Conquest of the Horde

From the rim of once-great walls, the burning light of dawn crept upon the ruins of Silvermoon. What few wretched beasts remain soon crept to the shadows, their silvery gaze burning much like the sunlight. Through it all, a lone woman trekked through the silent streets and abandoned passageways, her padded feet shambling across shattered glass and overgrown vines. Slowly the Swordmisstress would work, her head tipped in reverence as she would finally come to reach what once was a grand park. She pressed, eyes set on the cobble path as she recalled to more peaceful times, before the wars, before the pain, the hunger. Now it had all come to fade, the lukewarm days of spring had come and passed, and now all she could recall was the scorching heat in the midst of the prison...

She soon shook her head, dismissing the vile memory. in reality she found herself in the gates of a graveyard... which oddly enough had been tended to before. The graves were cleaned of their rot and the grass all about was trimmed down with a scythe. Slowly she made her way forward, emerald gaze settling upon each headstone as she passed. Sunfire, Novalight, Seregon, Ambershine, Bloodscry, Dawnsend, Dawnbreaker, nobles and common men in life, now all made equal in death. In the back of the graveyard, where even the tender had forgotten to clean, is where she found her objective.

A small urn grounded into a cement platform sat in the midst of untended grass. Insects whizzed about the aged stone pot, and with a hand she would brush the clutter from a rusted nameplate. Barely legible, it read:

‘Amera Rae Firescribe’
‘Loving Mother, Gifted Magister, Compassionate Magistrate’
‘Taken too early from this world’

The brushing hand soon clenched, the sotic woman’s form shuddering as she could no longer ignore the assaulting emotions. Her head bowed, pressing to the urn as a subtle cry passed her lips. Tears soon graced the rusted plate. This day, the only sanctum the woman would find laid in memories of a world long passed, forever changed by the tides of war.

I Remember

Alone in the night, the Swordsmisstress sat perched atop her hut with the shimmering blade settled upon her lap. Each hand laid across, lithe digits drawing along the fuller of the blade, across the inscription upon the steel. The moon high in the sky lit the forest beautifully so, its luminescent gaze glinting down through the leaves and reflecting off of the masterfully forged steel. As the moonlight’s pale gaze settled into her emerald own, she soon found herself entranced by the sparkling steel, lulled into the past by the calm night.

“You, Firescribe! I challenge you!”

A crowd sat in the street, commoners and nobles all alike, though defined only by their house. On one side sat Amera Firescribe, a lesser noble under the Novalight House, and on the other stood a tall, foreboding figure of a man whose alignment opposed the Novalight house at the time. His voice rang through the crowd with echoing power, bringing shouts and whispers alike into a silence. The rapier that once sat on his waist was now drawn, pointing across the crowd to a trio.

The young Camillia, only eighteen years of age, clung to her mother and father alike, her heart drawing raidly as her father would come to speak, matching the voice of the opposition.

“What is it you want, boy? If it’s a quarrel you’re going to start, then let it be with me.” He spoke, voice laced with confidence, though it soon wavered. “Not you, filthy commonblood, it’s her blood whose I seek, not the blood of some rat!” The opposition lifted his rapier once more. “Once more, Firescribe! I challenge you!”

The crowd now broke into a low whisper as the husband grudgingly back to his wife, the two sharing a brief whisper before the father ushered his daughter and himself back to join the crowd. Soon Amera drew her own blade, pointing it to her opposition. “I accept.”

With no further words wasted the two lunged at one another, the steel of their foils clashing together with a metallic clatter. From the start it was visible how a mother’s life had worn on the woman’s skill, withering it away as she tended more to looking after her daughter. Quickly the woman was pushed to work a defensive match, shielding herself from blow after blow, yet even then his strikes were too rapid, too skilled. With a fateful strike the foil was dashed from Amera’s hand, the woman soon falling to her knees in defeat.

With a sullen gaze she turned back to her family.

No.

Her eyes soon turned, mouth whispering a plead to her oppose.

No…

He soon shook his head, a wicked grin upon his lips as the blade rose.

It… No!

With an accurate blow to the woman’s torso, so soon fell over, limp.

“NO!” Her father soon bellowed, eyes growing with rage as he stormed forth from the crowd, voice ringing throughout the entire city. From head to toe fire flowed along his form, molten rock and ebbing lava flowing from his hand.

A single lash of his hand, the molten fire knocking the opposition back. Another lash, his blade was disarmed.

A final bellow of anger, the every bit of mana his form could bear suddenly surged forward in a torrent of flame. His opposition was no more than ashes in the wind.

Camillia sat there, dumbfounded by the sight of her mother slain and her father in a rage. It would only be a few moments more before he fell to his kness, completely worn by the torrent of magic. And it would not be long until the city guards came to retrieve his unconscious form.

As they trudged away with him, a single came up to her, his expression stone as he presenting the corpse of her mother to the young girl.

Reality snapped back at the woman with another breeze, moonlight still dancing in her eyes, along the length of her blade, which she soon brought back into its sheathe. She pushed off of the roof of her abode, crumpling down in front of the door before limping down into the darkness of the shelter. It would be only a few moments before she collapsed into the bed, facing another dreamless night.

Three, two, one… Strike!

Three, two, one… Strike!

Slowly the woman’s fingers would draw across the stricken wood of the makeshift training dummy. One hand lay bare against the wood, its twin clutching her weapon dearly. With her gaze lightening, her pace finding peace, Camillia would come to look to the word inscribed along the fuller of the blade.

“Solarclaw…” She would mutter, soon easing away from the dummy and instead retreating into the cover in her cabin. “Master.” She would mutter with a smirk upon her lips, eyes set dead upon the inscribed words.

“Three, two, one… Strike!”

The novice bolted forward, both hands clutching along the hilt of her makeshift sword. As she drew closer and closer, she would remain silent, bringing the blade up for a stabbing motion into the other’s gut. Her opponent sidestepped with east, the hilt of her blade knocking against the novice’s head, soon sending her floundering to the dirt below.

“Too slow, too predictable. You can’t use such an obvious approach.” The master soon turned about, facing the novice, who stumbled to her feat, panting. “Again.” The master demanded.

With a huff of her breath, the novice bolted forward once more, and once again she did so with her blade poised to stab. However, as the two drew nearer her hold on the blade shifted. As the master would jerk to the side, expecting another stab, the novice instead curled about, spinning and lashing her blade out to bite into her robed side. From beneath the wince of pain, a grin would grow upon the master’s lips, her voice coming out strained, but clear.

“Good, you’re growing, Breakblade.” The master sheathed her blade, the silvery inscription upon its fuller glinting in the heat of The Barrens.

With a wistful sigh, the Swordsmisstress soon found herself placed back unto reality atop of her bed, hands curled about the pitch-black folds of her new outfit. With the woolen cloth pinched between her fingers, she rolled the cloth back and forth, her brow furrowing at the sight.

“How odd… I almost forgot what a set of fresh clothes felt like. I never thought Silvermoon to have something so… odd.” She sighed, finding her own words lacking, though soon enough she would speak once more. “Perhaps it’s from those Pandaren that Anders mentioned... No, that’s not possible. I doubt that the City would trade with anyone out of Silvermoon. Hell, it’s hard enough to get them to trade with the rest of The Horde.”

A moment was spent in silence, her thoughts soon snapping back to the weeks past as it tends to in recent times.

“I wonder how they’re doing… The trolls, Faelara, the Crybaby, the Doc and his following of assistants, the orcs… even that one honorless one. Are they still alive? Faring well? I know it’s only been a week, but…”

Another moment of silence, her thoughts settling as she peered into the wood’s moonlight.

“I should get something for Astia, for her help so far.”

A young woman, talentless, spineless, poor...

Why do I have my eyes on her? She shows no promise like I had, no courage, no blade nor skill with one... Why? Why her?

The blademisstress sat in the midst of Eversong's woods, her own curiosity biting into the depths of her mind, struggling to pull out an answer. She sat in unwavering silence, brow furrowed in a mix of frustration and thought.

A peasant, of all possibilities, one that couldn't afford to own a blade let alone had the education or wit to carry it. There had to be something, some reason why this lone woman had such a draw to her.

Perhaps it not what she had, but what she lacked. Yes, that may be at.

She had no money, no family, no peace of mind. She had nothing to loose in this world, but had everything to gain.

She had no courage, but she could muster it.

She had no skill, yet she could hone it.

She had no experience, yet she could earn it

The only thing that may be able to save this woman is this. Perhaps there is a chance for her to rise above, to rise against and transcend the uselessness of Silvermoon politics. To join something bigger than herself.

At that the Blademistress would nod to herself, fairly content with the answer she had forged in the back of her mind. Though the ease of her mind would only last brief before a new worry crept into her consciousness.

What is there to make of this noble? This... Seregon.

He is one who carries the power of a large noble house with him, a power that is easily corruptive even to those with the purest of intentions. And so he was, wielding it about to terrorize this plebeian, this woman. What is there to do?

Once more her brow furrowed, the frustration of Silvermoon politics burning through her mind as she recalled her younger years.

He thinks he is above the law, yet that is not the case. The issue, however, is that heaven so he is cautious. He goes about where there are no eyes. He sends goons to do the dirty work. There has to be a way about it.

At that, as if on instinct, her hand neared the blade that rested along her hip. Slowly her thumb would press on the hilt, constantly clicking the blade in and out of it's sheathe as her mind wandered.

If they are to press a blade to her throat, then I shall do very much the same. Justice is my purpose, now it's time to live up to it.

Haven in Another's Arms

Darkness crested over the heart of Ashenvale, choking the sounds of the early morning birds as they sang their songs. Amongst the branches rested Anthrion, a man by birth but a Warden by his own sweat, blood and tears. Just below was a small house- more like an apartment -- nestled in the woods, hidden away from the path, though not all too far a stride from the nearby hold of Astranaar. Constantly he would find his gaze flickering back and forth, from trees to flowers, to animals, yet ultimately his eyes would always settle back upon the small house.

How long has it been? A few months, at best? He mused to himself, a tongue pressing to his cheek as he dug about in his mind. Try as he might, he could not pinpoint the time when he had met her- nor did he really care to. All that it mattered in his mind was that day, that hour, that very minute when it happened. With a huffed breath he let his mind ease, a slight smirk twitching at his lips.

Ironic, it would strike. For a man who always mocked the terms of love at first sight, this whole thing struck damn close enough. All it started with was a mistake. A -mistake- of all things! Without a single assumption this entire thing might’ve never happened, there might’ve never been the spark, or that talk, or anything. It’s funny how mistakes can shape the world far more than any victory would.

Soon he turned on the branch, resting on his back as his eyes flickered skyward to the star-ridden snips of the early morning, barely visible through the vale’s canopy. Try as he might to rest, his mind flickered back and forth, wonder and excitement in an untameable rage. Constantly he would muse to himself, to her, the training... it seemed to have stuck on training, not just her training but simply what the word had meant, what it implied. To become better, to grasp at perfection, no matter how high it dangled above.

He sighed.

“Have to keep going. Can’t stop. Don’t show weakness. Whatever you do, don’t show weakness.”

The Watcher muttered to himself, trekking along the dangerous forests of Felwood. He sat at his final trial, which was arguably far more difficult than any other of his classmates. While many were out and about, their final tests to slay a corrupt demon hunter here, or return a fugitive from wherever they may be hiding, Anthrion instead had to make a trekk. It began in Teldrassil and ended in Ashenvale, along the border between his revered homeland and the eternal autumn of Azshara. Sounds simple, right?

He passed through a clearing of trees, the thrash and snarl of demons well on his tail as he dashed along.

“Why me?” He though, keeping the musings to himself at this point. His hands flickered to the blades that rested along his hip. On one step he twisted about, lashing the throwing knife to the mass of demons that stood in his wake. As he turned about to continue on his way, the knife shattered into a rain of shrapnel, digging deep into the hides. The Watcher made his way forward, unhindered by the encroaching demons.

“She has to be on my tail, waiting for me to die.”

With a blink the Warden would awaken once more, eyes hanging heavy in a drowsy fog before finally focusing to the sky once more. With the sun burning at the morning sky he finally descended from his root, padding back to the house with an indestructible smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

Of Love and Duty

Once more the eternal twilight of Ashenvale filled the airs, the dense foliage shimmering and shining with the dim violet light that sets in place every night. It would be in these dim hours that the Warden hunted. With the traditional crescent sit between his back and his cloak and his trusted moonglaive nestled on his hip, the Warden would push forth akin to how a spectre phases through a wall. For a man clad heavily in metal- from ear to toe- he traveled with a surprising grace. His strides were fleet and bounds were wide, silent in the humid night air of the summer evening.

His mission was a simple one, and one completed many times before. He was to go and fetch another fugitive and bring him to justice- one way or the other. However some tinge within his mind called this to be like none before. It would take a few moments of thought, but soon enough the Warden found himself engulfed with contemplation.

“What does justice mean to you?”

The woman poised opposing sat, her position unshifting as she would soon come to retort.

“...Retribution is too simple. So, not that. Revenge is too personal, and can be equated to Retribution. Vengeance...is more poetic, but again too open to personal bias.” She soon listed off a few other idle musings, though eventually concluded with confidence. “Justice is service, meted out in equal measure.”

So it was to be. The target of his hunt is a man who is both wrong in his mind and right in the same time. He was wrong, to assume his vicious act of murder was to be deemed right by others about him- to avenge the death of his lover, who rightfully asked for her own death. However he was right in at least one thing, to fear Justice, to fear the Law, the wrongs he’s done. Ultimately it would be this fear, however, that damned him further.

For a moment the Warden took his pause, peering about the forest that surrounded him. It would only take a few brief moments to get his bearings, given the land around him was the same land that raised him some four centuries ago. With a bountiful bound he leapt off towards the West.

As he pushed forth, another through had sparked through his conscious... What if it had been him in the same situation. What if Nuadon was brought to death... What would he do? Would he so eagerly strike out at those around him, those he called friend and foe alike? What would ha-

The Warden soon cut off his line of thoughts with a slight shake of his plate helm, a slight grumble of disapproval playing off of his lips.

“And as a Warden, we are Justice incarnate into a physical form. That doesn't mean we are immediately seeking out the death of many nor are we constantly attempting to find reasons to damn and condemn. We are fair and reasonable in our ways. However when someone is due their fair punishment, we do not relent. Make sense?”

The Warden nodded to himself more than any other, reassuring himself of his words. However a smirk soon curled about his Watcher’s lips, the woman quick in her reply.

“So... I was right?”

The end of the trail was met at a small encampment. A lonely tent sat beside a dying fire, the enticing flames being the only company to the fugitive that sat beside. Not a few yards behind, the Warden had perched himself with silvery eyes glaring down much the way an owl would eye a skittering rat. As darkness further settled along the vale, Anthrion would finally make his move, disappearing and reappearing through the shadows with fearful speed, almost instant. The fire was cast into darkness with a wave of his cloak, now nothing clothed the man in security as the Warden stood tall before him.

Yet... in the midst of it all, the Warden’s mind would draw to a haze once more. In the criminal he much saw himself, a man who had been torn asunder in every aspect because of the loss of probably the only one person to ever care for him.... He knew no such tragedy, but even the very thought of it was enough to make the Warden pause in a moment of pity for the condemned that sat before him.

He was a weak man, almost pathetically so. For a brief second the Warden was surprised he even had the gall to clutch a knife let alone wound a man with it. Unsurprisingly, however, he cowered and curled into himself a ball, as if he was a child fleeing from some nightmare. Soon enough the Warden stepped forward, his boots crushing the ashen wood beneath him. As he neared, however the man uncurled from his self, revealing to be clutching a knife still within his hand. With nervous strikes the man lashed out at the Warden, and with each he dragged himself further into damnation.

"Essentially yes... Though while our words describe Justice so easily, you must come to understand as it will become a vital asset to each day of your life... You need to come to understand how to see fairness and reason in every situation- hence the need for a calm, balanced mind."

The Warden brought about what was due to the man. With a spin of his cloak and a strike of his fist, the man soon found himself headlocked with the Warden’s voice hissing in his ear.

“Face what is due, or I will return what is due to you.”

The man quickly shook his head, hands desperately rising to fit the dagger within the eye slits of his helm.

“I-I’m never going back! You’re all insane, insane damnit! He killed her, he killed my mate!” He called out in a panicked tone. He mouth would open to call out another string of profanities, yet as he did, nothing but a growling tone rang out.With plated hands crashing against each side of the man’s head, he soon fell to the ashen floor beneath. Once more, a sense of pity would swim over his person as he so weakly gave into his mind’s rambling.

“..it's for you to practice as you look to what living as a figure of justice will mean for you."

“Justice is what is right... what is due and fair in the world...” He spoke to himself, words trailing off as he looked down to the fallen man.

“...But what will she mean to me?”

The Captain's steed barreled through the night's breeze of Elwynn's forest, the clatter of hooves and crashing of plate breaking the otherwise peaceful silence. In her wake stood an aged chapel, holy men and woman alike moving to and fro to pay their respects in the road-side House of Light.

Within moments, the sound of drizzling rain soon joined with the hooves of her steed and the plate of her arms. Another one of the Kingdom's summer's shower had moved in over the woods, just in time to rain on her parade. While curses swelled in her throat, setting on the tip of her tongue and ready to jump out, she managed to keep her temper in check.

Through persistance the Captain would find herself trampling through Stormwind's gates only a few minutes later. Even as the rain fell she could not help but set her gaze skywards, eyeing each of the four magnificent gold-gilded statues as she would pass. However her reverie would be cut short, her steed jerking away to avoid colliding with the fifth statue- that of none other than General Turalyon. A growl and a huff later and she was once more focused on her path.

As she began down Stormwind's roads and walkways her steed would come to a more gentle trot, weary of running over any unfortunate to get in the armor beast's way. While the paths were hardly built for a beast of burden, the Captain's own masterful navigation had her settled in Old town in mere moments. A jerk of the leather riens and her horse would come to a halt before the marble-lined headquarters.

With a swift movement of her armor-coated hands, the Captain would dismiss her helm and hang it along her own belt. From the saddlebags of her horse she pulled forth a messenger bag filled to the brim with documents and the ilk. A brief moment would be spent re-assuring herself before she worked her way into the Champion's Hall. At the door she was well-received by two guards, each sparing her a salute before moving to open the metal-bound door. With her own salute she would move in to the candle-lit Officer's quarters.

The Hall was dimly lit, the most of the normal Officers had already retired for the evening, leaving only a handfull of figures set about, each on their own individual task. As the Captain's eyes would scan over the Hall, they would settle on an elderly figure standing on the elevated tier. Before she would have the opportunity to call out, he quickly beckoned her forward.

"Knight-Captain Feranos, a pleasure as always." He would comment with a knowing smirk pulled along his aged visage.

The Captain would work her way up onto the elevated tier, sparing her elder a salute soon after. "Commander Von Braun."

"Rather early to call me for a meeting, Victoria. Are you sure your assessments are through enough?" He spoke, shifting about to the opposing side of the table. Set before them being three detailed maps of Duskwood, Redridge, and Westfall.

The Captain worked about within her messenger bag, soon plucking out three individual piles of notes, all filled to the brim with marking of a quill. "I have all I need to know." She would clear her throat, readying to speak. She looked to the elder, awaiting an approval, which soon came in a nod.

"A synopsis, then..." She would begin. "At the moment none of the settlements seem to be fairing all too well since the Solidarity riots. In its weakened state Redridge has seen increasing harassment from gnolls and orcs alike." From the map of Redridge she would motion about to various locations, some marked and others not.

Next, her hands set upon the Westfall map. "Much the same, Defias activity has multiplied exponentially. Moonbrook is a complete and utter lost cause, and only three hundred paces away is Sentinel hill which has reported issues with gnoll bandits coming along and raiding its supplies." Once again she motioned about the map, pointing to locations as they would arise in her summarization.

"Finally is Duskwood..." She would huff a saddened breath at this. "Duskwood is by far the worst in my opinion. The inhabitants live their daily lives in terror. Children grow and raise knowing only fear for what lurks beyond their small community. They have been completely and utterly dislocated from the kingdom and are in a severe need of aid. The Worgen and Undead have both increased in numbers as went spent time squabbling amongst ourselves."

The Elder stood beside, eyes narrowed slightly as he looked upon the last of the Captain's report. After a few moments of silence he would inquire. "And have you any concept for a solution?"

Another moment's silence and the Captain would nod, her finger practically tearing a hole in the paper map as she pointed to an unmarked part of the map. "Solidarity Row, as the locals had come to call it. Once a bastion of the Solidarity movement is now abandoned and left to the horrors of the wood to look over it. With proper men and supplies, it could become a beacon of hope in those wretched lands. From there we can make our base of operations and move out as needed to the various settlements."

Once more the elder narrowed his eyes, though this time settling it on the captain. "...Your solution to our problem with the settlements is to... make another settlement?"

An annoyed huff played out of the Woman's lips. "No. This will be a military base for the Stormwind forces outside of the City proper. If the reason these settlements are not receiving aid is because they're too far from the military, then let us bring parit of the military to -them-." Her plated hands smacked together, as if enforcing her words.

The Elder looked on, attempting to find the proper retort before simply sighing and shaking his head. "I will tell you this, Victoria... If you can recruit a force to tear this 'Row' from the jaws of the Worgen and the Undead then I will see to getting some sort of back up for you, however I make no promises."

"So be it." The Knight-Captain would retort with a hopeful smirk.

The Warrior's Compassion

The woman finished her mutterings with a sweeping gesture of her hand. With a push of arcane magics, the batter-filled muffin tins would slide ever so carefully into the brick oven. Once set she would come to stand straight, a content smile along her lips.

It had come to be a daily routine for Andra, to awake well before dawn in order to prepare a batch of her personally favorite muffins. As they bake, it would be soon before their entrancing aroma would begin to ebb through the cool morning air, filling every back-alley and pathway with scents of sweets. Sadly the morning vibe would not last. While sweets may tease the nose, the sights and sounds of the Lower City always brought sorrow. It may have been years since the portal’s opening, but time has mended no wounds for the refugees. Day in and day out they would come and go; some young and others old, many infirm and fewer in good health. A depressing sight, never ending, yet the baker would come to cope on a daily basis.

Just as the Sun came to peak over the horizon, lightening the morning with golden rays, Andra would whisk tray after tray of muffins from the freshly-constructed oven. With the three stacked high in her hands, she looked about to her bakery with an attentive gaze. What was once before nothing more than a abandoned soup stand had now blossomed into something more. Where a flimsy wooden counter once stood was now a series of tables, many for guests and few for herself. Along with the tables were now something to actually sit upon, crates, not exactly the classiest choice but it’s better than nothing at all. Beyond the improved utensils, the worn cauldron, too, was replaced. A large brick oven, outfitted with three full iron racks, stood in its place.

The reverie of her drifting mind was quickly broken with a child’s shout, incoherent screaming growing louder as it neared. The tray after tray clattered to the floor as the baker was quick to move at the child’s wails. Moving beyond the confines of her shop, the woman would come to stand upon the ruined cliff of her small terrace. Below she would see a draenic child, clearly no older than eight in Azeroth’s years, and in chase would be a myriad of others of various races. Hooves, being infernally difficult to run with, proved to be the child’s undoing as he tripped upon a protruding stone, causing him to fall flat upon the rough path. Quick to catch up, the chasing children would not show mercy, kicking and screaming at the felled draenei.

She didn’t need to see anymore to be set into action. With a quick succession of blinking spells, Andra would find herself set a pace away from the group of rowdy children. Quickly she would bring her hand about, smacking each of the three oppressive children over the head with lacking force, the quick strikes just enough to garner each’s attention. Quicker and harsher than her hand, the woman would be quick to give each child a tongue lashing. While mannered well, it was still enough effect to see the three bullies off into the dark alleys of the Lower City. Unfortunately their work was done. As she turned her head, the woman would set her eyes upon a terrified face, streaks of dark blue blood seeping from cuts, scrapes, and wounds brought on by the other bullies’ boots. With a mother’s care the woman crouched, arms gently taking up the trembling boy. He seemed devoid of tears or words, simple terror present along his features. Once again her head shook in disapproval of what has come to be and soon set off for her bakery once more.

Setting the child upon a bare table, she was quick to check over the entirety of his person, making mental note every scrape bruise and... gash? As her delicate hands wove through the tufts of the child’s hair, she would come to find a sizable gash along his scalp with blood pooling along with it. Quickly her mind set into worry. She was a baker, of all people, not a medic! Her eyes darted about, looking for a suitable replacement, yet the early morning left her to be the only one about. Idly her teeth gnawed into her bottom lip, worry flickering further along her expression. Finally a defeated sigh pressed from her lips.

“It has been... years... but maybe it is not lost... please let it not be lost.” She muttered to herself, a hand slowly pressing itself to the bare wound. At every pulse of the child’s frightened heart, the woman could feel the blood seeping forth. Her eyes wrenched shut in her own subtle fear as she began to mutter, a force within rushing through her person.

It started as a spark, and then a second, then suddenly a aura of Holy Light curled itself around her hands. Nestled between her horns flared the Naaru’s symbol as their gift pressed itself into the child. Bit by bit she could feel the swelling power flow into the young boy, sealing not only the gash, but his other cuts and scrapes.

As the power faded Andra would come to stumble back, staring at her hands with bewilderment.

“I did... they haven’t.. bu-” The woman’s ramblings were cut short by the rejuvenated child. Quickly he would hop off of the table, darting into the distance.

“Thank you nice lady!” He would call out as he makes his way into the early morning.

Her attention turned to the fleeing silhouette, looking on with her mind left in a fluster.

“What a morning...” She would groan.

A Knight Lost

“Where are you going, Hanzo?”

It was a snowy morning in the Valley of Alterac. The sun had not yet crept over the snow-capped peaks, instead the leather-clad man trekked through the fields, the pattern of his boots soon being hidden away by the fresh snow. As he worked his way away a woman gave chase. She was well in her years, much as he was, but far more elegant in appearance than he would ever be.

“Where are you going?!” She called frantically into the storm, her voice bellowing with the rage of the sharp winds.

An ounce of pity. A woman he knew, only for a short time but a woman he knew dear. Mochla as she was called, born and raised a frost wolf as far as he understood. It was not a few months ago she welcomed him into his home, and now after growing close he was forced to part. For the sake of her life. For the sake of her kin.

“Leaving.” He called back simply. “I will not be the father of death to this peaceful village.”

His head turned to his boots. A ping of worry, a temptation to leave it all behind but- No. He had to leave. There was a war to fight, blood to shed, men to kill, widows to create.

She stood as frozen as the icy lakes. You could not see her expression change, you could not see her fists ball up. All you could see was the hope run from her form. The will dissipating away like a ghost into the blizzard.

“I apologize, Mochla.”

With those words he left. No crying, wailing and lamenting of a woman would turn him from the path of war.

“If only I had.” He muttered as he stared into the flames.

Twenty-six years later the same war-torn man sat in the midst of amber fields. The young mother Mochla was now known as the Stormcaller, a Farseer, a legend in her own time. Just as he departed from her those years before she did the same to him. Her head was hung low in disappointment, shaking from side to side as another of her friends looked to calm her.

Now there was no company for him beside the crackling flames. His son turned towards the heights of the hold, hiding away from the wretched reality of what his father was: Nothing. It’s what he was infamous for, really. A ghost of a man he was, infamous for his silence even in a field full of traps. Even in these elderly years a life was as easy to take as a breath.

A quick glance was all it took. The image of his son’s face burned into his memory. The line of his jaw, the youth in his cheeks, the every way his skin curved and coiled. It was his son, there is no way to deny it.

However it was as true now as it was all of those years ago. To stay means death. There is no words to describe the price of abandonment, the only close enough being ‘Genocide’. Men. Women. Children. They wouldn’t care.

His eyes slowly trailed over his shoulder, looking to the path Mochla stormed her way out of. Perhaps there was a chance, to reverse the path taken those years prior.

Maybe he would not be the Father of Death.

“Shackles of Gold. A noose of Silver. A Gag of copper.

These are the bindings of man. It is greed that holds us back, that draws us closer towards the primitive primordial pool that we crawled out eons ago. In all reality there is no good or evil, no right or wrong. There is only money; stamps of glinting metal that drives us on.

And it seems I have amassed a fortune.”

Just like any other night the weathered warlock sat within his study, arcane-fueled lantern at his side and a fountain pen in his grasp. The pages before him were not the usual sketches of his diary but the matters of money. Countless figures lay spread before him, tallying, collecting, removing, subtracting, adding, predicting. In the end of it all he stared at the final figures, musing at the sum he had amassed.

“Father had a dynasty, his father had a dynasty, his father before him formed a dynasty. The Winters name has been forged upon the profits of business. My father’s trade... I almost wonder now. On the outside he was a man of meat, selling perfectly preserved slabs by the wagon load when the months of cold crept upon the population. But with his workings of magics I almost ponder if there was something... Deeper.”

He soon shrugged, looking back to the senseless numbers.

“The cold clasp of death brought down the fiery hearts of Lordearon, and with it any sort of inheritance I was due.”

A slight hum crossed his lips as he draw the paper up, soon introducing it’s corner to the searing lantern. “I never saw myself as much a meat monger anyway.”

The aged paper slowly burned away, a black smoke budding as Matharius looked on calmly. “Still I am left with the conflict as to what do I do wit these funds? Weapons and arms are more than covered by the current businesses of Stormwind. While the breadbasket of Westfall crashed long ago, food supplies are still a solid business already in the grasp of a few farming families...”

The Warlock’s words died off with a contemplative mutter. The bare digits of his flame-seared hand intertwined with that of his mended hand. His eyes soon began to wander, concentration farm from his grasp. Dusty shelves and underused furniture. Dark corridors and scuffed floorboards covered in damaged clothing. He paused, eyes narrowing in on the ruined suit.

“Technology... Now that. That simply rings with possibility. Many men of the court are still set in the ways of old, believing that death is best served with cold steel. But what of rifles and bullets? Magic condensed into metal and throw as a bomb? The possibilities of the unknown are endless and underfunded, budding with potential.”

Calmly Matharius slipped back into his seat, hand still folded as idle pondering entrapped his mind. “The Dwarven District is an obvious start with all of the gnomes running about, but what of the more subtle options? Stranglethorn Vale is a hive for goblins, technological or otherwise. I’m sure there are a number of them that wouldn’t mind some... business.”

For the first time that night a smirk crawled up along the edges of his lips. A hint of amusement accompanying his usual ponderous tone.

“This all should come together nicely so long as I’m not afraid to get my hands a bit dirty. The best business is built upon blood, sweat, and tears... But they don’t necessarily have to be mine. Goblin tax collectors are quite harsh and the price of engineering certainly hasn’t dropped by any stretch of the imagination. To disperse a few fat cats may put me in just enough favor to get what I need- a foundation.”

Replacing the single page of mathematics came a bound booklet, once empty he now began to fill its pages. Upon it’s cover his pen carefully etched the words.

“House Winters - Stormwind Chapter.”

A hint of a laugh played from his lips as he eyed his own work. “House Winters... Every good Patriarch needs his match.”

“However, for now, I bid to you be weary you collection of over-stuffed nobles...

Winter is Coming.”

The morning was shrouded in darkness, thick rains filling the air with a suffocating humidity. To those unfamiliar with the region it was a water hell, but to those accustomed to the Vale saw it as nothing more than a usual day down in the Bay. Through the rainy mists a human clad in formal whites made his way about the slippery boardwalks and ominous back alleys. There was not a weapon to be had upon him aside from a simple parasol, guarding his form from the assaulting rains. However such did not keep him from walking along with an air of confidence, weaving calmly through the thug-ridden slums. From beneath the viewing glass that was his monocle he scanned his surroundings, eyes shifting along as if they were begging for something to garner his interest. With the misty clouds fogging the docks his eyes proved to be useless, however his ears remained unhindered. Not all too far away two figures would be bickering under the safety of an overhanging walkway.

“Whadda ya mean you don’t got the cash?” Came once voice, high-pitched and heavily accented.

“Boss! I-I mean sir, it’s been a slow month, don’t ya understand? There’s been no money flowing into the Bay, don’t you see? Hell, Nixx has been whining about it everyda-“ Stemmed the second, even higher voice.

“Oh shut it ya whelp!” Growled the lower voice.

By now the fine-clad man has shifted closer to the commotion raised by the two goblins. One stood a good inch or two above the other, his form clad in gaudy gold chains and vibrant violet trappings. His smaller counterpart seemed to be the polar opposite. Where he was covered in riches she was covered by mere rags, the brown cloth scorched by flame and stained by oil. If anything was clear then it was that the woman was an engineer, and a poor one at that. For the time being she cringed back, weary to invoke the anger of her ‘Boss’.

“Now you listen here Sweetcheeks, I an’t gonna be takin’ any of this slacker shit from you anymore, you hear me? This is the third month - Third fuckin’ month - that you’ve been behind on your dues. Listen to me now darlin’, if that money an’t in my hands by the end of the week, well…”

The regally-clad goblin glanced to the workshop beside the both of them, a grin creeping along the edges of his lips. From his pocket he drew up a match, striking it along the rough skin of his nose.

“Well… It’s a nice shop you got running here, good location and all. Would be a damn shame if somethin’ happened to it.” At that he dropped the match, allowing the puddle below to douse the flames.

“A week!?” she called out. “I haven’t had the cash in three months to pay you back, how the f**k am I gonna get it by the end of the week!?”

“Well, you got a sweet ass of yours there. Probably would go for good on the market. There’s a few trolls I got in the business that’d pay quite the fortune.” He let out a thick, phlegm-filled laugh at that.

“Now then, I’ll be makin’ my way away. Good luck there, sweetcheeks.”

With a grin he left the woman to wallow about in her own despair. Without a second thought the ‘Boss’ passed by Mathias, who soon swept in to approach the sorrowful and soaked engineer.

“Five gold…” She moaned. “How th’ f**k am I gonna get five gold in a –week-. Ugh! There’s gotta be something I can do. Damnit, there’s got- Whada you want?”

In the midst of her rambling the goblin caught sight of the approaching human. Her voice snapped out as did much of her person. Hands were nearing her head, grabbing at tufts of her own long hair.

“In a bit of trouble, I see?” He replied in a calm return, still clutching the parasol to guard himself from the drizzle. The utter downpour seems to have let up, instead spreading a simple mist of drizzling rain over the Bay.

“Yeah, that’s a damned understatement if I’ve ever heard one.” She grumbled out, soon snorting. Her arms lowered from her hair, instead coming to cross above her chest as she looked to the taller man.

“Mayhap I could help, my little green friend… What do you think of a change of venue, mmh? A new employer?”

“A new employ- Are you dense in the skull?! The boss will have me hog-tied and sleepin’ with the murlocs if I ever even thought of double-crossin’ him!”

With a simple smirk set along his lips the warlock retorted. “Are you so sure?”

At that the man would glance off to the side, the engineer’s gaze following soon after. From the fog-covered alleyway a shadow of a beast would creep out of the darkness. In tow the mass of shadow brought forth the gold and violet goblin, his form limp and lifeless. With a swing of its shadowy appendage the ‘Boss’ was flung over the dock’s edge. First he landed upon the walk below, form resounding with an unhealthy crack before it slipped into the seas.

Slowly the engineer turned her from the scene, looking upon the warlock with slight shock and fear. “…What the hell are you playin’ at?”


“Simple, my dear goblin, I intend to forge an empire. Something to be envied amongst goblins and humans all alike.” He paused in his speech to offer the woman a silk-coated hand. “But I cannot do so without a few helping hands.”

The goblin’s arms remained cross, her expression taking a more smug tone now that she found herself freed of her Boss’ pressure. “And what’s your offer?”

“I will give you coins of gold, silver and copper to fund your magnificent works.” He nodded to the shop. “In turn I expect you to provide me with the future of this world’s engineering. From what I see of you my dear, this sounds like a job you can handle.”

“That don’t sound too hard, hell, I already have some stuff cooking up in the shop. Y’know about that earthquake out in Stormwind? All those people loosin’ their minds over it.”

Before he could even respond the goblin fled back into her shop, emerging a moment later with a thick disk in-hand.

“This beauty here is an anti-gravity disk. You just press this button here and-“

As she set the dial the woman shot up into the air, dangling a few feet overhead before hovering back down to the ground safely.

“See? Gets your feet offa the ground when it starts crumblin’ beneath you!”

With curiosity he looked on, eyes going wide under the magnificent display. By the end of it all a broad grin would pull at the corners of his lips, his expression seeming quite content with the investment.

“Brilliant, my friend, utterly brilliant.”

He soon crouched down to a knee, meeting the woman face-to-face. Once more his gloved hand would reach out in an offering. “If you build more, I will fund this project and the many more to come. Do you think we have a deal?”

“Well, I an’t got much else in the terms of options.” With a shrug she slipped the disk under one arm, the second slapping into his hand before sparing a sturdy shake.

“You got a name boss?”

“Mister S is all you’ll need to call me.” He said with a more honest smile. “What of yourself?”

“Felicia Firebomb. Mosta my friends call me Fix-it Felicia… If I had any friends- But that an’t important!”

As the warlock parted from his employee, a single gold coin was left in her grasp. With a light squeak of leather against water he would begin to make his way away.

“We’ll be in touch, Felicia. Until next time.”

“You know well I can’t tell you anything.”

“I know, I know, just-... Something!? I need some clairvoyance here. What happens? Just give me this piece of mind!”

“I can do no such thing.”

Two men sit opposing one another, a bottle nestled between them both. Where the older of the two took small, assuring sips of the golden liquid his youthful counterpart drank without falter, only pausing to slobber out unanswered questions. Oddities in the Cavern of Time are counted by what appears normal. Draconic guards, time-altered inhabitants, collapsing and forming timelines were all normal... but a Tavern? With ample seating and common drinks? That was an odd sight to see. The Tavern of Time, as it was called, seemed to be nothing beyond a simple house that mimicked the nature of the Kaldorei. Granted, knowing how the Caverns worked, the house was most likely a remnant of a collapsed timeline.

“This is all so maddening...” Speaks the younger of the two- though he himself seems rightfully old. The elf wore a modest outfit of green wool covered with a leather vest. His expression, wrought by age and alcohol, curls ever-so-sorely. His opposite was a much more dignified and refined man. The most of his form was covered in simplistic robes, leaving only his visage to be seen. What was odd about the sight is that they were all too similar. While the older bore more markings of age and greyed hair they were otherwise immaculately alike.

“And I know well how you feel.” Chimes the eldest before lifting up a shot glass worth of alcohol to his lips.

“Of course you do...” Grumbles the younger, his emerald eyes narrow to wink away a tear brought on by the strong taste. “But you can’t do anything about it, can you? All you can do is sit here and-”

“Advise you.” He ended the sentence of his younger counterpart needlessly.

“I was going to say frustrate, but I suppose that works, doesn’t it?”

“Ah yes... What does the advisor do when he needs advice? He can only turn to himself. This takes a quite literal sense here, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, except you’re not advising me on anythi-”

“You’re asking for answers, not advice.” Scolds the elder, his own emerald eyes narrowing. “I can give advice to those in need as you do, but I can’t give away answers It would disrupt the flow. We -all- know how spoilers can ruin the ending.”

Bending the robe-clad elf pushes himself further onto the table, emerald eyes scouring over the alcohol-induced paladin in front of him. “First things first, get your damn self together. You’re an ancient to most; act like it. Second of all you need to actually go and talk. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what your problem is.”

Groaning between breaths the younger man hauls himself up into an unstable- though straightened- position. “Right, right... So the problem at hand is dealing with women-”

Before the green-clad elf could profess his laments his elder counterpart grabbed at the neck of the glass bottle, throwing back a few mouthfuls of the golden alcohol.

“It’s going to be one of those nights isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Great.”

“So which one is it this time?”

“Reigen and Poyvida are bickering and-” Interrupted once more with the swing of alcohol his brow flattens. “Are you done yet?”

“Is the bottle empty?”

“-Man-, I get really bitter.”

“Look who’s talking.... Alright, so keep going.”

“Right, so there’s Reigen who's our old friend, but crushing on me like I was the hottest thing in Silvermoon. I respect that but... I mean...” He huffs, head knocking against the wooden table as his hand mades an idle circular gesture in the air above. “You know what I mean...”

“-I- know what you mean, but I’m beginning to think you don’t.”

“Uh..huh... Well, then there’s Poyvida. A sweet girl of a Draenei... but therein lies the problem. She’s a Draenei, and even to me she’s a girl. A fourth of my age.”

“She’ll only be a fourth for so long, you realize? When you are two-thousand she’ll be a thousand two-hundred and fifty... That does not sound like such a massive gap anymore, nor is she any longer a fourth. The further you go on the smaller the separation will seem.”

“Still.. I mean I’m already a cradle robber to most. The oldest woman that has had interest in me was what? Six-hundred years? I’m -still- old enough to be their grandfather by technicality.”

“Mmh, I always was a bit of a late bloomer.” A tipsy smirk of an expression crosses the elder’s visage.

“Yeeeeah... So there I am. Poyvida is a nice girl, Reigen’s a good friend... But I’m not sure either of them can provide the lasting life. I already have a ward but...” He pauses for a huff of breath. “I want a family.. A wife... Children of my own.” With a watery gaze his eyes turned up to the elder, his wracking emotions only amplified by the inhibition of alcohol. “You can’t tell me, can you.. do I..?”

A flat, disappointed frown was all the met the man in reply.

“...I know I shouldn’t. You’re the only one I can talk to. I can’t tell people how I think or anything... I can’t tell Reigen, Poyvida, Thragash, Gunnar, Gorzan, anyone... To most I can’t tell them about what I do, and to Reigen I can tell her but then she might just go and -off- herself. Then there’s -you- who’s too afraid of divulging the future to give me some solid advice.”

“Rightfully so. There is a reason for everything, Krilari, and-”

“Weird to hear yourself say your own name, isn’t it?”

“...Yes. But that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say is that you need to gather the courage to speak... Remember the tenants?”

“Of course: Respect, Tenacity, Compassion.”

“Think of this like compassion then. You’re too compassionate and afraid that your words will hurt someone and you’re suffering because of it. First things first- you need to know what you think. What you -truly- think. Not what’s nice, not what sounds like a fairytale, but what’s the reality of the matter.”

“You’re beginning to sound like mother...”

“She was a wise woman, Light bless her soul.”

“So-”

“What I’m telling you is to man up, essentially. Speak up for yourself first and foremost. It’s impossible to help others if you can’t even help yourself.”

With a brush of his hands against the wooden table the robed elder pulls up his cowl. “Now then, I need to be out of this cavern- and you do as well. The world is waiting on you and I don’t imagine it’s slowing down at all.”

No formality was taken to the elder’s exit. As his form crossed the threshold to the tavern he faded into the twisting madness of the Caverns of Time, thrown into the chaotic and unpredictable future.