades into the weakening glow, he looked upon her as the troggs once did. "You will die like the others."
But his words were lost in the soft murmuring of spells. The shadows pooled around her feet as Zilpad burned the others outside. They crept up to her hands, screeching in a hunger for death. And as the dagger made its first mark upon her, bolt after bolt chewed and burned away into his chest. What fell back upon the ground smelled of roasted flesh and fear.
The imp limped within, arms a useless bloody stump. "Well done, mistress."
"Yes." She drug a stool to the bureau, opening the doors with care. And there amid old socks with holes laid a smal ornate box of red wood. "Yes, indeed."
Oria - November 29, 2006 08:04 PM (GMT)
"We welcome those who are sane and seek such sanity." The words of the elven woman cut through the usual din of stupidity uttered and at times yelled in the streets of Stormwind. "Take this stone, and think to it..." At this point, she had to hide a small smirk.
"How quickly the world embraces what it once called impossible and insane as some form of revolution in science. It is a pity, they have so lost their way." Larisa's eyes softly watched the huntress as she moved through the throngs of folk, oblivious to the study.
Zilpad followed the continuing figure until the two no longer could spy them. "The elven peoples?"
The gnome nodded curtly, the torchlight shining along the metal bands tightly holding her wound braids and clamped along the edges of her round ears. Rising from the small sitting area before the inn, she left coin with a lad to amble as well. "Our works are leading to further discoveries. Time it seems is with us." Laying a hand upon a satchel, she pondered the recent letters from Tinker Town regarding the consuming radiation uopn those still held in the depths of Gnomergan.
"They cannot find a cure. And those remaining within are finding some safety. But I cannot place my hope upon the shoulders of these other races."
The imp followed the swishing robes of his mistress. "Prithy why?"
Lowering her voice, she murmured to the imp to hold his tongue lest it be seared. Soon perhaps she would consider what assuredly ran through the demon's mind. Use the other races, grind them to grave dust if it would save them. But had she not heard the tells of others that had tried this? And what did the tales speak of? Some group of adventurers weeping and crying outrage at the loss of a dearly held member at the hands of a demon.
Habit led her fingers to the brooch upon her shoulder, to touch its familiar rough edges. It was seventh in a set newly minted not long before the explosions, the deaths. And it reminded her of the covenant of her family, and the one introduced to her in Stormwind.
The lord of the Black Claw spoke with her upon the last visit to the coven of Stormwind. His words had sparked some interest. Now if she could only find a way to gather what he needed to continue her learning in the libraries. If one demon was loosed, and knowing the unique qualities of the lost halls of her family, more indeed would be there lurking in wait.
Purpose renewed her to movement, sending her to the gryphons to lay coin in hand. Closing her eyes, she held to the saddle for dear life. "Flying is meant for others. By the nether, how I despise this." The lurching of landing unsettled her to fall to a knee. Eyes slitted, she gulped breath after breath, hoping to find a moment of peace from the journey. What she found were a pair of large boots, leather bound by dragonscales, and a most peculiar sound, of deep long breathes like her own...though longer still.
Peering far above her, she found an elf before her, perhaps not even noticing her slight form at his feet. Head back, eyes watching the skies, he seemed to be taking deep breaths, and smiling. The moment at hand, she continued her review of him, his armor and weapons. He sang with arcane power. The sense of it dusted and etched into every piece he held. The quaility of the arcane she could not place, but natural or nethral, did it matter?
Perhaps there is hope they will reclaim their true heritage in a most inadverdant way?
Yet another thought occurred as Zilpad whispered and watched with her. "Excuse me, sir. Happen to be seeking within this region? I have been given a task most dire for one such as myself. But with two, perhaps it will be accomplished."
Tilting his head down, ever down, his long silvered locks falling about his shoulders, the elf finally took notice. Folding upon himself catilke and strange, he came to kneel before her. Kneeling...to her. Not once has a single other done so to help the crick in her neck.
"Ishnu'alah. You are in need of aid here?" Something lurked in his glowing eyes. Disdain? Mockery? Curiosity? She had never read another well enough to know, and for a moment, the warlock considered sending him running in fear.
But the letter felt so very heavy in her satchel.
"That I am, good sir. The stalwart lords of this land and the city proper have need of documents and it seems the head of some gent of ill repute. I would seek this with others; yet, one more inane word and I may not be considered such a lawful citizen."
The strange look on the elven face seemed to change again. A grin added to the confusing mess of emotion she was fraught to read. "I think I can understand that sentiment."
Holding her foot from kicking him in the shin and running, she unlaced her fingers from around her staff. Bowing low in a proper way, she gave the most becoming smile she could, which might have been more a grimace in the light. "Larisa Riftseeker, a pleasure."
The elf nodded in greeting. "Theonalas Palemoon. Indeed,"
Oria - November 30, 2006 08:02 PM (GMT)
Broken and faded, the township once called Moonbrook glimmered faintly in the distance of the rolling hills. Moving by the glow of moonlight, Larisa followed the loping form of the elf as best she could. Yet here and there, she felt the stirrings of annoyance. Grasses were tall and blowing, crackling under her feet in their dryness, yet silently did this elf move through them. She could only follow the trailing of his silver hair and strange unearthly scent.
"Why shall we trust this one?" the hissing whisper of Zilpad reached her ears. As keenly as she could, the gnome watched for any display of his hearing demonic verse.
"I do not believe he would lead us astray. He wears not the mark of a killer. The weapons are formidable. The beast at his side strange. But he does not carry trophies of heads or smell of poison." Something in his back stiffened, and she pondered if perhaps his long-lived kind had learned the demonic tongue.
"We near. You should remain close, lest these humans decide to end you." A smirk laid in that smile, a hidden joke she could not understand.
"Perhaps, though at sight of you they may flee and give cry. To those, I shall end their voices or at least trip their feet." She tried grin right back though the glow of fires and lanterns in the hovels and the wane moonlight did little to reveal her face. Thankfully, she could at least not seem so rude, clearly seeing his glowing eyes.
"Many adventurers come to test their mettle upon these foes of Stormwind. I have hunted their kind before. What we may accomplish may not find spirit into the tomes; however, it shall walk with you all your days."
His words seemed formal, in a noble way of speaking around the savagry they would commit. Tilting her head ever so silghtly, she held forth a small hand holding a glimmering emerald stone, burning of eyes within. "May we reap."
Dust covered everything, shaking loose and raining upon them as they entered the old mill. Lumber split and gray laid in stacks unfinished by carpenter's hands. Here and there they spied scuff marks and foot prints in the dust of the floor. At first they considered quiet, yet the din of mining and sound of machinery from below was a commotion that hid their movements.
With short motions of his left hand, the right hefting a sword as large as her bed, Theonalas motioned the lady through. Hall to hall, plank to plank, they wandered with care. At times, miners came upon them, dispatched quickly with the wide arc of the hunter's blade. Without moving, she felt it swing wide above, a rush of wind.
"Shadows of nether, hearths of the alfyr, come to these hands that bind you," she whispered as shadow and flame rose from the palms of her hands. For every one she felled, he took five. It became a strange game, a moving between the two. She took those that ran. He played the part of the lion. And his tiger, it seemed to move and take what it would without command.
Further they wove through the maze of tunnels, rocks dripping with the waters of the sea breakers so near. Lanterns swayed from the constant jarring from deeper below. And time and again, the sounds of alarms, warnings, and men came to their ears.
Settling upon the edge of a cart, perched as a bird of prey, the hunter drank from an engraved canteen. "This one, this VanCleef, that leads the vagrants of the Defias, has a power of will I have not seen in the world of men in a long time."
Nibbling slightly upon a meatpie, she appraised him with a look. "For the numbers he draws?"
Those eyes laid upon her own, bemused and insightful. "And his constant terrorizing of this land. Stormwind sends many to handle the battle, to take a measure of blood and death to score against his own, yet always he returns. It reminds me of tales of the eldest among the Kaldorei."
Hands brushing away the crumbs, she moved closer looking up to him. "Kaldorei, the formal naming of your people?"
"Indeed. It is the true name given unto us, the essence of our people. Throughout our ages, the priestesses, lords, and generals have sought with a hunger the enemies and needs of our people. I would have discounted him as nothing more than a tyrant, yet something must drive him." His eyes became curious. "And of your peoples...?"
There it was, that curiosity. Fingers lacing before her, Larisa finally realized why it was so familiar a look. He has a scholar's soul.
Oria - December 1, 2006 06:30 PM (GMT)
"You have lost much in your world, I believe that is so, Theonalas? The Kaldorei as you call yourselves once had an eternal soul held within the bounds of a tree. And this tree was sacrificed to save your peoples. Nothing has been the same since it splinters and died. And the city you now hold, though I have never seen it, is a wane reflection of who you once were." She watched the small changes in him, the shifting and turning that perhaps meant a sore subject or that he had an upset stomach.
"My people did not come to aid in your war, and the war of the alliance against the horde and nethral forces, for we were battling our own war deep below. Tribes of troggs, empowered by items and magics we could not stop, began the invasion rather explosively. Despite their dirty and simple appearance, they had a keen insight into what power conclaves to dispatch, what conduits to dampen, to bring all our hopes and dreams tumbling down."
She continued to speak as they moved through the hallways, her eyes trailing over the pipes and steam of goblin machinery with a disdain most obvious. "Our work and life is a dear thing to us, sacred held and rarely shared with the world abroad. Much like your own, we tended to protect the histories and sciences closely to our hearts, never inviting strangers or other races into our holds."
"From the lore, it is said the brightest of our speakers met with the dwarven visitors. They offered much, but not all. We welcomed their genius to meld and work with our own, but," her bright blue eyes met his as if in an understanding, "they were only shown so much. In time, perhaps, our peoples would come to a greater genius, a gestalt. And that epiphany was Gnomergan."
A hiss from the elf told her much. "Ah, so you have ventured to aid our people as well. I do not blame you, but you must understand, what you saw in the highest halls is nothing more than our environmental machines and the ravages of toxins the troggs brought with them." Larisa's voice softened almost unheard in the din of battle and steam fueled machines. "You did not see our halls of inventions, our artworks, the noble's wards, the crafter's guilds, the movement of our dances or conversations over feasts. Our true soul is not what you perceived in the cogs and pipes of the upper wards. No...that is nothing more than the final grounds being fought for."
Her hand passed over her eyes a moment, slipping to the brooch on her shoulder. A hardness crept over her features, of remembrance. "I am sure this must bore you to hear. Suffice to say, our wars against the troggs, their toxins, and the resulting chaos did not bode well. Our golden age is gone. Our histories burnt away. Our genius a shadow that may die."
She stood taller for a moment, briefly seeming more regal than perhaps her stature could be. "But one day, that shall change."
"The spires of all that harken in the moonlight, the heights attained to be so near She that Burns in the Sky, may crumble to lie below the branches of trees that weep from the ravages of war. But the light that falls upon the ruin, the moment standing within it, shall never be lost. We are the spires within." He spoke softly, sword twirling about in a final arc to land to his side. His eyes burned in feral light, hungry for the war about them. Yet the words, the quality of their speaking, were clear in meaning.
"You understand indeed. Forgive me, Sir Palemoon." She puttered about her bags in a bit of embarrassment as she heard his snort touched with humor and pain.
Oria - December 1, 2006 07:37 PM (GMT)
Their parting was a simple thing when the final head fell. She left the hacking of tendon and bone to one slice of the elven hunter's blade. Holding forth a bag, she let Jhazlos dump the remains into the depths, a simple pull cinching it closed.
"I commend your ability in handling these foes with me. I know the effort was not Magnean, but well done all the same." She gave a curt nod, though her eyes seemed perhaps a little more accomodating.
The elf titled his head, chin raised slightly. "Magnean?"
"Ah a saying I have since taken from Ironforge. King Magni and his fierce spirit. It seems many consider his feats over the years astounding and worthy of praise. To commit a Magnean feat is something indeed."
"Of course." His lips turned into a smile, warmed slightly and not so closed. It was an effort, she realized, to be more endearing. With a simple cloth, he cleansed the edge of the blade, pouring waters that seemed to glow softly in the wane light of the ship's burning lanterns. A hum filled his lungs, a song without words, something perhaps in the ritual of his blade.
All of this she watched with calculating eyes. "If I may ask, Palemoon...that name you earned. What does it stand for?"
The stiffening of his shoulders and back were pronounced as he sheathed the blade across his back. Eyes almost wounded looked to hers, holding too much emotion. "We do not earn names as such. It is my family name. The Palemoon house once of the Kaldorei." The words seemed bitten off more than spoken.
"I see. Forgive my unknowing. You are the first Kaldorei I have spoken to. And with a name such as that, it's fairly akin to our own. Such as mine of Riftseeker. Or that of my...my brother..." She sighed slightly, motioning for the voidwalker to take up the burden of the head.
"I have taken far too much of your time, Theonalas. I bid you peace. Perhaps we can journey together again?" She tried so very hard to smile in a friendly way, by the guild lords of sprockets, she needed friends.
Perhaps it was her embarrassment or the genuine attempt she made, he nodded shifting back to the graceful open manner he had before asking of his name.
"Ande'thoras-ethil, Larisa."
"Genius to your art, Theonalas."
Oria - January 8, 2007 08:05 PM (GMT)
Neverending the cold seemed in this world. Larisa tucked yet again her skirts tightly around her drawn up knees. Why oh why did she continue spending her time in this strange place of folk so much larger than herself? There was nothing of blackmountain stone, nor caverns to become lost in. Only the neverending boughs of trees, the constant blow of wind, the haunting whisper of folk that seemed to sing when they spoke.
Why? Perhaps it was that these elves, or Kaldorei as she was learned by the Lord Palemoon, fascinated her. Or perhaps she sought to test her limits. Catching herself in a hiccup of fear, staring high above her, she faltered in thoughts. "No walls....no walls...you do not need walls." Her voice was a mumured mantra as she tried yet again to bring warmth to her gloved hands. Breathe slowing, heart still racing, she brought forth parchment and quill from her packs.
Her eyes wandered to the letter next to her. Although the writer seemed to turn and twist in a wallow of self doubt, there was a beauty to the penmenship, a quality in the bend and twirl of letters that revealed so much more. Even the choice in paper, the scent of ink unveiled more of this shadowed priestess she met.
"Melawen..." The name moved over her lips in an exotic way. Quirking a finely sculpted brow, she took up her own quill to reply. Page after page filled and laid aside to dry as the day lengthened. In time, Larisa even felt a bit warm, though the tingle and shiver that moved through her she swore was still the cold...and not saying the lady's name.
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