03-20-2013, 04:17 PM
The Fate of a Scoundrel (1/2)
To eyes that knew no better, the mossy glade was nothing more than it appeared. Where vestiges of silver light peeked through the forest’s canopy, purple flowers bloomed, and from their midst rose an enormous log, leaning crookedly against the stump from which it had broken a time ago. Thick vines stretched over the formation, creating a natural veil and threatening to drag the felled tree back into the very earth.
Her eyes knew much better, though.
They shone in the dark of early dusk like stars, narrow and catlike and keen. As she strode toward the log, the slender fingers of saplings tugged at her ragged cloak. Once it had been indigo, and a pattern reminiscent of the Icon of Wisdom was woven into the tattered fabric. Now it was splattered by mud, muck, and worse. She parted the vine curtain and slipped into shadow. Her fingertips brushed bark as she descended, slick with moisture and rot. She could see perfectly well, but she allowed her other senses to guide her downwards into the hollow.
The smell of a forest after rainfall filled her nose, familiar and welcoming. Wood became earth, damp at first but drier the further she went. Eventually that too gave way, stone closing in around her. Steps formed under her feet as birdsong and the rustling sound of trees faded. Subconsciously, she pricked her long, scar-notched ears and listened ahead. The passage had been carved by ancient hands, she knew, and despite having weathered the wear of ten thousand years, she could still feel the grooves where symbolic images had been chiselled into the walls. The warmth of the forest evaporated slowly, a chill taking its place.
At last, the stairway levelled into a twisting corridor. A root inquisitively poked through the ceiling, its bulbous core pulsing with pale light. Similar lamps lit the way forward. She followed them until she came to a round door, thick and gnarled, which seemed to have been formed by shaping wood as one might mould clay. It had a handle, but she hesitated to reach for it. Suddenly, she felt the cold and pulled the shabby cloak more tightly around herself.
Just do it. You’ve never faltered before, not even when others might have fallen. The night elf pushed her way inside and closed the door.
To eyes that knew no better, the mossy glade was nothing more than it appeared. Where vestiges of silver light peeked through the forest’s canopy, purple flowers bloomed, and from their midst rose an enormous log, leaning crookedly against the stump from which it had broken a time ago. Thick vines stretched over the formation, creating a natural veil and threatening to drag the felled tree back into the very earth.
Her eyes knew much better, though.
They shone in the dark of early dusk like stars, narrow and catlike and keen. As she strode toward the log, the slender fingers of saplings tugged at her ragged cloak. Once it had been indigo, and a pattern reminiscent of the Icon of Wisdom was woven into the tattered fabric. Now it was splattered by mud, muck, and worse. She parted the vine curtain and slipped into shadow. Her fingertips brushed bark as she descended, slick with moisture and rot. She could see perfectly well, but she allowed her other senses to guide her downwards into the hollow.
The smell of a forest after rainfall filled her nose, familiar and welcoming. Wood became earth, damp at first but drier the further she went. Eventually that too gave way, stone closing in around her. Steps formed under her feet as birdsong and the rustling sound of trees faded. Subconsciously, she pricked her long, scar-notched ears and listened ahead. The passage had been carved by ancient hands, she knew, and despite having weathered the wear of ten thousand years, she could still feel the grooves where symbolic images had been chiselled into the walls. The warmth of the forest evaporated slowly, a chill taking its place.
At last, the stairway levelled into a twisting corridor. A root inquisitively poked through the ceiling, its bulbous core pulsing with pale light. Similar lamps lit the way forward. She followed them until she came to a round door, thick and gnarled, which seemed to have been formed by shaping wood as one might mould clay. It had a handle, but she hesitated to reach for it. Suddenly, she felt the cold and pulled the shabby cloak more tightly around herself.
Just do it. You’ve never faltered before, not even when others might have fallen. The night elf pushed her way inside and closed the door.