<![CDATA[Conquest of the Horde - [WoW] In-Character Forum]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/ Sun, 03 May 2026 15:42:09 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[You Can't Go Home Again]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39265.html Fri, 15 Mar 2019 22:24:35 -0700 Scout]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39265.html Under nightfall, Tarana roamed her old hunting grounds--the woods of Ashenvale. Alive with life, the insects sounded their chorus while owls let their soft hoos loose here and there. Moonlight dappled through the leaves. The broad, cool leaves of the underbrush stroked her thighs as she passed through them.

Ashenvale was eternal, in a way. The forest was more than just trees, but it was also a monument. An unshakable pillar of the world that had stood for...how long? Thousands, tens of thousands of years? Certainly far longer than Tarana had been alive, longer than anyone she knew. It predated the Sundering. It predated even the Kaldorei Empire itself. And yet...untouched.

Or largely untouched, she found herself thinking. This was no place where the trees had been felled, but there were hints here and there. Scars upon the earth where the Warsong Clan had left their mark. Fallen trees…

No.

She took a grip of a passing branch, and curled her fingers around it. The bristly leaves poked into her palm, bringing forth discomfort and pain. Something grounding. Something to remind her where she was, something to make her feel alive. She examined her palm once she released the plant. Purple dots on her hand showed the points where the plant had defended itself against her.

She couldn’t help but find that comforting in a way. Perhaps it was just the number of times she had done this same thing before--the number of times where she had needed a reminder, and the sensations of the world had provided, no matter if they were somewhat unpleasant. The direct bite of a thorn was certainly preferable to the lingering malaise of an uncomfortable memory, or the distance accompanying withdrawal from the world.

Glancing about, she recentered herself, putting herself on the right track again, following a familiar path through the woods. This path had changed innumerable times throughout her life, sometimes immeasurably over the course of many visits, and sometimes all at once in the time of her absence. This was one such occasion in which she found new mysteries as she walked: berries along the path, small flowers in open bloom, a stag trail...these things constantly shifted, they constantly evolved.

There was so much life in these woods.

Then there was its end...one landmark that never shifted. The massive tree, branches high up in the canopy, but a clever climber could make her way up if she so wished. Borrowing shortcuts from other trees, she could sling herself up, high enough to find knots in the thick bark that served as handholds, and then before she knew it, she would find herself at the tree’s crown, a nest where the branches curled out.

And, in these branches, Tarana would always have her perch. A perfect limb that she could nestle into, and from there, she could look out over the tops of all the trees.

And then Ashenvale was hers.

She glanced across the crown, eyes focusing on another such spot, one that felt uneasily empty. She let out a soft sigh, then stood up to her feet again, balanced carefully on the branches. She lifted a vial from her belt, and unclasped the stopper, before holding it at arm’s reach ahead of her. The water inside shimmered with comforting blue light.

Then, she swung it out, the water dispersing into fine mist, cascading upon the leaves. And she took a seat, collecting a flask from her bag.

“Therinan, to you,” she murmured, taking a sip from it. The sweet moonberry juice passed easily past her lips and down her throat. “Happy birthday.”

It would never be quite the same without him.]]> Under nightfall, Tarana roamed her old hunting grounds--the woods of Ashenvale. Alive with life, the insects sounded their chorus while owls let their soft hoos loose here and there. Moonlight dappled through the leaves. The broad, cool leaves of the underbrush stroked her thighs as she passed through them.

Ashenvale was eternal, in a way. The forest was more than just trees, but it was also a monument. An unshakable pillar of the world that had stood for...how long? Thousands, tens of thousands of years? Certainly far longer than Tarana had been alive, longer than anyone she knew. It predated the Sundering. It predated even the Kaldorei Empire itself. And yet...untouched.

Or largely untouched, she found herself thinking. This was no place where the trees had been felled, but there were hints here and there. Scars upon the earth where the Warsong Clan had left their mark. Fallen trees…

No.

She took a grip of a passing branch, and curled her fingers around it. The bristly leaves poked into her palm, bringing forth discomfort and pain. Something grounding. Something to remind her where she was, something to make her feel alive. She examined her palm once she released the plant. Purple dots on her hand showed the points where the plant had defended itself against her.

She couldn’t help but find that comforting in a way. Perhaps it was just the number of times she had done this same thing before--the number of times where she had needed a reminder, and the sensations of the world had provided, no matter if they were somewhat unpleasant. The direct bite of a thorn was certainly preferable to the lingering malaise of an uncomfortable memory, or the distance accompanying withdrawal from the world.

Glancing about, she recentered herself, putting herself on the right track again, following a familiar path through the woods. This path had changed innumerable times throughout her life, sometimes immeasurably over the course of many visits, and sometimes all at once in the time of her absence. This was one such occasion in which she found new mysteries as she walked: berries along the path, small flowers in open bloom, a stag trail...these things constantly shifted, they constantly evolved.

There was so much life in these woods.

Then there was its end...one landmark that never shifted. The massive tree, branches high up in the canopy, but a clever climber could make her way up if she so wished. Borrowing shortcuts from other trees, she could sling herself up, high enough to find knots in the thick bark that served as handholds, and then before she knew it, she would find herself at the tree’s crown, a nest where the branches curled out.

And, in these branches, Tarana would always have her perch. A perfect limb that she could nestle into, and from there, she could look out over the tops of all the trees.

And then Ashenvale was hers.

She glanced across the crown, eyes focusing on another such spot, one that felt uneasily empty. She let out a soft sigh, then stood up to her feet again, balanced carefully on the branches. She lifted a vial from her belt, and unclasped the stopper, before holding it at arm’s reach ahead of her. The water inside shimmered with comforting blue light.

Then, she swung it out, the water dispersing into fine mist, cascading upon the leaves. And she took a seat, collecting a flask from her bag.

“Therinan, to you,” she murmured, taking a sip from it. The sweet moonberry juice passed easily past her lips and down her throat. “Happy birthday.”

It would never be quite the same without him.]]> <![CDATA[Human Testing]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39214.html Tue, 17 Feb 2015 20:05:21 -0800 Geoni]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39214.html
                Ce always drinks too much water. It’s healthy to drink plenty of water, but you can only carry so much of it on your person. On his way back to Hearthglen, he noticed a small detour from the dirt. This detour was a thin path covered in weeds and leaves and almost too dark to see due to a thick amount of trees surrounding it, and although the trunks and branches were twisted and the leaves were brown there was enough to prevent light from reaching this path. Were the trees clinging to life and dying or clinging to death and trying to recover? Such thoughts didn’t enter Ce’s mind; his canteen was empty and all he wanted at that moment was something to drink.
               There was a broken mailbox on the side of this detour, with the body broken and half and the head lying on its side. Ce knelt down and opened it up, finding a letter inside. He didn’t remove it, shut the door, and decided to take a detour. Halfway down the path he found a small well that was in a workable condition. This wasn’t exactly the place to find safe drinking water from underground runoff, but he had a burner with him and figured he’d just boil it. As he was lowering the bucket down into the well, it made a clinking sound, as if it were hitting the bricks inside. 
                “Amazing… It’s amazing that you’ve managed to survive on this world for a few years when you’d just grab water from some strange-”
                That sound was actually coming from an old man’s boot running into his own cane. Ce’s shoulders jumped a little and he was quick to interrupt and reply, “I always boil my water is why.”
                That old man, was he truly elderly? Ce questioned it. From what light there was he could see that his hair was thin, the color a faded brown, with missing patches rather than a bald spot. To add more confusion, his frame and posture was straight but he looked emaciated and he was holding his cane crooked to the point where the end nearly touched his boots. Ce looked him over for half a minute before quickly and forcibly turning his attention to a distant house. Looking over the man’s shoulder, he could barely see it: it was large enough for a decently sized family, covered in vines, had windows that were covered in a green-black mold, and a small farm beside it with most of it covered in weeds and small trees and a little section of it with living but poorly grown vegetables. Ce didn’t want to stare at it for too long either, and his eyes jolted around before they settled back down on the well. He quickly tried to pull the bucket back to the surface.
                The man’s arm shivered when he lifted his cane to tap the bricks with it, “Hey. Hey! You’re bout as ugly as I am.”
                Ce was still leaned over the well but turned his head to the side.
                The man continued once Ce looked up at him, “But you’re an ugly light worshipper so we’re not so different. I don’t know where you’re gettin’ the impression that you’re not welcome enough to even look at me for too long, even to knock on my door for permission to use my well.
                “I’m not assu-” Ce silenced himself in the middle of the response. He straightened up his posture and let go of the rope, causing the bucket to make a distant splash down in the water.
                The man let out a chuckle and about fell over as he raised his cane in the air and leaned his head to the side, “Come on.”
                Ce looked the man in the eyes for a moment before he turned and began to walk away and filled the bucket with water again before deciding to follow.

---
                  The inside of the man’s home the floor was covered in dust, the paint was flaking off the walls, and it was sparsely furnished. A nearly empty room gives space and attention to what remains. The hall had a coat rack and shoe brusher where the welcoming mat should be. The den had two sofas covered in dust, a clean red chair, and a fireplace with a small fire living inside. He led Ce through the house to the kitchen, which had more in it than any other room. That being said, there still wasn’t much: an old stove, a butcher table with more vegetable bits covering it than blood of flesh, an ice box giving support to a few sacks of grain leaning against it, and a table with one chair. The man signaled for Ce to set the full bucket of water down on the table after he took the only seat.
                “Fill your canteen with water, have a few sips, fill it again. Make yourself something to eat. Rest in one of the old rooms. Take a bat-.”
                “Alright,” Ce raises his hands in reply, “Alright, I get it. I’m welcome.”
                The man smiled before finishing a glass of water that was on the table when they entered, “I wasn’t sure you understood.”
                Ce dipped the canteen in the bucket of water and filled it, taking a few gulps before twisting the cap tight, “Thank you, but I’ll be on my way.”
                “You don’t get to have that water for free you know. I’m feeling a little tired, but I’m hungry. Boil me some rice, will you?” He set down the empty glass after making the demand.
                “I thought I was welcomed.” Ce chuckled as he began to fulfill the request by heating the stove.
                “And you’ll be on your way afterwards,” he assumed.
                “Mm. I will, sir,” answered Ce.
                “Are you in a rush?”
                “Well I need to get to Hearthglen soon.”
                “Horse shit, you have time.”
                Ce stood up from his kneeling position, smiling behind a dropped jaw, “How would you even know that?”
                “Because if you were serious about your schedule you would have left after you filled your canteen, but here you are, cooking a meal for me,” states the man.
                Ce turns his head and looks back at the man as he unscrews his canteen and pours the water into a pot to be boiled. They look each other in the eyes for a moment before returning their attention to what they were doing. Ce resumes boiling the water by positioning the pot over the heat, and the man looks down at his empty glass with a slight smile.
                “What is your name?” Asks the man.
                The room remains completely silent for a moment, aside from the crackle of the stove’s fire. A reply is given in a very quiet tone, “Ce.”
                The man’s adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and he says lowly to himself, “Now the hearing is effected…” He has a distressed expression on his face, “What was that? I couldn’t hear your name?”
                A louder and clearer reply is given, “Ce.”
                “Say what?”
                “A two letter name. A ‘c’ and an ‘e’.”
                The man lets out a relieved sigh, and when he breathes back in, his expression turns confused, “What’s that even mean?”
                The pot in front of Ce begins to sizzle, “What, does your name mean something.”
                The man gives a humble nod, “Yes it does actually. Albert. Means two things I’m not: noble, bright. It was also my grandfather’s name.” There is a pause, “So what does your name mean?”
                “It doesn’t mean anything.”
                “Nothing?!”
                “Nothing,” Ce shakes his head, “it’s unfinished. And I’m tired of explaining why. Just take it as is.”
                “That’s fine.” The man clears his throat and reaches for the bucket across the table with all of his arm’s length. When he gets a hold of the edge and drags it towards himself, the water begins to slosh over the rim due to his shivering, “Put the rest of this in the pot.”
                Ce turns around and rushes over to grab the bucket of water, “It might take two pots…”
                The man grabs Ce’s wooden backpack as he walks away from the table and this jerks him back, causing a stream of water to hit the floor. The man knocks on the rectangular structure and tilts his ear towards it, “What is this? Whatever it is take it off, you’re not going to leave anytime soon.”
                Ce grabs his weak hands and nearly breaks the fingers pulling them off, “I can leave whenever I want.”
                He walks away from Albert and proceeds to take the backpack off, setting it on the floor after he places the bucket near the stove. He then looks back to him with a sorrowful expression as he focuses on the fingers he just yanked.
                Albert, rubbing his hand, laughs at Ce.

---
               
                The bowls that were used to eat the rice were quite different. They were from the same set of fine china, but the one that Albert was using had a more faded design and cracks and scratches on its surface. Ce was given chopsticks to eat with but there wasn’t much to hold onto, and Albert just used his fingers. Ce managed to clear his bowl while Albert only ate a few pinches. Ce didn’t stand up to get more, and instead resigned to watching the man eat.
                Albert stopped eating for a moment and stared back at him, “You’re a big guy, would you like seconds?”
                “I’ve never said no to that question,” Ce replied.
                “Well too bad, it takes a lot of energy for me to make food,” he retorted.
                Ce looked down at his empty bowl, “I apologize. We have the habit of making sure everything has been eaten right after it’s cooked.”
                “My peop-…no,” he stopped to think, “I’m beginning to break that habit.”
                A long pause occurred between the two. Albert’s chewing became slower with each bite, and he’d pinch up less and less out of the bowl.  As Albert was eating Ce positioned the empty bowl directly in front of himself and aligned the chopsticks parallel to it. After that, he watched the sickly man struggle to eat. During this struggle, Albert looked at and away from Ce constantly and he shifted in his seat. He eventually stopped, leaving half a bowl of rice uneaten.
                Alberts eyes drifted away from his bowl and over to Ce’s backpack, “What do you do, Ce?”
                “I am an officer in the Crusade.”
                “I’ve never seen any of the crusaders carrying something like that.”
                Ce’s eyes settled on said backpack, “Ah. It’s because I carry delicate equipment.”
                “Delicate?” Albert tilted his head a little.
                “A microscope, and other fragile items,” Ce explained.
                Albert dug a finger into the rice and weakly pulled out a few more grains to pop into his mouth. As he chewed, he huffed out a long sigh and stared Ce in the eyes.
                Ce looked Albert in the eyes on and off, unable to keep his own locked for more than a few seconds, “I research the plague.”
                Then it was Albert’s eyes that darted around restlessly, “H-how do you research the plague? What all is in there?”
Ce picked up the seat and placed it awkwardly beside Albert’s as he dragged the backpack across the table. The chair Ce seated himself in was taken from the den and its frame was so large that it pushed against Albert’s and caused his chair to lean to the side a few inches until Ce noticed and pulled it away, causing the legs to crash against the floor loudly. Albert remained steady throughout the awkward adjustment and his body rocked back and forth like a lifeless doll as a result of it.
                “A microscope, plague samples, my attempts at a cure, potions, anti-venoms,” Ce listed them as he showed each item in the box to Albert.
                Albert’s eyes couldn’t be drawn away from the plague samples, “And there it is. Such a small thing…”
                “I’m sorry, did you lose somebody to it?”
                Albert looked Ce in the eyes and then turned his head back towards the rest of his house. Ce looked in front of himself and avoided the intense gaze after seeing it once from the corner of his eyes. He quickly closed the box back up and said abruptly, “I’m sorry.”
                Albert grabbed Ce’s wrist to stop him, and then tapped it a few times, “Don’t be.”
                Ce paused and quit putting everything away. The plague samples were the first of the things that he tried to put back, but Albert grabbed a hold of his wrist again and insisted, “Take it back out. I want to see it. I want some quality time with it.”
                Ce did as he was asked, and after setting it back on the table he rubbed Albert’s shoulder and pat it a few times, staring at the sample along with him but occasionally studying the features of the kitchen – or more precisely the lack thereof. After Albert began to shiver violently, he grabbed one of the little black vials only for his hand to be trapped by one of Ce’s, “I can’t have you ta-”
                Albert’s arm muscles, whatever was left of them, tensed up as he pushed down with his hand. Both felt something collapse underneath their palms and Ce immediately pulled the hand off, “Stop.”
                Lifting up their pale hands, Ce let out a huff when the vial of plague remained intact, albeit cracked on the surface. Albert’s face turned red, his eyes became inflamed, and he grinded his teeth visibly; Ce could see one of the teeth push up to the side out of his lips, ready to pop out of the skull at any moment. He pulled everything out of reach and scrambled to get everything back into the box. Albert breathed in deeply, relaxed his shoulders, and stopped grinding his teeth. They chattered for a minute instead.
The moment Ce noticed the turn in expression, he sped up the process of trying to get up and out. Unfortunately Ce wanted to put everything away for the man – the empty bowls of rice, the rest of the boiled water, the chair he took from the den. Albert got up and followed Ce around the kitchen slowly and deliriously, constantly and weakly raising an arm towards him as he paced around.
                “I- could you pl-“ Albert couldn’t finish his thoughts.
                “Look, I’ve made dinner for you. Out of the goodness of my heart,” Ce responded looking back at him while rushing to get out.
                Just as Ce made it to the front door Albert caught up to him and grabbed a hold of his wrist. Ce pulled away and caused Albert to fall face first onto his doormat. Ce was taken aback by the man’s fall. Albert was out cold, limbs splayed, his body halfway out of the house. Ce stopped himself and let out a shivering sigh.

---

                Albert used his arms to push himself up out of resting position and sit up in his bed. As he positioned his back against the board, he looked across the room to find the Draenei seated in the corner, resting his body and head against the wall, faint snores coming from within. The plated sections of his armor jutted off the floor and shifted awkwardly off his limbs while the cloth of the outfit sagged and scrunched up in places.
“Ce, are you awake?” Asked Albert.
                Ce opened his eyes, which caused his face to glow in the darkness of the room – this light exposed circles under his eyes and a beard that was fluffing out a little due to being pressed against the wall.
                “I have spare rooms you can rest in,” he said.
                Ce stared in his direction.
                “It doesn’t matter. I have something I want to ask of you.”
                Ce’s eyelids opened a little more and his eyebrows raised, but he continued to stare quietly.
                “I don’t remember if I told you or not Ce, but I lost my entire family to the plague. While I survived, I fell ill to something else. Something the doctors that visited couldn’t figure out or help me with. It is long term, spreading throughout my body for over a year, and soon it will kill me. If I am to die I would prefer to meet the same fate my wife and daughters did. I want you to infect me with the plague so that you might test your latest ‘cure’. Lastly, whether or not your cure works I would like for you to dig my grave, for I am too weak to do it myself. Can you do this for me.”
                Ce gave him no answer. He stared at Albert for an entire minute before gently closing his eyes and falling asleep.
                Albert looked away from Ce. He positioned his face diagonally to look at the floor, and in this muse his expression became one of warmth, “’S fine. Rest well, my friend.”

---
               
                The den glowed with sunlight now that Ce cleaned the windows, along with most of the house, but Albert scooted his chair very close to the fireplace as if it were providing him with enough light to read the text of a book he was reading. He sat like this for over an hour, often looking at the belongings Ce set by the fireplace, before Ce entered with dirt covering his entire wardrobe. Albert closed his book and set it on his lap, looking behind himself, “You look exhausted. Come. I made tea.”
                Ce slogged his hooves across the floor and nearly collapsed on the floor in front of the fireplace. He reached up and received a cup of tea, and then looked down into it. It was almost clear as water, “This is tea?”
                Albert rocked his head back and forth, “Yes. I’m sorry, have I been reusing that sack too often? I like to preserve.”
                “Do you have more pouches of herbs you could use?”
                “I do.”
                “Then why not use them? You don’t have much time.”
                Albert paused and gazed into the fire, “So the grave is ready?”
                The tea was cold, but Ce downed it in seconds, “Yes.”
                 “Are you?”
                Ce scooted back and grabbed the tea pot to refill his cup. He drank, and then refilled. It wasn’t until after his third cup was empty that turned his attention to the box resting near the fireplace as he answered the question, “I’m not going to test on you. It’s not guaranteed to work and it would just make dying worse if you aren’t cured. Didn’t you say you worshiped the light?”
                “The light had its purpose until you arrived – now I am ready.”
                “But it is an unsanitary death, and I would rather not be responsible for your death.”
                “Then what is the point of you having dug that grave?” Albert looks Ce up and down, “Finish what you started.”
                “I will check back and bury your body should I find you dead.”
                Albert set his cup of tea down on the table and let out a huff. When he stared back into the fire it was as if it were draining his life, leaving only a flicker behind in his eyes. He stood up, and began to gather Ce’s belongings for him, setting them in front of him.
                “Thank you, you don’t have to,” Ce said as he stood up.
                Albert moved everything but Ce’s sword. When he picked it up, it remained in his hand. He raised it above himself and looked at his own warped reflection in the blade. Ce put on his backpack and reattached his canteen of water to his belt, and when he reached over to try and take the sword out of Albert’s hands, Albert lowered the blade and backed up into his seat, setting it in his lap for a moment. Ce looked him up and down a few times. Albert looked up into Ce’s eyes, and then lifted the blade to his chest. Ce immediately fell to the chair and grabbed the handle, meeting an impressive resistance from Albert.
                Ce was unable to pull it away from the sickly man, and his voice was winded, “Wha-what are you doi-”
                “Let me end my life,” Albert calmly interrupted.
                “I’m taking my sword,” Ce demanded.
                When Ce tried to yank the sword out of Albert’s grip with all of his strength, it only dragged the man’s body across the floor. Ce let out a sigh, stopped, and knelt on the floor beside him. He kept one hand on the handle and gently caressed Albert’s shoulder, “Look, I –”
                “I don’t want to die alone!” Albert shouted desperately, his hands shivering as he pushed the blade through his shirt and slightly into the skin, but no further.
                Ce’s mouth was agape, but all he could do was shake his head in an answer.
                “Please, Ce I wan-,” swallows interrupted his wails, “Ce I can’t. I canno-.”
                Ce shook his head faster, “No.”
                Albert’s eyes welled with tears and terror. His feet dragged on the floor as he tried to push the blade further into his chest, but only getting half an inch in before he began to make guttural noises that eventually evolved into a primal scream that tried but failed to form a coherent sentence.
                Ce’s jaw began to shiver, “I want to stay here until – not like this.”
                Albert’s breathing became heavy, and his screams calmed into a meek plea, “I can’t do it Ce.”
                Ce ran his fingers through what hair remained on Albert’s head. He gazed into his eyes as he plunged the blade into the chest. Albert reached up to grab the collar of Ce’s shirt to tug on it because of the pain, but his arm eventually fell limp. As Albert’s life ceased to be, Ce lifted his head into the depression of his neck, unable to watch the eyes lose their remaining light. He covered his mouth with Albert’s head and stared into the fire with widened eyes, shedding tears he hadn’t shed in thousands of years.

---

               Ce's entire shirt, and most of his pants, were soaked in blood. However, he cleaned everything else and gave Albert a dignified burial. Ce left with most of his belongings, but while he was digging the man's grave, Albert snuck one of the plague samples out of his backpack and hid it under a pillow. Unaware, Ce didn't look back until he noticed the mailbox that was on the ground. He finally opened the mail inside of it that was gathering the dust, and read what it had to say:

Dear Father,



We haven't spoken in some time, but I want to ask for your forgiveness and reestablish our relationship before it is too late. It was selfish of me to leave you alone after the others died, but I was physically unable to stay in that house for another day. But listen to this: I was accepted into the Argent Crusade! I'm learning to be a medic. I'm coming home in a few weeks. I know that you are not living, truly. But I intend on having you do so.

                                                                Love,
                                                                    Anne



             Ce held the stationary to his stomach and lost his composure for a moment. When he regained it, he quickly placed the letter back into the mailbox and shut its door on his finger. He rubbed the fresh wound on the side of his pants and moved on.]]>
                Ce always drinks too much water. It’s healthy to drink plenty of water, but you can only carry so much of it on your person. On his way back to Hearthglen, he noticed a small detour from the dirt. This detour was a thin path covered in weeds and leaves and almost too dark to see due to a thick amount of trees surrounding it, and although the trunks and branches were twisted and the leaves were brown there was enough to prevent light from reaching this path. Were the trees clinging to life and dying or clinging to death and trying to recover? Such thoughts didn’t enter Ce’s mind; his canteen was empty and all he wanted at that moment was something to drink.
               There was a broken mailbox on the side of this detour, with the body broken and half and the head lying on its side. Ce knelt down and opened it up, finding a letter inside. He didn’t remove it, shut the door, and decided to take a detour. Halfway down the path he found a small well that was in a workable condition. This wasn’t exactly the place to find safe drinking water from underground runoff, but he had a burner with him and figured he’d just boil it. As he was lowering the bucket down into the well, it made a clinking sound, as if it were hitting the bricks inside. 
                “Amazing… It’s amazing that you’ve managed to survive on this world for a few years when you’d just grab water from some strange-”
                That sound was actually coming from an old man’s boot running into his own cane. Ce’s shoulders jumped a little and he was quick to interrupt and reply, “I always boil my water is why.”
                That old man, was he truly elderly? Ce questioned it. From what light there was he could see that his hair was thin, the color a faded brown, with missing patches rather than a bald spot. To add more confusion, his frame and posture was straight but he looked emaciated and he was holding his cane crooked to the point where the end nearly touched his boots. Ce looked him over for half a minute before quickly and forcibly turning his attention to a distant house. Looking over the man’s shoulder, he could barely see it: it was large enough for a decently sized family, covered in vines, had windows that were covered in a green-black mold, and a small farm beside it with most of it covered in weeds and small trees and a little section of it with living but poorly grown vegetables. Ce didn’t want to stare at it for too long either, and his eyes jolted around before they settled back down on the well. He quickly tried to pull the bucket back to the surface.
                The man’s arm shivered when he lifted his cane to tap the bricks with it, “Hey. Hey! You’re bout as ugly as I am.”
                Ce was still leaned over the well but turned his head to the side.
                The man continued once Ce looked up at him, “But you’re an ugly light worshipper so we’re not so different. I don’t know where you’re gettin’ the impression that you’re not welcome enough to even look at me for too long, even to knock on my door for permission to use my well.
                “I’m not assu-” Ce silenced himself in the middle of the response. He straightened up his posture and let go of the rope, causing the bucket to make a distant splash down in the water.
                The man let out a chuckle and about fell over as he raised his cane in the air and leaned his head to the side, “Come on.”
                Ce looked the man in the eyes for a moment before he turned and began to walk away and filled the bucket with water again before deciding to follow.

---
                  The inside of the man’s home the floor was covered in dust, the paint was flaking off the walls, and it was sparsely furnished. A nearly empty room gives space and attention to what remains. The hall had a coat rack and shoe brusher where the welcoming mat should be. The den had two sofas covered in dust, a clean red chair, and a fireplace with a small fire living inside. He led Ce through the house to the kitchen, which had more in it than any other room. That being said, there still wasn’t much: an old stove, a butcher table with more vegetable bits covering it than blood of flesh, an ice box giving support to a few sacks of grain leaning against it, and a table with one chair. The man signaled for Ce to set the full bucket of water down on the table after he took the only seat.
                “Fill your canteen with water, have a few sips, fill it again. Make yourself something to eat. Rest in one of the old rooms. Take a bat-.”
                “Alright,” Ce raises his hands in reply, “Alright, I get it. I’m welcome.”
                The man smiled before finishing a glass of water that was on the table when they entered, “I wasn’t sure you understood.”
                Ce dipped the canteen in the bucket of water and filled it, taking a few gulps before twisting the cap tight, “Thank you, but I’ll be on my way.”
                “You don’t get to have that water for free you know. I’m feeling a little tired, but I’m hungry. Boil me some rice, will you?” He set down the empty glass after making the demand.
                “I thought I was welcomed.” Ce chuckled as he began to fulfill the request by heating the stove.
                “And you’ll be on your way afterwards,” he assumed.
                “Mm. I will, sir,” answered Ce.
                “Are you in a rush?”
                “Well I need to get to Hearthglen soon.”
                “Horse shit, you have time.”
                Ce stood up from his kneeling position, smiling behind a dropped jaw, “How would you even know that?”
                “Because if you were serious about your schedule you would have left after you filled your canteen, but here you are, cooking a meal for me,” states the man.
                Ce turns his head and looks back at the man as he unscrews his canteen and pours the water into a pot to be boiled. They look each other in the eyes for a moment before returning their attention to what they were doing. Ce resumes boiling the water by positioning the pot over the heat, and the man looks down at his empty glass with a slight smile.
                “What is your name?” Asks the man.
                The room remains completely silent for a moment, aside from the crackle of the stove’s fire. A reply is given in a very quiet tone, “Ce.”
                The man’s adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and he says lowly to himself, “Now the hearing is effected…” He has a distressed expression on his face, “What was that? I couldn’t hear your name?”
                A louder and clearer reply is given, “Ce.”
                “Say what?”
                “A two letter name. A ‘c’ and an ‘e’.”
                The man lets out a relieved sigh, and when he breathes back in, his expression turns confused, “What’s that even mean?”
                The pot in front of Ce begins to sizzle, “What, does your name mean something.”
                The man gives a humble nod, “Yes it does actually. Albert. Means two things I’m not: noble, bright. It was also my grandfather’s name.” There is a pause, “So what does your name mean?”
                “It doesn’t mean anything.”
                “Nothing?!”
                “Nothing,” Ce shakes his head, “it’s unfinished. And I’m tired of explaining why. Just take it as is.”
                “That’s fine.” The man clears his throat and reaches for the bucket across the table with all of his arm’s length. When he gets a hold of the edge and drags it towards himself, the water begins to slosh over the rim due to his shivering, “Put the rest of this in the pot.”
                Ce turns around and rushes over to grab the bucket of water, “It might take two pots…”
                The man grabs Ce’s wooden backpack as he walks away from the table and this jerks him back, causing a stream of water to hit the floor. The man knocks on the rectangular structure and tilts his ear towards it, “What is this? Whatever it is take it off, you’re not going to leave anytime soon.”
                Ce grabs his weak hands and nearly breaks the fingers pulling them off, “I can leave whenever I want.”
                He walks away from Albert and proceeds to take the backpack off, setting it on the floor after he places the bucket near the stove. He then looks back to him with a sorrowful expression as he focuses on the fingers he just yanked.
                Albert, rubbing his hand, laughs at Ce.

---
               
                The bowls that were used to eat the rice were quite different. They were from the same set of fine china, but the one that Albert was using had a more faded design and cracks and scratches on its surface. Ce was given chopsticks to eat with but there wasn’t much to hold onto, and Albert just used his fingers. Ce managed to clear his bowl while Albert only ate a few pinches. Ce didn’t stand up to get more, and instead resigned to watching the man eat.
                Albert stopped eating for a moment and stared back at him, “You’re a big guy, would you like seconds?”
                “I’ve never said no to that question,” Ce replied.
                “Well too bad, it takes a lot of energy for me to make food,” he retorted.
                Ce looked down at his empty bowl, “I apologize. We have the habit of making sure everything has been eaten right after it’s cooked.”
                “My peop-…no,” he stopped to think, “I’m beginning to break that habit.”
                A long pause occurred between the two. Albert’s chewing became slower with each bite, and he’d pinch up less and less out of the bowl.  As Albert was eating Ce positioned the empty bowl directly in front of himself and aligned the chopsticks parallel to it. After that, he watched the sickly man struggle to eat. During this struggle, Albert looked at and away from Ce constantly and he shifted in his seat. He eventually stopped, leaving half a bowl of rice uneaten.
                Alberts eyes drifted away from his bowl and over to Ce’s backpack, “What do you do, Ce?”
                “I am an officer in the Crusade.”
                “I’ve never seen any of the crusaders carrying something like that.”
                Ce’s eyes settled on said backpack, “Ah. It’s because I carry delicate equipment.”
                “Delicate?” Albert tilted his head a little.
                “A microscope, and other fragile items,” Ce explained.
                Albert dug a finger into the rice and weakly pulled out a few more grains to pop into his mouth. As he chewed, he huffed out a long sigh and stared Ce in the eyes.
                Ce looked Albert in the eyes on and off, unable to keep his own locked for more than a few seconds, “I research the plague.”
                Then it was Albert’s eyes that darted around restlessly, “H-how do you research the plague? What all is in there?”
Ce picked up the seat and placed it awkwardly beside Albert’s as he dragged the backpack across the table. The chair Ce seated himself in was taken from the den and its frame was so large that it pushed against Albert’s and caused his chair to lean to the side a few inches until Ce noticed and pulled it away, causing the legs to crash against the floor loudly. Albert remained steady throughout the awkward adjustment and his body rocked back and forth like a lifeless doll as a result of it.
                “A microscope, plague samples, my attempts at a cure, potions, anti-venoms,” Ce listed them as he showed each item in the box to Albert.
                Albert’s eyes couldn’t be drawn away from the plague samples, “And there it is. Such a small thing…”
                “I’m sorry, did you lose somebody to it?”
                Albert looked Ce in the eyes and then turned his head back towards the rest of his house. Ce looked in front of himself and avoided the intense gaze after seeing it once from the corner of his eyes. He quickly closed the box back up and said abruptly, “I’m sorry.”
                Albert grabbed Ce’s wrist to stop him, and then tapped it a few times, “Don’t be.”
                Ce paused and quit putting everything away. The plague samples were the first of the things that he tried to put back, but Albert grabbed a hold of his wrist again and insisted, “Take it back out. I want to see it. I want some quality time with it.”
                Ce did as he was asked, and after setting it back on the table he rubbed Albert’s shoulder and pat it a few times, staring at the sample along with him but occasionally studying the features of the kitchen – or more precisely the lack thereof. After Albert began to shiver violently, he grabbed one of the little black vials only for his hand to be trapped by one of Ce’s, “I can’t have you ta-”
                Albert’s arm muscles, whatever was left of them, tensed up as he pushed down with his hand. Both felt something collapse underneath their palms and Ce immediately pulled the hand off, “Stop.”
                Lifting up their pale hands, Ce let out a huff when the vial of plague remained intact, albeit cracked on the surface. Albert’s face turned red, his eyes became inflamed, and he grinded his teeth visibly; Ce could see one of the teeth push up to the side out of his lips, ready to pop out of the skull at any moment. He pulled everything out of reach and scrambled to get everything back into the box. Albert breathed in deeply, relaxed his shoulders, and stopped grinding his teeth. They chattered for a minute instead.
The moment Ce noticed the turn in expression, he sped up the process of trying to get up and out. Unfortunately Ce wanted to put everything away for the man – the empty bowls of rice, the rest of the boiled water, the chair he took from the den. Albert got up and followed Ce around the kitchen slowly and deliriously, constantly and weakly raising an arm towards him as he paced around.
                “I- could you pl-“ Albert couldn’t finish his thoughts.
                “Look, I’ve made dinner for you. Out of the goodness of my heart,” Ce responded looking back at him while rushing to get out.
                Just as Ce made it to the front door Albert caught up to him and grabbed a hold of his wrist. Ce pulled away and caused Albert to fall face first onto his doormat. Ce was taken aback by the man’s fall. Albert was out cold, limbs splayed, his body halfway out of the house. Ce stopped himself and let out a shivering sigh.

---

                Albert used his arms to push himself up out of resting position and sit up in his bed. As he positioned his back against the board, he looked across the room to find the Draenei seated in the corner, resting his body and head against the wall, faint snores coming from within. The plated sections of his armor jutted off the floor and shifted awkwardly off his limbs while the cloth of the outfit sagged and scrunched up in places.
“Ce, are you awake?” Asked Albert.
                Ce opened his eyes, which caused his face to glow in the darkness of the room – this light exposed circles under his eyes and a beard that was fluffing out a little due to being pressed against the wall.
                “I have spare rooms you can rest in,” he said.
                Ce stared in his direction.
                “It doesn’t matter. I have something I want to ask of you.”
                Ce’s eyelids opened a little more and his eyebrows raised, but he continued to stare quietly.
                “I don’t remember if I told you or not Ce, but I lost my entire family to the plague. While I survived, I fell ill to something else. Something the doctors that visited couldn’t figure out or help me with. It is long term, spreading throughout my body for over a year, and soon it will kill me. If I am to die I would prefer to meet the same fate my wife and daughters did. I want you to infect me with the plague so that you might test your latest ‘cure’. Lastly, whether or not your cure works I would like for you to dig my grave, for I am too weak to do it myself. Can you do this for me.”
                Ce gave him no answer. He stared at Albert for an entire minute before gently closing his eyes and falling asleep.
                Albert looked away from Ce. He positioned his face diagonally to look at the floor, and in this muse his expression became one of warmth, “’S fine. Rest well, my friend.”

---
               
                The den glowed with sunlight now that Ce cleaned the windows, along with most of the house, but Albert scooted his chair very close to the fireplace as if it were providing him with enough light to read the text of a book he was reading. He sat like this for over an hour, often looking at the belongings Ce set by the fireplace, before Ce entered with dirt covering his entire wardrobe. Albert closed his book and set it on his lap, looking behind himself, “You look exhausted. Come. I made tea.”
                Ce slogged his hooves across the floor and nearly collapsed on the floor in front of the fireplace. He reached up and received a cup of tea, and then looked down into it. It was almost clear as water, “This is tea?”
                Albert rocked his head back and forth, “Yes. I’m sorry, have I been reusing that sack too often? I like to preserve.”
                “Do you have more pouches of herbs you could use?”
                “I do.”
                “Then why not use them? You don’t have much time.”
                Albert paused and gazed into the fire, “So the grave is ready?”
                The tea was cold, but Ce downed it in seconds, “Yes.”
                 “Are you?”
                Ce scooted back and grabbed the tea pot to refill his cup. He drank, and then refilled. It wasn’t until after his third cup was empty that turned his attention to the box resting near the fireplace as he answered the question, “I’m not going to test on you. It’s not guaranteed to work and it would just make dying worse if you aren’t cured. Didn’t you say you worshiped the light?”
                “The light had its purpose until you arrived – now I am ready.”
                “But it is an unsanitary death, and I would rather not be responsible for your death.”
                “Then what is the point of you having dug that grave?” Albert looks Ce up and down, “Finish what you started.”
                “I will check back and bury your body should I find you dead.”
                Albert set his cup of tea down on the table and let out a huff. When he stared back into the fire it was as if it were draining his life, leaving only a flicker behind in his eyes. He stood up, and began to gather Ce’s belongings for him, setting them in front of him.
                “Thank you, you don’t have to,” Ce said as he stood up.
                Albert moved everything but Ce’s sword. When he picked it up, it remained in his hand. He raised it above himself and looked at his own warped reflection in the blade. Ce put on his backpack and reattached his canteen of water to his belt, and when he reached over to try and take the sword out of Albert’s hands, Albert lowered the blade and backed up into his seat, setting it in his lap for a moment. Ce looked him up and down a few times. Albert looked up into Ce’s eyes, and then lifted the blade to his chest. Ce immediately fell to the chair and grabbed the handle, meeting an impressive resistance from Albert.
                Ce was unable to pull it away from the sickly man, and his voice was winded, “Wha-what are you doi-”
                “Let me end my life,” Albert calmly interrupted.
                “I’m taking my sword,” Ce demanded.
                When Ce tried to yank the sword out of Albert’s grip with all of his strength, it only dragged the man’s body across the floor. Ce let out a sigh, stopped, and knelt on the floor beside him. He kept one hand on the handle and gently caressed Albert’s shoulder, “Look, I –”
                “I don’t want to die alone!” Albert shouted desperately, his hands shivering as he pushed the blade through his shirt and slightly into the skin, but no further.
                Ce’s mouth was agape, but all he could do was shake his head in an answer.
                “Please, Ce I wan-,” swallows interrupted his wails, “Ce I can’t. I canno-.”
                Ce shook his head faster, “No.”
                Albert’s eyes welled with tears and terror. His feet dragged on the floor as he tried to push the blade further into his chest, but only getting half an inch in before he began to make guttural noises that eventually evolved into a primal scream that tried but failed to form a coherent sentence.
                Ce’s jaw began to shiver, “I want to stay here until – not like this.”
                Albert’s breathing became heavy, and his screams calmed into a meek plea, “I can’t do it Ce.”
                Ce ran his fingers through what hair remained on Albert’s head. He gazed into his eyes as he plunged the blade into the chest. Albert reached up to grab the collar of Ce’s shirt to tug on it because of the pain, but his arm eventually fell limp. As Albert’s life ceased to be, Ce lifted his head into the depression of his neck, unable to watch the eyes lose their remaining light. He covered his mouth with Albert’s head and stared into the fire with widened eyes, shedding tears he hadn’t shed in thousands of years.

---

               Ce's entire shirt, and most of his pants, were soaked in blood. However, he cleaned everything else and gave Albert a dignified burial. Ce left with most of his belongings, but while he was digging the man's grave, Albert snuck one of the plague samples out of his backpack and hid it under a pillow. Unaware, Ce didn't look back until he noticed the mailbox that was on the ground. He finally opened the mail inside of it that was gathering the dust, and read what it had to say:

Dear Father,



We haven't spoken in some time, but I want to ask for your forgiveness and reestablish our relationship before it is too late. It was selfish of me to leave you alone after the others died, but I was physically unable to stay in that house for another day. But listen to this: I was accepted into the Argent Crusade! I'm learning to be a medic. I'm coming home in a few weeks. I know that you are not living, truly. But I intend on having you do so.

                                                                Love,
                                                                    Anne



             Ce held the stationary to his stomach and lost his composure for a moment. When he regained it, he quickly placed the letter back into the mailbox and shut its door on his finger. He rubbed the fresh wound on the side of his pants and moved on.]]> <![CDATA[The Cost to be the Boss]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39046.html Sun, 04 Jan 2015 13:25:32 -0800 ThePharaoh]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39046.html [Image: Goblin-Crest.jpg]

A goblin reclined in his leather chair kicking his feet up on his desk in the executive office. Only one guard remained in the room, with a scantily clad female giving the reclining goblin a massage. He grinned exposing his gold teeth, and straightened out the scarf that laid around his neck. A pounding on the door was heard, Thum, Thum, Thum. The goblin raised a hand to stop the massage and reached under his desk feeling around before placing a Gilnean rifle on the surface. He nodded to the guard, as he slowly approached the door. Thum, Thum, Thum, the noise had intensified. "Whaddya want?" The goblin asked, as the guard made it to the large double doors. They knew that no one could just knock on the door, everyone presented to the Boss of the organization would be first announced by a trusted member. "It is what You want..." He shook his head before nodding to the guard to open them.

[Image: gobbo_zpseab41a5c.jpg]

In the doorway stood a large demon, with a goblin on its shoulder mutated by fel. Her grin was devilish with pointed teeth, and large horns curled from her forehead. She wore revealing clothing that made the Boss question how much coin he could make off her figure. However, behind her in the hallway were three goblins in suits, slain. They laid lifeless in their wake, only small sprinkles of blood peppered the walls and their clothing. "....D'aww...See you didn't have to go do that..." The Boss remembered, she was insane. He picked up his gun and aimed it at them, she began laughing. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, this isn't the right way to go about earning our favor." The Boss shook his head and nodded to his guard, who began to grab the bodies from the hallway. "I ain't looking for -your- favor. Do that again and I'll remove your head. Understand?" The female nodded, "I do...I apologize.." She said licking her lips, her glowing eyes following the guard dragging the boxes. "I was unaware you were still attached, and they were making quite the hassle because I wanted to see you." The Boss stared at her for a while, gripping the gun tightly. "Whaddya want Gobbo?" She mockingly raised her hands in surrender. "Don't kill the messenger....-He- wants an update on your progress." She giggled, while exposing her ferocious grin.

"Things are well, but as expected we're facing uhm..." He thinks about it, while rolling his hand on his wrist, "...Resistance." He snaps his finger, and the female behind him resumes rubbing his back. "We had two camps out there in the Plaguelands but they took one. Our carriages haven't been touched yet to my knowledge. I believe we're going to be pulling out soon anyway. There are other places to find Death Knights."



Meanwhile...

[Image: goblinship-1293241878.jpg]

Hidden behind a few large rocks in the Plaguelands two goblins watched as the carriages they drove were being attacked by different warriors, some death knights, warlocks, paladins and a druid? The two watched paralyzed by fear and wonder, jumping and cringing at every explosion or painful hit. "OOOOOOH!!!" they said together while wincing, "This... This is not good." A goblin says adjusting his hat, "Nope... Not good at a- Ooooh! Kruntok is dead! Kruntok is definitely dead." This caused the other goblin to squint surveying the battle in the hills below. "Ooh..." He says identifying the remains of the orc. "I never liked Kruntok..." He said casually. An explosion of mana sent a plume of smoke and dirt into the air causing the goblins to jump, "WHOOA!" they say simultaneously. "I'm not dying for some empty carriage, we already dropped the bodies off anyway." He shakes his head, but continues watching. "So...Who's going to tell the boss?" The goblin with the hat asked the other. Quickly they ducked, as smoking debris flew in their direction.

Slowly they poked their heads out to resume watching. After a few moments the other shrugged. "I don't know...Probably whoever runs the camp." He responds, "Well...Should we tell the camp?" The other goblin seems to forcefully have to pull his gaze from the battle to look at the other goblin just to flash a perplexed expression. "What? Yeah....Yeah we're going to tell the camp." He looks to the battle. "Just...After this." After moments of watching he begins chuckling, causing the other Goblin to look over. "You...really must not of- OOOOH!!" The goblin says raising a fist to his mouth, opening his eyes wide. "Not have what?" The other goblin says laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. "You must not have liked anyone down there." He said adjusting his hat. "No I did...But the Boss' wrath is going to be really bad for these guys. Like....Really bad." He shudders, and then he takes a deep breath. "Yeah.... Let's head back to camp, Gobbo."

]]> [Image: Goblin-Crest.jpg]

A goblin reclined in his leather chair kicking his feet up on his desk in the executive office. Only one guard remained in the room, with a scantily clad female giving the reclining goblin a massage. He grinned exposing his gold teeth, and straightened out the scarf that laid around his neck. A pounding on the door was heard, Thum, Thum, Thum. The goblin raised a hand to stop the massage and reached under his desk feeling around before placing a Gilnean rifle on the surface. He nodded to the guard, as he slowly approached the door. Thum, Thum, Thum, the noise had intensified. "Whaddya want?" The goblin asked, as the guard made it to the large double doors. They knew that no one could just knock on the door, everyone presented to the Boss of the organization would be first announced by a trusted member. "It is what You want..." He shook his head before nodding to the guard to open them.

[Image: gobbo_zpseab41a5c.jpg]

In the doorway stood a large demon, with a goblin on its shoulder mutated by fel. Her grin was devilish with pointed teeth, and large horns curled from her forehead. She wore revealing clothing that made the Boss question how much coin he could make off her figure. However, behind her in the hallway were three goblins in suits, slain. They laid lifeless in their wake, only small sprinkles of blood peppered the walls and their clothing. "....D'aww...See you didn't have to go do that..." The Boss remembered, she was insane. He picked up his gun and aimed it at them, she began laughing. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, this isn't the right way to go about earning our favor." The Boss shook his head and nodded to his guard, who began to grab the bodies from the hallway. "I ain't looking for -your- favor. Do that again and I'll remove your head. Understand?" The female nodded, "I do...I apologize.." She said licking her lips, her glowing eyes following the guard dragging the boxes. "I was unaware you were still attached, and they were making quite the hassle because I wanted to see you." The Boss stared at her for a while, gripping the gun tightly. "Whaddya want Gobbo?" She mockingly raised her hands in surrender. "Don't kill the messenger....-He- wants an update on your progress." She giggled, while exposing her ferocious grin.

"Things are well, but as expected we're facing uhm..." He thinks about it, while rolling his hand on his wrist, "...Resistance." He snaps his finger, and the female behind him resumes rubbing his back. "We had two camps out there in the Plaguelands but they took one. Our carriages haven't been touched yet to my knowledge. I believe we're going to be pulling out soon anyway. There are other places to find Death Knights."



Meanwhile...

[Image: goblinship-1293241878.jpg]

Hidden behind a few large rocks in the Plaguelands two goblins watched as the carriages they drove were being attacked by different warriors, some death knights, warlocks, paladins and a druid? The two watched paralyzed by fear and wonder, jumping and cringing at every explosion or painful hit. "OOOOOOH!!!" they said together while wincing, "This... This is not good." A goblin says adjusting his hat, "Nope... Not good at a- Ooooh! Kruntok is dead! Kruntok is definitely dead." This caused the other goblin to squint surveying the battle in the hills below. "Ooh..." He says identifying the remains of the orc. "I never liked Kruntok..." He said casually. An explosion of mana sent a plume of smoke and dirt into the air causing the goblins to jump, "WHOOA!" they say simultaneously. "I'm not dying for some empty carriage, we already dropped the bodies off anyway." He shakes his head, but continues watching. "So...Who's going to tell the boss?" The goblin with the hat asked the other. Quickly they ducked, as smoking debris flew in their direction.

Slowly they poked their heads out to resume watching. After a few moments the other shrugged. "I don't know...Probably whoever runs the camp." He responds, "Well...Should we tell the camp?" The other goblin seems to forcefully have to pull his gaze from the battle to look at the other goblin just to flash a perplexed expression. "What? Yeah....Yeah we're going to tell the camp." He looks to the battle. "Just...After this." After moments of watching he begins chuckling, causing the other Goblin to look over. "You...really must not of- OOOOH!!" The goblin says raising a fist to his mouth, opening his eyes wide. "Not have what?" The other goblin says laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. "You must not have liked anyone down there." He said adjusting his hat. "No I did...But the Boss' wrath is going to be really bad for these guys. Like....Really bad." He shudders, and then he takes a deep breath. "Yeah.... Let's head back to camp, Gobbo."

]]> <![CDATA[Soul of the Seregon]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39016.html Sun, 28 Dec 2014 16:46:01 -0800 ThePharaoh]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-39016.html here.







One evening in Silvermoon.....



In a lavish room decorated in the finest golds, and the deepest reds stood a small column four feet high. A large golden plate rested on top, with a green etheral flame burning above it. The flame was tied to the vitality, the soul of one elf. The patriarch of his family, an ambitious and wise tactition. For moments the green flame wavered before it was extinguished. An elf kneeling before the column slowly opened his eyes, and gazed at the golden plate. Startled, he quickly rose to his feet accompanied only by the sound of his creaking armor. He ran one hand through his black hair and closed his eyes. "Rest well, M'lord. We will avenge you..." Dulcius continued out the door to resume his duty as the leader of the Sons of Seregon. He began gathering the other officials to do what Elrohir instructed him to do if this were to ever happen. Elrohir knew his enemies would stop at nothing to take revenge for some of the things he has done. He knew that if he ever had children they would immediately become targets. Successfully he managed to keep this secret, but now was their time.

In another wing of the Seregon estate, an elf trained diligently. He looked onward repeatedly swinging a weighted sword cursing to himself. Only his younger brother watched silently as fresh sweat continued rolling down his furrowed brow, dripping from his ears, nose and chin. He kept replaying his departure from the Argent Crusade over, and over. Tyrius knew his father had done some things differently but they were All for his family and their people. He sought guidance from an Argent Commander, Krilari Dawnsend and because of his lineage he was turned away. Enraged the elf returned home and began training harder. "It still bothers you, doesn't it...Brother?". Tyrius stopped for just a moment, and looked to his brother. Before he could respond, the leaders from the Sons of Seregon entered the room. "Young Masters....We have something to tell you..."

".....It's about your Father."


[Image: Bloodelves_zpsd0ca378f.jpg]

After they received the news, Tyrius couldn't stop grimacing. He wanted Krilari's training to improve his own skills so he could better serve his father. He was already acknowledged to be talented but he wanted to be the best. He clenched his fists tightly, muttering to himself. "....Damn you, Dawnsend." He failed his father. Instantly he pointed to his brother, "Do not cry." His brother sniffled, but nodded as the other elves watched quietly. "....As Lord Elrohir requested, You are the Head of House Seregon. Simultaneously they knelt before him, "What are your wishes, my Lord?" The weight of the moment almost overwhelmed the elf, but he stood firm. "Ophion, I want you to begin the forbidden training with my brother." The blonde elf nodded immediately, "Yes, My lord." His brother spoke up, understanding the situation. "But Father says th-" Tyrius rose one hand cutting his brother off. "Father is dead..." This filled the room with silence and all were still within it, until Tyrius spoke once more. "Dulcius...Find my father's body...or find out who killed him. Take as many as you need, but do not get caught." The only elf there with dark hair nodded. "Yes sir." Tyrius dropped the weighted weapon and walked to a towel folded on the bench, he began drying himself off. While tying back his blonde hair he looked to female elf with a heartless expression. "Dawnwhisper, find Elihanara, if she's dead find an arm and bring it back to me. I'll raise her myself." She nodded as well, "Understood, sir." Tyrius grabbed a small bar of chewing taffy and walked closer to the kneeling leaders. "....Also were going to need blades." He said chewing casually, "Blades? Should I send for Blacksmiths?" Dulcius asked, causing Tyrius to grin. "No...Set up a meeting with House Silverfang."]]> here.







One evening in Silvermoon.....



In a lavish room decorated in the finest golds, and the deepest reds stood a small column four feet high. A large golden plate rested on top, with a green etheral flame burning above it. The flame was tied to the vitality, the soul of one elf. The patriarch of his family, an ambitious and wise tactition. For moments the green flame wavered before it was extinguished. An elf kneeling before the column slowly opened his eyes, and gazed at the golden plate. Startled, he quickly rose to his feet accompanied only by the sound of his creaking armor. He ran one hand through his black hair and closed his eyes. "Rest well, M'lord. We will avenge you..." Dulcius continued out the door to resume his duty as the leader of the Sons of Seregon. He began gathering the other officials to do what Elrohir instructed him to do if this were to ever happen. Elrohir knew his enemies would stop at nothing to take revenge for some of the things he has done. He knew that if he ever had children they would immediately become targets. Successfully he managed to keep this secret, but now was their time.

In another wing of the Seregon estate, an elf trained diligently. He looked onward repeatedly swinging a weighted sword cursing to himself. Only his younger brother watched silently as fresh sweat continued rolling down his furrowed brow, dripping from his ears, nose and chin. He kept replaying his departure from the Argent Crusade over, and over. Tyrius knew his father had done some things differently but they were All for his family and their people. He sought guidance from an Argent Commander, Krilari Dawnsend and because of his lineage he was turned away. Enraged the elf returned home and began training harder. "It still bothers you, doesn't it...Brother?". Tyrius stopped for just a moment, and looked to his brother. Before he could respond, the leaders from the Sons of Seregon entered the room. "Young Masters....We have something to tell you..."

".....It's about your Father."


[Image: Bloodelves_zpsd0ca378f.jpg]

After they received the news, Tyrius couldn't stop grimacing. He wanted Krilari's training to improve his own skills so he could better serve his father. He was already acknowledged to be talented but he wanted to be the best. He clenched his fists tightly, muttering to himself. "....Damn you, Dawnsend." He failed his father. Instantly he pointed to his brother, "Do not cry." His brother sniffled, but nodded as the other elves watched quietly. "....As Lord Elrohir requested, You are the Head of House Seregon. Simultaneously they knelt before him, "What are your wishes, my Lord?" The weight of the moment almost overwhelmed the elf, but he stood firm. "Ophion, I want you to begin the forbidden training with my brother." The blonde elf nodded immediately, "Yes, My lord." His brother spoke up, understanding the situation. "But Father says th-" Tyrius rose one hand cutting his brother off. "Father is dead..." This filled the room with silence and all were still within it, until Tyrius spoke once more. "Dulcius...Find my father's body...or find out who killed him. Take as many as you need, but do not get caught." The only elf there with dark hair nodded. "Yes sir." Tyrius dropped the weighted weapon and walked to a towel folded on the bench, he began drying himself off. While tying back his blonde hair he looked to female elf with a heartless expression. "Dawnwhisper, find Elihanara, if she's dead find an arm and bring it back to me. I'll raise her myself." She nodded as well, "Understood, sir." Tyrius grabbed a small bar of chewing taffy and walked closer to the kneeling leaders. "....Also were going to need blades." He said chewing casually, "Blades? Should I send for Blacksmiths?" Dulcius asked, causing Tyrius to grin. "No...Set up a meeting with House Silverfang."]]> <![CDATA[The Lost Guide]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38978.html Wed, 17 Dec 2014 21:58:58 -0800 Scout]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38978.html The cold air of Dalaran didn’t bother Ashyr. Exposed skin of her arms and torso gave her no discomfort. She barely felt anything--not the stone wall behind her, cool as she knew it was, and not the sweat in her palms. The streets had quieted down long ago, but even before, the sound on her ears had gone largely ignored. She could hardly bring herself to open her eyes.

The open street would not have served as the first choice for most people attempting to seek solitude, but Ashyr found a comforting dissonance in it. Nestled in her corner against the wall, no one noticed her, and so she was alone, but at once, there were people all around her. She never thought of it as strange, especially not then. She hardly thought about anything at all then but one solitary, circular path in her mind.


Saanto was dead.


Ashyr couldn’t accept that Saanto would have let her guard down enough to let herself be killed. Why hadn’t she fled? Why hadn’t she teleported away, if she knew she might be weak and susceptible? She did it enough just to get around. Ashyr had seen her pop out and come back barely minutes later, with that smile of hers still gently clinging to her lips. She could have left, easily. She could have been safe. Ashyr could have seen her again, but this vague figure in her mind had broken Saanto.

Therai Nightglade. It was a strange name, but it sounded elven to Ashyr. Even so, she couldn’t put a picture to it, only a figure shrouded in shadows. Why had she attacked Saanto? There was no reason. Saanto’s friends had no answer to that. All they wanted was justice. The lapse in logic brought pause to Ashyr time and time again, because why would anyone attack Saanto? There was no reason. Saanto was the kindest person she had ever met.

Regardless of reasoning, Therai was going to be brought to justice, whatever that meant. The thought brought out conflict in Ashyr all over again. She was upset, she was frustrated. Therai had taken her most important person away from her, but...she couldn’t find it in her to feel rage, nor vengeance. There was no fire. People were calling for Therai’s death, and all Ashyr could think was that she didn’t want there to be any more death. It hardly mattered whose, anymore...she just wanted everyone to forget.

How long had Saanto been dead? Ashyr hadn’t seen her in years before she finally learned. Had she been dead all that time, or had there been some sort of gap in it where she was simply hidden?

Ashyr drove that thought to the back of her mind, and somewhere in her consciousness, she felt the loose, smooth fabric of her skirt against her face. Saanto was dead.

A deep voice disturbed her from her introspection. “Well met, Ashyr.” Mention of her name jolted her back into reality, and she sprang upright, sitting up against the stone wall in her corner on the side of the street. It was one of Saanto’s friends. Ashyr had forgotten his name...or had he even given it to begin with?

“Hello, lord,” she mumbled as she looked up at the draenei. She focused her gaze on his collar, her reflex when speaking to anyone. Even if she wasn’t looking directly at his face, she found it simple enough to pay attention to expressions from that view. The draenei man furrowed his brow, quiet for a moment. He had given his name, she remembered now, but she hadn’t caught it...or, had she?

"I am glad I found you here. I have a question...it is related to Saanto." He had mentioned that Ashyr could come to him if she needed support, but the thought of it turned her stomach. If she could just stay strong, then, maybe…

“Yes, lord?” she found herself saying, unfocused and distant. Even Saanto’s name barely brought her attention.



“Would you like to come with me to Shattrath City, to visit Saanto at her grave and pay your respects?”



She noticed the goosebumps on her skin suddenly, popping out in her senses. Reality seemed even more real now than usual. “Mistress Saanto has a grave…?”

The draenei nodded. Maybe she could just remember what his name began with...a V? “After we found her, we attempted to perform rites of resurrection. She would not return for us, so we laid her to rest.”

Hope and despair rose in Ashyr’s chest almost instantly, one after the other. She hadn’t conceived that resurrection was even an option, but he made it sound like it was already a lost cause. She hugged her knees close to her chest and hid a shiver, looking away from the draenei. “Why would she not come back, lord?”

He didn’t speak for an agonizing moment, then she heard him sigh. “The priests said she lived a long, full life, and is at peace.



“She no longer wishes to be disturbed.”



It dug into her chest like a dagger. She buried her face in her knees, and dragged her fingernails through her hair and over her scalp, though her gloves prevented any pain. She needed a distraction, anything, just…

“She is buried outside of the City of Light. I am going to the city now, and I will bring you with me, if that is what you want.” His words severed her thoughts again.

“I do not understand why she would not come back, lord…” Why?

“When we had her body, she had the choice between coming back to us and going to the Light. It is difficult to blame her for choosing the Naaru over us.”

“You...you must have done something wrong, lord…” She carried herself to her feet, bracing against the wall behind her for support. She didn’t feel comfortable standing unaided. Her gaze remained on the cobblestones before her. She couldn’t bear to look at him. "She would not...she wouldn't..."

“Nothing was wrong.” Every word constricted Ashyr’s chest. “The priests have been helping souls find rest for thousands of years. Saanto is unfortunately...no different.”

“They...did not try hard enough, lord.” She felt herself shaking, then heard him take a breath.

“You doubt our efforts? We did everything possible to bring Saanto back. In the end, we could only save her soul.”

“You MUST not have done everything, lord!” she pleaded, stepping forward, close to him. She looked up to his chest, at that intricate robe of his. Why did he keep saying these things? “She wouldn't leave, lord! I know she wouldn't!”

“I am sorry, but that is the way it is. There is no use for regret now, we must simply honor her memory and find justice for her murder.”

Justice, again. That word stung Ashyr. Could he truly back down so swiftly? He claimed Saanto had been one of his close friends, but he had already given up on her. He had failed. He was a coward. He was weak. She tightened her fingers, balling them into fists, too familiar. She knew the techniques. She knew where to strike. She looked up to his face, and his eyes.



It would take only a moment. It would be…so easy.



Panic gripped her, and she gasped. Her hands loosened, and she replaced them on her arms, clinging to herself. Don’t look at him, don’t let him see. “Forgive me, lord,” she whispered.

She heard him let out a sigh. “There is nothing to forgive. Though it is Saanto's choice, and we must respect it, I too was not happy with the decision.”

She nodded slowly to his words. The rush was dying down. “I…” She swallowed silently. “I do want to see her grave, lord…”

“This way, then.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move, and she followed after him.]]> The cold air of Dalaran didn’t bother Ashyr. Exposed skin of her arms and torso gave her no discomfort. She barely felt anything--not the stone wall behind her, cool as she knew it was, and not the sweat in her palms. The streets had quieted down long ago, but even before, the sound on her ears had gone largely ignored. She could hardly bring herself to open her eyes.

The open street would not have served as the first choice for most people attempting to seek solitude, but Ashyr found a comforting dissonance in it. Nestled in her corner against the wall, no one noticed her, and so she was alone, but at once, there were people all around her. She never thought of it as strange, especially not then. She hardly thought about anything at all then but one solitary, circular path in her mind.


Saanto was dead.


Ashyr couldn’t accept that Saanto would have let her guard down enough to let herself be killed. Why hadn’t she fled? Why hadn’t she teleported away, if she knew she might be weak and susceptible? She did it enough just to get around. Ashyr had seen her pop out and come back barely minutes later, with that smile of hers still gently clinging to her lips. She could have left, easily. She could have been safe. Ashyr could have seen her again, but this vague figure in her mind had broken Saanto.

Therai Nightglade. It was a strange name, but it sounded elven to Ashyr. Even so, she couldn’t put a picture to it, only a figure shrouded in shadows. Why had she attacked Saanto? There was no reason. Saanto’s friends had no answer to that. All they wanted was justice. The lapse in logic brought pause to Ashyr time and time again, because why would anyone attack Saanto? There was no reason. Saanto was the kindest person she had ever met.

Regardless of reasoning, Therai was going to be brought to justice, whatever that meant. The thought brought out conflict in Ashyr all over again. She was upset, she was frustrated. Therai had taken her most important person away from her, but...she couldn’t find it in her to feel rage, nor vengeance. There was no fire. People were calling for Therai’s death, and all Ashyr could think was that she didn’t want there to be any more death. It hardly mattered whose, anymore...she just wanted everyone to forget.

How long had Saanto been dead? Ashyr hadn’t seen her in years before she finally learned. Had she been dead all that time, or had there been some sort of gap in it where she was simply hidden?

Ashyr drove that thought to the back of her mind, and somewhere in her consciousness, she felt the loose, smooth fabric of her skirt against her face. Saanto was dead.

A deep voice disturbed her from her introspection. “Well met, Ashyr.” Mention of her name jolted her back into reality, and she sprang upright, sitting up against the stone wall in her corner on the side of the street. It was one of Saanto’s friends. Ashyr had forgotten his name...or had he even given it to begin with?

“Hello, lord,” she mumbled as she looked up at the draenei. She focused her gaze on his collar, her reflex when speaking to anyone. Even if she wasn’t looking directly at his face, she found it simple enough to pay attention to expressions from that view. The draenei man furrowed his brow, quiet for a moment. He had given his name, she remembered now, but she hadn’t caught it...or, had she?

"I am glad I found you here. I have a question...it is related to Saanto." He had mentioned that Ashyr could come to him if she needed support, but the thought of it turned her stomach. If she could just stay strong, then, maybe…

“Yes, lord?” she found herself saying, unfocused and distant. Even Saanto’s name barely brought her attention.



“Would you like to come with me to Shattrath City, to visit Saanto at her grave and pay your respects?”



She noticed the goosebumps on her skin suddenly, popping out in her senses. Reality seemed even more real now than usual. “Mistress Saanto has a grave…?”

The draenei nodded. Maybe she could just remember what his name began with...a V? “After we found her, we attempted to perform rites of resurrection. She would not return for us, so we laid her to rest.”

Hope and despair rose in Ashyr’s chest almost instantly, one after the other. She hadn’t conceived that resurrection was even an option, but he made it sound like it was already a lost cause. She hugged her knees close to her chest and hid a shiver, looking away from the draenei. “Why would she not come back, lord?”

He didn’t speak for an agonizing moment, then she heard him sigh. “The priests said she lived a long, full life, and is at peace.



“She no longer wishes to be disturbed.”



It dug into her chest like a dagger. She buried her face in her knees, and dragged her fingernails through her hair and over her scalp, though her gloves prevented any pain. She needed a distraction, anything, just…

“She is buried outside of the City of Light. I am going to the city now, and I will bring you with me, if that is what you want.” His words severed her thoughts again.

“I do not understand why she would not come back, lord…” Why?

“When we had her body, she had the choice between coming back to us and going to the Light. It is difficult to blame her for choosing the Naaru over us.”

“You...you must have done something wrong, lord…” She carried herself to her feet, bracing against the wall behind her for support. She didn’t feel comfortable standing unaided. Her gaze remained on the cobblestones before her. She couldn’t bear to look at him. "She would not...she wouldn't..."

“Nothing was wrong.” Every word constricted Ashyr’s chest. “The priests have been helping souls find rest for thousands of years. Saanto is unfortunately...no different.”

“They...did not try hard enough, lord.” She felt herself shaking, then heard him take a breath.

“You doubt our efforts? We did everything possible to bring Saanto back. In the end, we could only save her soul.”

“You MUST not have done everything, lord!” she pleaded, stepping forward, close to him. She looked up to his chest, at that intricate robe of his. Why did he keep saying these things? “She wouldn't leave, lord! I know she wouldn't!”

“I am sorry, but that is the way it is. There is no use for regret now, we must simply honor her memory and find justice for her murder.”

Justice, again. That word stung Ashyr. Could he truly back down so swiftly? He claimed Saanto had been one of his close friends, but he had already given up on her. He had failed. He was a coward. He was weak. She tightened her fingers, balling them into fists, too familiar. She knew the techniques. She knew where to strike. She looked up to his face, and his eyes.



It would take only a moment. It would be…so easy.



Panic gripped her, and she gasped. Her hands loosened, and she replaced them on her arms, clinging to herself. Don’t look at him, don’t let him see. “Forgive me, lord,” she whispered.

She heard him let out a sigh. “There is nothing to forgive. Though it is Saanto's choice, and we must respect it, I too was not happy with the decision.”

She nodded slowly to his words. The rush was dying down. “I…” She swallowed silently. “I do want to see her grave, lord…”

“This way, then.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move, and she followed after him.]]> <![CDATA[Reflections]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38971.html Sun, 14 Dec 2014 17:15:02 -0800 Hawk]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38971.html
Reflections


Dunlain


"Who am I?"

"You've asked yourself this question a lot, yet you've never been able to find the answer have you?"

"... Who am I?"

"You are... a Runemaster. A husband - perhaps even a father soon? You are a noble man. Redeemed."

"Redeemed... am I truly redeemed? Is what I do so different now?"

"I'm sorry, I guess I must have missed the people who you TORTURED in fanatical zeal recently. Things are getting blurry what with you drowning yourself in alcohol to make you forget..."

"Alright, fine. Points for leaving behind the iron maidens. But isn't every cause that people fight for a righteous one in their head? The Scarlet Crusade was mad, but... they thought the same about us, didn't they? It seems all that has happened is that I've changed sides. I'm still fighting some variation of foe that threatens our way of life and... I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. I've had to kill murderers and thieves to get paid by the military, but I've just murdered a man and stolen money myself. How can I call myself noble?"

"You're not a damn philosopher. Questions about right and wrong aren't for you to decide. You defeat whatever's trying to kill you and what you love and that's all there is to it. It's simply the way this world is. Everyone's done vile things, and your woman loves you in spite of it. Get over it.

"How can you say that after everything I've done?! I NEED to know if I'm ever going to be a good man or if I'm doomed to let my past define me forever. Can I overcome it? It haunts me wherever I go... like a shadow on the wall.

... but how would you know? You're just a damned mirror... you can't help me."]]>
Reflections


Dunlain


"Who am I?"

"You've asked yourself this question a lot, yet you've never been able to find the answer have you?"

"... Who am I?"

"You are... a Runemaster. A husband - perhaps even a father soon? You are a noble man. Redeemed."

"Redeemed... am I truly redeemed? Is what I do so different now?"

"I'm sorry, I guess I must have missed the people who you TORTURED in fanatical zeal recently. Things are getting blurry what with you drowning yourself in alcohol to make you forget..."

"Alright, fine. Points for leaving behind the iron maidens. But isn't every cause that people fight for a righteous one in their head? The Scarlet Crusade was mad, but... they thought the same about us, didn't they? It seems all that has happened is that I've changed sides. I'm still fighting some variation of foe that threatens our way of life and... I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. I've had to kill murderers and thieves to get paid by the military, but I've just murdered a man and stolen money myself. How can I call myself noble?"

"You're not a damn philosopher. Questions about right and wrong aren't for you to decide. You defeat whatever's trying to kill you and what you love and that's all there is to it. It's simply the way this world is. Everyone's done vile things, and your woman loves you in spite of it. Get over it.

"How can you say that after everything I've done?! I NEED to know if I'm ever going to be a good man or if I'm doomed to let my past define me forever. Can I overcome it? It haunts me wherever I go... like a shadow on the wall.

... but how would you know? You're just a damned mirror... you can't help me."]]> <![CDATA[Hell Bindings]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38932.html Thu, 04 Dec 2014 16:03:22 -0800 Altaine]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38932.html Thunder crashed overhead as the figure drapped the twisted, whirling visage over his head. With a muffled grunt of laughter, he fastened it quickly as another bolt struck across the sky. His grubby green and calloused fingers whitened with his bonecrushing grip. Excitement coursed through his veins as he stood before the large rune etched on the dusty ground before the keep. The figure stood just within the walls of the keep known as Thunder Axe Fortress, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary in a wasteland such as Desolace.

Ever since the Destroyer visited the mortal planes of existence, life had radically changed on Azeroth. The rise of cults, fanatics, demons, elementals, what have you. The lands changed, deserts to jungles, jungles to waste. One of those areas was indeed Desolace, and while it benefitted from the fruits of the Destroyer, it would soon be besmirched by evil unrelenting.

With new lands came new weather. Thunderstorms and floods became an uncommon appearance, rather than a rare or legend. In the coming months where most of Azeroth (and Kalimdor specifically) prepared for winter, Desolace too had a change in temperature. The sky screeched loudly in anger and hatred, bolts of electricity striking across the billowing pillars of rain. The storm had blown in from across the northeastern coast, and it intended to wreck havoc for some time.

As the figure stood there in the pouring rain, he picked at the mask as it settled around his face. With a green finger he prodded it's flaps out of his tusks and set to work. His garb was twisted, colored various shades of black, purple, and teal. The top of his mask was adorned with a pair of demonic horns that he had harvested in the Society. He peered at the ground before him, watching the intricate lines lit ablaze in the fel flame that he subconsciously chanted. Within the swirling pit of demonic rune lied a channeling position and a small dirt pit. This little pit was no more than a hole you'd dig at a beach, but it was astonishing how it didn't swamp instantly with sand or filth. He squared his shoulders and stood over the small pit.



His head slowly tilted upwards to face the storm that mercilessly beat the landscape. With another cackle, he extended the digits on both of his hands as far as he could, and began chanting the disgusting words of the damned and cursed.

"Flammis. Inimicitiae. Dolorem!" snarled the orc, shadowflame burning at his palms, charring them in matters of seconds. His eyes burned a bright red, tapping into the fel of old. A large book that hung limply around his belt suddenly levitated and floated off of his waist, fluttering before the old orc warlock as he continued.

"Adduc ad dominum agri animarum!" he roared, pausing. "Master, I call for you now, the time is ripe! Come, come my master! Your presence is needed to suppress these mortals.." he wheezed, slowly placing his palms together as he screamed in utter agony. The flame on his hands caught fire to his gloves, and the rest of his arms followed. As his limbs blackened in the flames of his own creations, the rune's fel-flamed colors turned black and dark. This part was complete, and after a short while of channeling, the orc stopped. With a sickening grin, absent souls that perished on the fields he performed the ritual were absorbed as sacrifices.

"Master, I shall make your passing into mortal lands easier.." huffed the old orc, his arm quaking as he reached towards his belt. A sacrificial dagger clung to the loose cloth. "I offer you a sacrifice of by your servant, to show my loyalty and my affixation.. To show you shall succeed, to show you shall conquer, to show you have soldiers who will DIE for you, and WORSE!" he growled loudly, intoxicated with rising power and the screaming chorus of souls and whispers. He ripped the dagger from his belt and held it eye-level. "I am Grimsight, I have been damned since a ripe age, and I seal my fate with destiny today! Master, I shall be your sight!" the orc raved, before suddenly plunging the dagger forwards towards his mask. With a scream of rage, he angled the dagger so it easily had leverage against his stem. With a brutal slice, his bad eye emerged and left a crater in the old orc's face. He plunged the dagger into the pit he stood over, allowing his blood to pool over his 'sacrifice'.

His screams soared across the mountains of Desolace for the remainder of the night. The orc was hell bound.]]> Thunder crashed overhead as the figure drapped the twisted, whirling visage over his head. With a muffled grunt of laughter, he fastened it quickly as another bolt struck across the sky. His grubby green and calloused fingers whitened with his bonecrushing grip. Excitement coursed through his veins as he stood before the large rune etched on the dusty ground before the keep. The figure stood just within the walls of the keep known as Thunder Axe Fortress, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary in a wasteland such as Desolace.

Ever since the Destroyer visited the mortal planes of existence, life had radically changed on Azeroth. The rise of cults, fanatics, demons, elementals, what have you. The lands changed, deserts to jungles, jungles to waste. One of those areas was indeed Desolace, and while it benefitted from the fruits of the Destroyer, it would soon be besmirched by evil unrelenting.

With new lands came new weather. Thunderstorms and floods became an uncommon appearance, rather than a rare or legend. In the coming months where most of Azeroth (and Kalimdor specifically) prepared for winter, Desolace too had a change in temperature. The sky screeched loudly in anger and hatred, bolts of electricity striking across the billowing pillars of rain. The storm had blown in from across the northeastern coast, and it intended to wreck havoc for some time.

As the figure stood there in the pouring rain, he picked at the mask as it settled around his face. With a green finger he prodded it's flaps out of his tusks and set to work. His garb was twisted, colored various shades of black, purple, and teal. The top of his mask was adorned with a pair of demonic horns that he had harvested in the Society. He peered at the ground before him, watching the intricate lines lit ablaze in the fel flame that he subconsciously chanted. Within the swirling pit of demonic rune lied a channeling position and a small dirt pit. This little pit was no more than a hole you'd dig at a beach, but it was astonishing how it didn't swamp instantly with sand or filth. He squared his shoulders and stood over the small pit.



His head slowly tilted upwards to face the storm that mercilessly beat the landscape. With another cackle, he extended the digits on both of his hands as far as he could, and began chanting the disgusting words of the damned and cursed.

"Flammis. Inimicitiae. Dolorem!" snarled the orc, shadowflame burning at his palms, charring them in matters of seconds. His eyes burned a bright red, tapping into the fel of old. A large book that hung limply around his belt suddenly levitated and floated off of his waist, fluttering before the old orc warlock as he continued.

"Adduc ad dominum agri animarum!" he roared, pausing. "Master, I call for you now, the time is ripe! Come, come my master! Your presence is needed to suppress these mortals.." he wheezed, slowly placing his palms together as he screamed in utter agony. The flame on his hands caught fire to his gloves, and the rest of his arms followed. As his limbs blackened in the flames of his own creations, the rune's fel-flamed colors turned black and dark. This part was complete, and after a short while of channeling, the orc stopped. With a sickening grin, absent souls that perished on the fields he performed the ritual were absorbed as sacrifices.

"Master, I shall make your passing into mortal lands easier.." huffed the old orc, his arm quaking as he reached towards his belt. A sacrificial dagger clung to the loose cloth. "I offer you a sacrifice of by your servant, to show my loyalty and my affixation.. To show you shall succeed, to show you shall conquer, to show you have soldiers who will DIE for you, and WORSE!" he growled loudly, intoxicated with rising power and the screaming chorus of souls and whispers. He ripped the dagger from his belt and held it eye-level. "I am Grimsight, I have been damned since a ripe age, and I seal my fate with destiny today! Master, I shall be your sight!" the orc raved, before suddenly plunging the dagger forwards towards his mask. With a scream of rage, he angled the dagger so it easily had leverage against his stem. With a brutal slice, his bad eye emerged and left a crater in the old orc's face. He plunged the dagger into the pit he stood over, allowing his blood to pool over his 'sacrifice'.

His screams soared across the mountains of Desolace for the remainder of the night. The orc was hell bound.]]> <![CDATA[Violent Tides... [Blasted Lands], [Orgrimmar]]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38919.html Wed, 03 Dec 2014 09:22:38 -0800 Grogloki]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38919.html The Calling... Answered...



Rain poured heavily over a cloaked figure that strode high atop a blackened horse, not blackened as one might think by fur but one charred with flames. The black horse’s hooves clopped along the cobblestone road as the cloaked figure neared a small caravan of travelers; a small troupe of salesmen and supplies from the nearby Alliance outpost in the Blasted Lands. Far off in the distance the storm wrought skies hung low above the Dark Portal just over the next ridge line of mountains. As the group of merchants neared the traveler the cloaked figure adjusted the reigns to draw the steed off the path allowing them to pass by without incident, the figure nodded in passing. One of the merchants noted that his chin structure was Elven though oddly pale. The man paid it no mind with a shrug he pushed the caravan onwards heading for Duskwood. After a moment the cloaked figure glanced backwards seeing the caravan vanish into the heavy rain that beat the earth like a war drum sounding. With a stiff kick to the creature’s side the horse’s mane was set ablaze with fire as it rose up on its hind legs the fire raced downwards over its char blackened body engulfing the hooves, a second kick set the beast racing off towards the distant storm clouds near the Dark Portal leaving behind only sulfur and scorched hoof prints that faded into the Blasted Lands red earth.



On the other side of the world Orgrimmar was breaking down their celebration tents for the Harvest. A large group of soldiers and citizens gathered in the Arena to watch a series of bouts that were previewed at the Harvest. Several strong warriors had boasted their prowess and now it was time to test the metal. With howling roars the stands were packed with spectators and eager warriors looking at their future combatants. The citizens of the Horde were enjoying the day they earned through the recent hardships of the Cataclysm and their new ruthless leader Garrosh. They knew tomorrow it was back to the war and from there a violent and bloody future would ensue but that did little to stop their day of joy that they had been awarded for their victories in Ashenvale. The crowd surged forward as the combat heated up with intense roars of rage that echoed over the shouting fans. A fever of carelessness washed over the guards at their posts as they too enjoyed the revels of combat; however their captain was not impressed for he had seen battle countless times and fought himself on more than one occasion within the Arena.

The Captain’s eyes swept over the crowd as his gaze narrowed now having noticed something oddly strange about the opposite side of the Arena. With his index finger he counted pointing at several figures that stood out to him. Grumbling he made his way to the nearest guard at her post, snatching her by the collar “Did you check them?” He said pointing at the figures that were all wearing dusty boar hides and heavy leather hoods. With a slight shrug she replied, “I..I…” she stammered. The Captain snarled slamming her backwards with his snatching hand, “Fool!” He rounded facing the Arena as he cupped his hands over his mouth to shout but quickly realized what little good that would do with the roaring crowd.

Roars and howls continued to rage as the spectators watched the battle. The figures remained seated, not moving, even when bumped or nudged they kept their heads low. The Captain began to walk around the Arena towards them reaching for his brass knuckles and heavy club, his pace quickened as he watched the cloaked figures all stand in unison. Now centered at one of the end caps in the Arena he could see several were also on the side that he just came from and they too were now standing. His eyes locked on the closest one, his quick pace became a charge… But he was far too late… The figures wrapped in boars hide all rose their hands in time and called out, “Immolateus!”

A vibrant brilliant light shown in each of the figures as they threw off the cloaks revealing Orcs with deeply carved runes gouged into their flesh. The lights sent an instant panic through the crowd as Orcs, Tauren, and Trolls alike clamored to escape whatever was happening. Spectators trampled the Captain knocking him flat. Swinging his heavy club to clear the area where he fell. The Captain rose with a bloodied lip and nose to see the glowing figures. All in unison they shouted for the last time, “IMMOLATEUS!”

Without warning the glowing figures and their flesh began to split apart violently until each one exploded sending a rushing fire outwards killing those closest to them. Each one detonated with vicious intent as the bleachers were blown apart in various areas all over the Arena….

When the explosions had ceased the Captain rose to see nearly seventy dead Orcs splayed out across the Arena’s grand stands. A strange purple hue hovered in the area where the glowing detonations took place, after a moment the purple hazes vanished into plumes of smoke leaving behind only the devastation and a puzzled Captain left wondering….



On the further side of the world deep in the heart of the Blasted Lands stood a cloaked figure near a flaming nightmarish steed with an out stretched palm. The figure’s palm began to gather energy…. An energy that vibrated with a violet hue. Lightning crashed against the nearby mountains. After a moment a large amount of purple flowing smoke and electricity gathered around the figures hand. The free hand reached into the cloak revealing a small dirk which was calmly slid over the glowing palm. There came a voice, a man’s voice, it chanted “Devious, Diaobolist, Encarti.” He began to walk as he spoke. The path on which he walked formed a large circle, holding out his glowing hand he allowed the blood to drip down his wrist into the red earth at his feet near the circles center. A violent wind came whipping his cloak from left to right and back again as he continued to channel, “Vingorti, Engrievous, Direous!” With those words spoken he stopped himself holding the hand firmly out over the circle and the blood pooled at its center. A smirk formed beneath his hood, “The Orcs have done well…” He chuckled for a moment as the purple haze drifted downwards surrounding the pool of blood. The figure shot both hands up to the sky, “DEVIOUS, DIABOLIST, ENCARTI!” He shouted at the sky where storm clouds swirled horridly overhead.

Without warning lightning bolts struck the nearby earth exploding with force on impact, the man held his feet firm through the explosions, his voice shouting out, “RISE! RISE! RIIIIIIIIIISE!” Both hands extended further up towards the swirling mass of devastation. Lightning gathered at the storms center forming one large bolt of lightning that struck the purple hue covered blood… There came a vicious explosion of force that threw the man backwards causing his body to skitter across the ground coming to a rolling stop nearby. Several long moment passed by before the man rose to his feet dusting off the red dirt. He limped over to the site of impact where the lightning had struck; his eyes went wide with joy at the sight of a rune seared into the rock face…. It pulsed with a vibrant blue aura….. The man’s right hand still bleeding from the slice across the palm drifted up to slip off his hood revealing an elder Elf of notability, he laughed hard at the rune bending slightly to touch it with his hand, “Now the world will see…. Now the world will cry out for their savior, me… Lord Elrohir Seregon!” A hearty guttural laugh rose deep in his belly as he jerked up his hood once more and made for his steed…. Leaving behind the burning rune.


[Image: 177px-Rune_of_Return_zps2552ecde.jpg]]]> The Calling... Answered...



Rain poured heavily over a cloaked figure that strode high atop a blackened horse, not blackened as one might think by fur but one charred with flames. The black horse’s hooves clopped along the cobblestone road as the cloaked figure neared a small caravan of travelers; a small troupe of salesmen and supplies from the nearby Alliance outpost in the Blasted Lands. Far off in the distance the storm wrought skies hung low above the Dark Portal just over the next ridge line of mountains. As the group of merchants neared the traveler the cloaked figure adjusted the reigns to draw the steed off the path allowing them to pass by without incident, the figure nodded in passing. One of the merchants noted that his chin structure was Elven though oddly pale. The man paid it no mind with a shrug he pushed the caravan onwards heading for Duskwood. After a moment the cloaked figure glanced backwards seeing the caravan vanish into the heavy rain that beat the earth like a war drum sounding. With a stiff kick to the creature’s side the horse’s mane was set ablaze with fire as it rose up on its hind legs the fire raced downwards over its char blackened body engulfing the hooves, a second kick set the beast racing off towards the distant storm clouds near the Dark Portal leaving behind only sulfur and scorched hoof prints that faded into the Blasted Lands red earth.



On the other side of the world Orgrimmar was breaking down their celebration tents for the Harvest. A large group of soldiers and citizens gathered in the Arena to watch a series of bouts that were previewed at the Harvest. Several strong warriors had boasted their prowess and now it was time to test the metal. With howling roars the stands were packed with spectators and eager warriors looking at their future combatants. The citizens of the Horde were enjoying the day they earned through the recent hardships of the Cataclysm and their new ruthless leader Garrosh. They knew tomorrow it was back to the war and from there a violent and bloody future would ensue but that did little to stop their day of joy that they had been awarded for their victories in Ashenvale. The crowd surged forward as the combat heated up with intense roars of rage that echoed over the shouting fans. A fever of carelessness washed over the guards at their posts as they too enjoyed the revels of combat; however their captain was not impressed for he had seen battle countless times and fought himself on more than one occasion within the Arena.

The Captain’s eyes swept over the crowd as his gaze narrowed now having noticed something oddly strange about the opposite side of the Arena. With his index finger he counted pointing at several figures that stood out to him. Grumbling he made his way to the nearest guard at her post, snatching her by the collar “Did you check them?” He said pointing at the figures that were all wearing dusty boar hides and heavy leather hoods. With a slight shrug she replied, “I..I…” she stammered. The Captain snarled slamming her backwards with his snatching hand, “Fool!” He rounded facing the Arena as he cupped his hands over his mouth to shout but quickly realized what little good that would do with the roaring crowd.

Roars and howls continued to rage as the spectators watched the battle. The figures remained seated, not moving, even when bumped or nudged they kept their heads low. The Captain began to walk around the Arena towards them reaching for his brass knuckles and heavy club, his pace quickened as he watched the cloaked figures all stand in unison. Now centered at one of the end caps in the Arena he could see several were also on the side that he just came from and they too were now standing. His eyes locked on the closest one, his quick pace became a charge… But he was far too late… The figures wrapped in boars hide all rose their hands in time and called out, “Immolateus!”

A vibrant brilliant light shown in each of the figures as they threw off the cloaks revealing Orcs with deeply carved runes gouged into their flesh. The lights sent an instant panic through the crowd as Orcs, Tauren, and Trolls alike clamored to escape whatever was happening. Spectators trampled the Captain knocking him flat. Swinging his heavy club to clear the area where he fell. The Captain rose with a bloodied lip and nose to see the glowing figures. All in unison they shouted for the last time, “IMMOLATEUS!”

Without warning the glowing figures and their flesh began to split apart violently until each one exploded sending a rushing fire outwards killing those closest to them. Each one detonated with vicious intent as the bleachers were blown apart in various areas all over the Arena….

When the explosions had ceased the Captain rose to see nearly seventy dead Orcs splayed out across the Arena’s grand stands. A strange purple hue hovered in the area where the glowing detonations took place, after a moment the purple hazes vanished into plumes of smoke leaving behind only the devastation and a puzzled Captain left wondering….



On the further side of the world deep in the heart of the Blasted Lands stood a cloaked figure near a flaming nightmarish steed with an out stretched palm. The figure’s palm began to gather energy…. An energy that vibrated with a violet hue. Lightning crashed against the nearby mountains. After a moment a large amount of purple flowing smoke and electricity gathered around the figures hand. The free hand reached into the cloak revealing a small dirk which was calmly slid over the glowing palm. There came a voice, a man’s voice, it chanted “Devious, Diaobolist, Encarti.” He began to walk as he spoke. The path on which he walked formed a large circle, holding out his glowing hand he allowed the blood to drip down his wrist into the red earth at his feet near the circles center. A violent wind came whipping his cloak from left to right and back again as he continued to channel, “Vingorti, Engrievous, Direous!” With those words spoken he stopped himself holding the hand firmly out over the circle and the blood pooled at its center. A smirk formed beneath his hood, “The Orcs have done well…” He chuckled for a moment as the purple haze drifted downwards surrounding the pool of blood. The figure shot both hands up to the sky, “DEVIOUS, DIABOLIST, ENCARTI!” He shouted at the sky where storm clouds swirled horridly overhead.

Without warning lightning bolts struck the nearby earth exploding with force on impact, the man held his feet firm through the explosions, his voice shouting out, “RISE! RISE! RIIIIIIIIIISE!” Both hands extended further up towards the swirling mass of devastation. Lightning gathered at the storms center forming one large bolt of lightning that struck the purple hue covered blood… There came a vicious explosion of force that threw the man backwards causing his body to skitter across the ground coming to a rolling stop nearby. Several long moment passed by before the man rose to his feet dusting off the red dirt. He limped over to the site of impact where the lightning had struck; his eyes went wide with joy at the sight of a rune seared into the rock face…. It pulsed with a vibrant blue aura….. The man’s right hand still bleeding from the slice across the palm drifted up to slip off his hood revealing an elder Elf of notability, he laughed hard at the rune bending slightly to touch it with his hand, “Now the world will see…. Now the world will cry out for their savior, me… Lord Elrohir Seregon!” A hearty guttural laugh rose deep in his belly as he jerked up his hood once more and made for his steed…. Leaving behind the burning rune.


[Image: 177px-Rune_of_Return_zps2552ecde.jpg]]]> <![CDATA[Service]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38892.html Sat, 29 Nov 2014 15:13:38 -0800 Aphetoros]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38892.html
The Slave



Claudd stares silently at the dark basement. He breathes in the dust, shuddering. He looks down at the scene before him, his chest stinging with pangs of remorse. He turns around, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and rubbing his palms up his face and onto his eyelids before returning to his chin. He flips a page in the spellbook. A bottle breaks upstairs, and he flinches, pressing himself to the wall. After a moment, a tiny imp flies down the stairs, apologizing profusely.

A sudden fit of anger possesses Claudd, and he waves a finger. The imp suddenly vanishes in a puff of olive energy.

He takes a deep breath, flipping through the spellbook and turning to look upon the scene once more. Before him is a middle-aged woman’s body. Her wrists are slit, and though she is bleeding she isn’t dead. She is too weak to move, but she is bound with coarse ropes anyway. Blood has been drawn from each wound with a brush and painted in a circle, taking up most of the cellar. Runes have been painted all along the inside and outside of each line—painstakingly made. He looks over the runes one more time, ensuring each one is correctly drawn.

Looking down at her, he shudders once more and tears the mask from his own face, draping it over hers so as not to see her tear-filled eyes. Runes are drawn up her arms, and one large rune on her stomach—placed at the center of this circle. The lines of blood run seamlessly into the wrist wounds, and attach to the stomach rune.

Claudd takes his knife, slicing his own palm and standing over the circle. He begins to chant, syllables twisting under the guide of an inexperienced tongue. He sprinkles his blood over the circle, and then begins to chant, glancing from book to circle in rapid sequence. “Aszhir modas beth’agul. Bela’nora mordanos melar ila-mor no farlos kadar.” With each syllable, the circle seems to fill with a strange form of energy. After a few moments, Claudd points to the woman in the circle, and the runes are set ablaze. The fire spreads to the circle proper, running across the lines into her wrists. She shrieks.

Claudd repeats the words, and the runes on her wrists begin to flicker with an emerald light, after a moment sparking ablaze. The entire circle begins to glow with the same sickly jade flame. Claudd feels the energy flowing back through his connection to the ritual and filling his own blood. He practically feels himself grow dizzy with the flood of dopamine to his brain. He stops chanting at the feeling, and the ritual goes on without him—the magic already enacted, the fel energy had begun to act seemingly on its own will.

The woman in the circle sobs, but she cannot move. Her life force is searing, burning inside of her. Her body begins to crumble, breaking apart into faintly glowing green ashes. The fire burns hotter, the warmth of the flame breaking against the chilled nighttime air, causing the ashes to swirl in a circle of wind. Eldritch whispers fill the room, and Claudd's finds himself unsure if they are in his head or if he can truly hear the niggling whispers, the tiny voices prickling at his consciousness.

The distinct and pretty lines of the circle are no more—the earth breaks apart and crumbles, falling into a pit that was not there before. The floor has become an abyss of felflame. The whispers grow more intense and Claudd shields his eyes from the firelight as he takes a few steps back, pressing himself to the wall. Through his squinted eyes, he sees several giant, slender arms reaching from the portal. With a hissing growl, a large woman wearing a crown of hellfire pulls her torso through the portal. He cannot see her legs, but half of her body barely fits in the cellar. The same voice hisses in multiple languages-- eventually settling on Common.

What foul wretch calls me?

The voice fills his mind, shrill and enticing all at once.

“Uh… I—” Claudd yelps as the demon wails a cry of hate, swinging several sword-bearing arms at him. The blades rebound at the edge of the circle, and Claudd leaps backwards. She strikes again, and he realizes she cannot harm him. He clears his throat, voice trembling, “I am calling you to bind you under my s—” The demon laughs wildly, her voice filling the room, drowning out the spattering of felflame. You shall not bind me, mortal. She lowers her blades, arching her back and bending close as she can to Claudd. She whispers, “I will bind you.”

She drops one of her blades, willing it to float near her as she reaches for Claudd. Her arm cannot pass the edge of the circle. He smiles at her, taking an overconfident stride closer. “I will bind you to my service and you will fight against your own—”

She grins suddenly while he speaks—the tip of Claudd’s foot had passed the edge of the circle without him noticing. She laughs suddenly, one of her blades striking the foot, immediately impaling it. Claudd screams as she pulls him into the circle, dropping her other blades and pulling the now bloodied weapon from his foot. They all hover in the air, positioning themselves around Claudd’s throat. “Stupid human.” She grabs him by the throat with another hand, lifting him up and slamming him against the ceiling. She gives him just enough lee-way to breathe and speak, but just enough pressure that he would be aware how easily she could snap his neck.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t end your miserable life right now.”

“I’ll do anything you ask!” He blurt out, immediately and unthinkingly. Her lips curl into a wicked smile.

“Is that a contract?”
“Y-yes. I agree, just don’t kill me!” She smiles sweetly, her face becoming the mask of mercy.

“I will spare you.” She pulls him closer to her, and with one of her blades she cuts her palm. Her other hands force open Claudd’s mouth, and the demon begins to drip blood into his throat. He begins to gag horribly, and the demon forces more of her blood into his maw, giggling softly to herself as she watches him squirm. Eventually he stops gagging, and becomes limp in her arms.

“You are my envoy. You will spread the Holy Word of the Great One, as many have before you.” She glances below her, and she sinks a bit in the portal, forcing Claudd below the earth. "Gaze upon your new family."

He opens his eyes, and he sees hundreds of demons marching across some strange world, siege weapons and fel reavers. It is unclear what the woman is showing him-- if it is a vision, or if it is real. They are standing atop an incredibly large tower of some strange fel steel. His eyes flick towards the horizon, where he sees a storm of fel meteorites falling and slamming into the distance. His lips part, and his jaw hangs open. He closes his eyes tightly, as if he is refusing to see. She yanks him back through the portal, and tosses him from her grip. He lands in the cellar. "It's beautiful, isn't it."

He doesn't respond, and she reaches a hand for him. Her fingers touch the edge of the circle, and a visible greenish wall of force ripples outwards. "You've interrupted my siege. You may as well respond to me." She waves a finger, and he cries out in pain as her blood in his body sizzles. He writhes on the floor for a few moments before she ceases the spell.

His body trembles, fingers shaking, face covered in blood—except for two lines on either side of his face where tears had kept him clean. "Say it with me. Beautiful." His mouth moves, the word barely a whisper,

"Beautiful."

The demon whispers for a few moments, conjuring something. She laughs to herself, “Enslave me… ahahaha!” A tiny jade crystal sphere floats in her palm, and she mutters enchantments over it.

She glances to the heaving man on the floor, and tosses him a small necklace with a spherical jade crystal at the bottom. He moans softly, pained, clutching himself as his blood pulses-- impossibly warm.

“We will be in touch, fool.”

She folds her arms, her blades sheathing themselves in various places on her armor, and begins to sink through the floor, laughing. The portal closes behind her, leaving only an echo of the malicious voice and Claudd’s breathing to fill the silence.]]>
The Slave



Claudd stares silently at the dark basement. He breathes in the dust, shuddering. He looks down at the scene before him, his chest stinging with pangs of remorse. He turns around, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and rubbing his palms up his face and onto his eyelids before returning to his chin. He flips a page in the spellbook. A bottle breaks upstairs, and he flinches, pressing himself to the wall. After a moment, a tiny imp flies down the stairs, apologizing profusely.

A sudden fit of anger possesses Claudd, and he waves a finger. The imp suddenly vanishes in a puff of olive energy.

He takes a deep breath, flipping through the spellbook and turning to look upon the scene once more. Before him is a middle-aged woman’s body. Her wrists are slit, and though she is bleeding she isn’t dead. She is too weak to move, but she is bound with coarse ropes anyway. Blood has been drawn from each wound with a brush and painted in a circle, taking up most of the cellar. Runes have been painted all along the inside and outside of each line—painstakingly made. He looks over the runes one more time, ensuring each one is correctly drawn.

Looking down at her, he shudders once more and tears the mask from his own face, draping it over hers so as not to see her tear-filled eyes. Runes are drawn up her arms, and one large rune on her stomach—placed at the center of this circle. The lines of blood run seamlessly into the wrist wounds, and attach to the stomach rune.

Claudd takes his knife, slicing his own palm and standing over the circle. He begins to chant, syllables twisting under the guide of an inexperienced tongue. He sprinkles his blood over the circle, and then begins to chant, glancing from book to circle in rapid sequence. “Aszhir modas beth’agul. Bela’nora mordanos melar ila-mor no farlos kadar.” With each syllable, the circle seems to fill with a strange form of energy. After a few moments, Claudd points to the woman in the circle, and the runes are set ablaze. The fire spreads to the circle proper, running across the lines into her wrists. She shrieks.

Claudd repeats the words, and the runes on her wrists begin to flicker with an emerald light, after a moment sparking ablaze. The entire circle begins to glow with the same sickly jade flame. Claudd feels the energy flowing back through his connection to the ritual and filling his own blood. He practically feels himself grow dizzy with the flood of dopamine to his brain. He stops chanting at the feeling, and the ritual goes on without him—the magic already enacted, the fel energy had begun to act seemingly on its own will.

The woman in the circle sobs, but she cannot move. Her life force is searing, burning inside of her. Her body begins to crumble, breaking apart into faintly glowing green ashes. The fire burns hotter, the warmth of the flame breaking against the chilled nighttime air, causing the ashes to swirl in a circle of wind. Eldritch whispers fill the room, and Claudd's finds himself unsure if they are in his head or if he can truly hear the niggling whispers, the tiny voices prickling at his consciousness.

The distinct and pretty lines of the circle are no more—the earth breaks apart and crumbles, falling into a pit that was not there before. The floor has become an abyss of felflame. The whispers grow more intense and Claudd shields his eyes from the firelight as he takes a few steps back, pressing himself to the wall. Through his squinted eyes, he sees several giant, slender arms reaching from the portal. With a hissing growl, a large woman wearing a crown of hellfire pulls her torso through the portal. He cannot see her legs, but half of her body barely fits in the cellar. The same voice hisses in multiple languages-- eventually settling on Common.

What foul wretch calls me?

The voice fills his mind, shrill and enticing all at once.

“Uh… I—” Claudd yelps as the demon wails a cry of hate, swinging several sword-bearing arms at him. The blades rebound at the edge of the circle, and Claudd leaps backwards. She strikes again, and he realizes she cannot harm him. He clears his throat, voice trembling, “I am calling you to bind you under my s—” The demon laughs wildly, her voice filling the room, drowning out the spattering of felflame. You shall not bind me, mortal. She lowers her blades, arching her back and bending close as she can to Claudd. She whispers, “I will bind you.”

She drops one of her blades, willing it to float near her as she reaches for Claudd. Her arm cannot pass the edge of the circle. He smiles at her, taking an overconfident stride closer. “I will bind you to my service and you will fight against your own—”

She grins suddenly while he speaks—the tip of Claudd’s foot had passed the edge of the circle without him noticing. She laughs suddenly, one of her blades striking the foot, immediately impaling it. Claudd screams as she pulls him into the circle, dropping her other blades and pulling the now bloodied weapon from his foot. They all hover in the air, positioning themselves around Claudd’s throat. “Stupid human.” She grabs him by the throat with another hand, lifting him up and slamming him against the ceiling. She gives him just enough lee-way to breathe and speak, but just enough pressure that he would be aware how easily she could snap his neck.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t end your miserable life right now.”

“I’ll do anything you ask!” He blurt out, immediately and unthinkingly. Her lips curl into a wicked smile.

“Is that a contract?”
“Y-yes. I agree, just don’t kill me!” She smiles sweetly, her face becoming the mask of mercy.

“I will spare you.” She pulls him closer to her, and with one of her blades she cuts her palm. Her other hands force open Claudd’s mouth, and the demon begins to drip blood into his throat. He begins to gag horribly, and the demon forces more of her blood into his maw, giggling softly to herself as she watches him squirm. Eventually he stops gagging, and becomes limp in her arms.

“You are my envoy. You will spread the Holy Word of the Great One, as many have before you.” She glances below her, and she sinks a bit in the portal, forcing Claudd below the earth. "Gaze upon your new family."

He opens his eyes, and he sees hundreds of demons marching across some strange world, siege weapons and fel reavers. It is unclear what the woman is showing him-- if it is a vision, or if it is real. They are standing atop an incredibly large tower of some strange fel steel. His eyes flick towards the horizon, where he sees a storm of fel meteorites falling and slamming into the distance. His lips part, and his jaw hangs open. He closes his eyes tightly, as if he is refusing to see. She yanks him back through the portal, and tosses him from her grip. He lands in the cellar. "It's beautiful, isn't it."

He doesn't respond, and she reaches a hand for him. Her fingers touch the edge of the circle, and a visible greenish wall of force ripples outwards. "You've interrupted my siege. You may as well respond to me." She waves a finger, and he cries out in pain as her blood in his body sizzles. He writhes on the floor for a few moments before she ceases the spell.

His body trembles, fingers shaking, face covered in blood—except for two lines on either side of his face where tears had kept him clean. "Say it with me. Beautiful." His mouth moves, the word barely a whisper,

"Beautiful."

The demon whispers for a few moments, conjuring something. She laughs to herself, “Enslave me… ahahaha!” A tiny jade crystal sphere floats in her palm, and she mutters enchantments over it.

She glances to the heaving man on the floor, and tosses him a small necklace with a spherical jade crystal at the bottom. He moans softly, pained, clutching himself as his blood pulses-- impossibly warm.

“We will be in touch, fool.”

She folds her arms, her blades sheathing themselves in various places on her armor, and begins to sink through the floor, laughing. The portal closes behind her, leaving only an echo of the malicious voice and Claudd’s breathing to fill the silence.]]> <![CDATA[A new land, a new beginning.]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38859.html Sun, 23 Nov 2014 14:40:40 -0800 TheFungineer]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38859.html
Balendys' mind raced to justify the murder, her breath quickening. It'd happened so swiftly, so suddenly. This stuck-up bully had done all he could to eject her from his squad, practically made her desert. “Private Ironfury! Where is your damned shield?” The shield wall, pah! That wasn't how she fought. They should have utilised her skills, wielded her as the weapon she was, but no, she was another cog in Wrynn's war machine. Despite the body before her the name of the human king made her grind her teeth, a growl rising in her throat. That bloody maniac, he was as bad as that warmonger Garrosh, constantly champing at the bit, charging here, there and everywhere to claim more land, to meet the Horde, to crush his enemies.

Balendys turned and spat, her own blood mixing with the rainwater this time. He'd lunged at her, under the breastplate and torn the chain-mail, pierced her side with his blade. She clenched her fists around the short-hafted axes, trudging away through the mud. He'd had it coming.

She'd deserted in Redridge. The orcs from Blackrock were a constant menace and it was her squad's turn to patrol the hills and crags for the grey-green skinned marauders, it was only a matter of time until they encountered them. The Alliance soldiers outnumbered them, but still the orcs ran on, and Balendys was only too happy to meet them. She threw her shield down and drew her second axe, a war cry on her lips and a mad look in her eye. In the combat she'd seen Emery die, his life leaking from a ragged, fat slice in his neck. She didn't stop slamming the orc's head in to the ground until her squadmates hauled her off.
“What the hell are you doing?” The sergeant roared, his bloody sword still in his hands.
“He killed him! Tore his neck open!” Balendys had roared back, her gauntlets bloody and dented.
“We could have taken him alive, you idiot, used him for information.” The sergeant growled, looming above the shorter, stockier soldier. “Your infernal bloodlust is what killed Private Emery, Ironfury!” She'd torn her arms away from the soldiers that were gripping her, her baleful look enough to warn them away. “If you can't work as part of the unit what use are you? Pick up your damn shield. We'll talk about this back at the barracks.”

The sergeant had given her an earful, her pay was to be docked and her rations halved, if the Alliance was hurting for soldiers so much she'd have been carted back to Stormwind in irons. She stood and stared up at him as he ranted and raved, her lip curled in defiance. It wasn't hard to walk out, Eames was on guard and she'd saved his skin enough times for him to respect her, or fear her at least.

It wasn't until the Wetlands that she thought she was being followed, and crossing the Span confirmed it. A cloaked human in the distance. With his longer stride it was only a matter of time. The sergeant had opted to track her down himself, drag her before a court martial committee. He was a veteran, an old scarred bastard that'd fought in the Second War, his murder would lead to much harsher retribution than just her desertion.

She'd have to leave the Eastern Kingdoms, and her beloved home Khaz Modan was all but forbidden, the Bronzebeards we so deep in Wrynn's pocket they'd sell her out as soon as look at her. Kalimdor, then. It burned to have to leave her home, her people. But this was the world she lived in. She'd find her future over there, even if it did mean traveling to the elven lands. The gash in her side ached, she'd have to get that seen to, that bastard. She turned back to the corpse and rifled through his pockets, has pack. A few silver coins and a fistful of coppers, a ration pack and a tinderbox with an engraved metal plate with his name and the Stormwind Lion on it. A reward for his devotion to duty, maybe. Balendys dropped it in the mud and took the rest. The rain still poured down, washing axes of his blood. She stood and headed back for the Span, there'd be a boat in the Wetlands that'd take her at least to Theramore. The short, armoured figure trod off in to the distance and soon there was nothing but the rain and the shattered man who was just doing his duty.]]>
Balendys' mind raced to justify the murder, her breath quickening. It'd happened so swiftly, so suddenly. This stuck-up bully had done all he could to eject her from his squad, practically made her desert. “Private Ironfury! Where is your damned shield?” The shield wall, pah! That wasn't how she fought. They should have utilised her skills, wielded her as the weapon she was, but no, she was another cog in Wrynn's war machine. Despite the body before her the name of the human king made her grind her teeth, a growl rising in her throat. That bloody maniac, he was as bad as that warmonger Garrosh, constantly champing at the bit, charging here, there and everywhere to claim more land, to meet the Horde, to crush his enemies.

Balendys turned and spat, her own blood mixing with the rainwater this time. He'd lunged at her, under the breastplate and torn the chain-mail, pierced her side with his blade. She clenched her fists around the short-hafted axes, trudging away through the mud. He'd had it coming.

She'd deserted in Redridge. The orcs from Blackrock were a constant menace and it was her squad's turn to patrol the hills and crags for the grey-green skinned marauders, it was only a matter of time until they encountered them. The Alliance soldiers outnumbered them, but still the orcs ran on, and Balendys was only too happy to meet them. She threw her shield down and drew her second axe, a war cry on her lips and a mad look in her eye. In the combat she'd seen Emery die, his life leaking from a ragged, fat slice in his neck. She didn't stop slamming the orc's head in to the ground until her squadmates hauled her off.
“What the hell are you doing?” The sergeant roared, his bloody sword still in his hands.
“He killed him! Tore his neck open!” Balendys had roared back, her gauntlets bloody and dented.
“We could have taken him alive, you idiot, used him for information.” The sergeant growled, looming above the shorter, stockier soldier. “Your infernal bloodlust is what killed Private Emery, Ironfury!” She'd torn her arms away from the soldiers that were gripping her, her baleful look enough to warn them away. “If you can't work as part of the unit what use are you? Pick up your damn shield. We'll talk about this back at the barracks.”

The sergeant had given her an earful, her pay was to be docked and her rations halved, if the Alliance was hurting for soldiers so much she'd have been carted back to Stormwind in irons. She stood and stared up at him as he ranted and raved, her lip curled in defiance. It wasn't hard to walk out, Eames was on guard and she'd saved his skin enough times for him to respect her, or fear her at least.

It wasn't until the Wetlands that she thought she was being followed, and crossing the Span confirmed it. A cloaked human in the distance. With his longer stride it was only a matter of time. The sergeant had opted to track her down himself, drag her before a court martial committee. He was a veteran, an old scarred bastard that'd fought in the Second War, his murder would lead to much harsher retribution than just her desertion.

She'd have to leave the Eastern Kingdoms, and her beloved home Khaz Modan was all but forbidden, the Bronzebeards we so deep in Wrynn's pocket they'd sell her out as soon as look at her. Kalimdor, then. It burned to have to leave her home, her people. But this was the world she lived in. She'd find her future over there, even if it did mean traveling to the elven lands. The gash in her side ached, she'd have to get that seen to, that bastard. She turned back to the corpse and rifled through his pockets, has pack. A few silver coins and a fistful of coppers, a ration pack and a tinderbox with an engraved metal plate with his name and the Stormwind Lion on it. A reward for his devotion to duty, maybe. Balendys dropped it in the mud and took the rest. The rain still poured down, washing axes of his blood. She stood and headed back for the Span, there'd be a boat in the Wetlands that'd take her at least to Theramore. The short, armoured figure trod off in to the distance and soon there was nothing but the rain and the shattered man who was just doing his duty.]]> <![CDATA[Shadows in the night?.... [Stormwind] [Duskwood]]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38824.html Wed, 12 Nov 2014 14:33:28 -0800 Grogloki]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38824.html The Calling....

Stormwind… The glowing bastion of the Alliance, recently devastated by Death Wing and his overwhelming power was now on the mend. It was time for the city of the Lion to stand once more. Dusk had claimed the day and the city was winding down while the Taverns were filling up for the long black that was the evening now days…

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9WGeUdFrUI[/youtube]

Our eyes drift outwards over the surrounding walls towards the sounds of bustling tavern music….

Elwynn Forrest was alive on this damp fall night, the year’s harvest was nearing as men and women gathered in Goldshire preparing for the annual harvest festival that was coming in the next few weeks. Torches lit the area beating back the dark with vibrant dancing flames. Dusk was falling earlier now and night had stolen the sun completely as stars took to shine….

Nearing the western bridge just beyond the smith’s forge strode a lone horse clopping along the cobble stone road, its hooves echoing in the surrounding wood. A warm smell of banana bread and pumpkin spice was thick in the air around the small settlement; and sounds of merry making could be heard as carts where set up and people roared over both joke and jest alike. The man atop the horse wore thick leathers and a breast plate made of well-crafted Iron. His hair was hidden by a hood and his face was adorned with a thick black beard. Upon his breastplate was the Lion head of Stormwind, Watchman is what they called him.

As the festivities of preparation continued the Watchman’s eyes were caught by a lone torch in the distance with a perked brow he reined his horse through the small gathering of people towards the eastern road. Moving his hilt a bit closer to the midsection of his belt line he pressed the horse onwards into the dark. He watched as the torch moved further and further away from the settlement before finally vanishing deep into the surrounding woods. With a shrug he turned his horse back towards the Tavern only to have his vision yet again captured by two clearly adolescent figures that resembled boys near the back wall of the Inn. Both wore long blonde hair. They were huddled down and wrapped in dark furs. With a heavy voice the Watchman called out, “Hey! You there!” They jumped seemingly startled but froze at the sound of his voice.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7x_H_wPVPSw[/youtube]

The Watchmen dismounted with force as his leathers rattled. Adjusting his blade he neared the two young boys, “You’d better not be mucking up that wall boys!” He strode over to them. With an outstretched hand he jerked one of the boys up by the nape of his neck, “What’s this?!” He said pushing the other one to the ground, “Carving nonsense on the Inn?!” With squinted eyes he tossed the other boy aside bending slightly at the waist to view the carving a bit closer… His eyes went wide, “Bo-boys…Wha-… I know what this is…” He took a stuttered step backwards nearly tripping over his own feet, cupping his hands he moved to shout, “GUAR-…..”

Without warning the boys where on him with savage intent, one leapt at the man’s upper torso while the other one dashed behind him on all fours. The man caught the first boy with ease but the momentum of the jump pushed him backwards where he toppled over the crouched boy behind his knees. With a heavy thud the breath left his lungs as the air was knocked out of him, he waved a halting hand at the boy atop him though it did little to stop his assault. Before the man could act the boy’s left hand brandished a small dirk which he slid across the man’s throat, over, and over, and over again until it bit into the neck bone becoming lodged. Flailing arms and thrashing feet skittered among the fall leaves that laced the back wood behind the Tavern. The man continued to attempt a cry for help but with his throat slit the only sound that left was the crying whistle of his wind pipe. With dying eyes the man could feel the other boy jump on his legs to keep them from thrashing… Meanwhile the boy seated on his chest finished sawing at his neck with the dirk severing it completely, causing his body to twitch and jerk a few more times as it fought death before finally growing still.

Still clutching the head, the boy on his chest rose, “I really thought we’d have to lure one of the patrons.” He said in a high pitched voice that was choked by the cold night air. The second boy shrugged as he slipped a primitive ceramic bowl from his dark furs. Placing it beneath the man’s freshly cut neck he allowed it to pool with blood. Soon after both boys hurried over to the symbol and each dipped their finger into the swirling bowl of blood, each smiled, the blood looked black against the amber harvest moon high above. Two single words left their tongue as they removed their blood coated fingers and traced them along the carved symbol, “Noct’urea”… “Fien’ousea” the symbol vanished leaving behind no trace of its existence. As the boys rose one spoke to the other, “The Calling, he will be plea-…”

Footsteps could be heard rounding the Tavern, and a dim lantern light swayed in tune with the boots. The boys jerked up their dark fur hoods, large wolf heads now draped over their faces. With no hesitation they dashed off into the night with the bowl and dirk in hand….

The only thing found…. Was a corpse of the Night Watchman, with a severed head… That was never recovered. The corpse was taken to Stormwind for burial.

[Image: screen2_zps8e4fe88a.jpg]
]]> The Calling....

Stormwind… The glowing bastion of the Alliance, recently devastated by Death Wing and his overwhelming power was now on the mend. It was time for the city of the Lion to stand once more. Dusk had claimed the day and the city was winding down while the Taverns were filling up for the long black that was the evening now days…

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9WGeUdFrUI[/youtube]

Our eyes drift outwards over the surrounding walls towards the sounds of bustling tavern music….

Elwynn Forrest was alive on this damp fall night, the year’s harvest was nearing as men and women gathered in Goldshire preparing for the annual harvest festival that was coming in the next few weeks. Torches lit the area beating back the dark with vibrant dancing flames. Dusk was falling earlier now and night had stolen the sun completely as stars took to shine….

Nearing the western bridge just beyond the smith’s forge strode a lone horse clopping along the cobble stone road, its hooves echoing in the surrounding wood. A warm smell of banana bread and pumpkin spice was thick in the air around the small settlement; and sounds of merry making could be heard as carts where set up and people roared over both joke and jest alike. The man atop the horse wore thick leathers and a breast plate made of well-crafted Iron. His hair was hidden by a hood and his face was adorned with a thick black beard. Upon his breastplate was the Lion head of Stormwind, Watchman is what they called him.

As the festivities of preparation continued the Watchman’s eyes were caught by a lone torch in the distance with a perked brow he reined his horse through the small gathering of people towards the eastern road. Moving his hilt a bit closer to the midsection of his belt line he pressed the horse onwards into the dark. He watched as the torch moved further and further away from the settlement before finally vanishing deep into the surrounding woods. With a shrug he turned his horse back towards the Tavern only to have his vision yet again captured by two clearly adolescent figures that resembled boys near the back wall of the Inn. Both wore long blonde hair. They were huddled down and wrapped in dark furs. With a heavy voice the Watchman called out, “Hey! You there!” They jumped seemingly startled but froze at the sound of his voice.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7x_H_wPVPSw[/youtube]

The Watchmen dismounted with force as his leathers rattled. Adjusting his blade he neared the two young boys, “You’d better not be mucking up that wall boys!” He strode over to them. With an outstretched hand he jerked one of the boys up by the nape of his neck, “What’s this?!” He said pushing the other one to the ground, “Carving nonsense on the Inn?!” With squinted eyes he tossed the other boy aside bending slightly at the waist to view the carving a bit closer… His eyes went wide, “Bo-boys…Wha-… I know what this is…” He took a stuttered step backwards nearly tripping over his own feet, cupping his hands he moved to shout, “GUAR-…..”

Without warning the boys where on him with savage intent, one leapt at the man’s upper torso while the other one dashed behind him on all fours. The man caught the first boy with ease but the momentum of the jump pushed him backwards where he toppled over the crouched boy behind his knees. With a heavy thud the breath left his lungs as the air was knocked out of him, he waved a halting hand at the boy atop him though it did little to stop his assault. Before the man could act the boy’s left hand brandished a small dirk which he slid across the man’s throat, over, and over, and over again until it bit into the neck bone becoming lodged. Flailing arms and thrashing feet skittered among the fall leaves that laced the back wood behind the Tavern. The man continued to attempt a cry for help but with his throat slit the only sound that left was the crying whistle of his wind pipe. With dying eyes the man could feel the other boy jump on his legs to keep them from thrashing… Meanwhile the boy seated on his chest finished sawing at his neck with the dirk severing it completely, causing his body to twitch and jerk a few more times as it fought death before finally growing still.

Still clutching the head, the boy on his chest rose, “I really thought we’d have to lure one of the patrons.” He said in a high pitched voice that was choked by the cold night air. The second boy shrugged as he slipped a primitive ceramic bowl from his dark furs. Placing it beneath the man’s freshly cut neck he allowed it to pool with blood. Soon after both boys hurried over to the symbol and each dipped their finger into the swirling bowl of blood, each smiled, the blood looked black against the amber harvest moon high above. Two single words left their tongue as they removed their blood coated fingers and traced them along the carved symbol, “Noct’urea”… “Fien’ousea” the symbol vanished leaving behind no trace of its existence. As the boys rose one spoke to the other, “The Calling, he will be plea-…”

Footsteps could be heard rounding the Tavern, and a dim lantern light swayed in tune with the boots. The boys jerked up their dark fur hoods, large wolf heads now draped over their faces. With no hesitation they dashed off into the night with the bowl and dirk in hand….

The only thing found…. Was a corpse of the Night Watchman, with a severed head… That was never recovered. The corpse was taken to Stormwind for burial.

[Image: screen2_zps8e4fe88a.jpg]
]]> <![CDATA[Shades of Silver]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38733.html Sat, 25 Oct 2014 20:11:52 -0700 Ural]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38733.html
A New Challenge

              Rain relentlessly casts itself down against the stone walls of the Tyr’s Hand Keep. Within its depths he paces next to a dimly lit desk. Gaelin pauses at the chair and picks up the scrap of paper.

Spoiler:
[Image: Parchment.png]

              A low sigh escapes the Recruit.

              “Is something the matter, ser?” By chance an Argent Squire had been on a nearby bench. Gaelin turned towards the boy enough to hold the blank parchment over his arm. Not many are able to sneak up on the Demon Hunter, but the gentleness of a child won out today.

              “What is your name?” Gaelin asked politely.

              “Collin.”

              “Good evening Collin. Do you know how to write?”

              “I’ve been writing since I was eight, ser.”

              “Ah, forgive me. How old are you now?”

              “Thirteen. How old are you?”

              A smirk tugs buds on the corner of the elf’s lips, “One thousand two hundred and eighty-five.”

              A momentary pause hangs as Collin processes the response. “I’m supposed to respect my elders.. and you’re the eldest I’ve met!”

              Gaelin softly chuckles at the child’s response. “Well, I need help to write a letter. Can you do this?” He extends the empty parchment in question.

              “Yes, ser.” Collin gets up from his seat and takes the paper with a smile. He then plops down in the chair at the desk. He spreads the paper out and prepares a quill to write. “How should it start?”

              “Write; Commander Dawnsend.”

              “Mhmm?”

              “The patrol today did not go well. We were ambushed by a patrol of Risen Scarlets and two Suu.. demons.” Gaelin hesitates and looks to the boy.

              “What was the last word?”

              “Demons. Risen Scarlets and two demons.”

              “I’m all caught up now.”

              Gaelin nods and leans against the wall next to the table. “We dispatched the enemies with light injuries.” Afterwards a lingering silence hangs heavy in the air.

              “What else, ser?”

              “Collin, sometimes some details are best left unspoken.”

“What do you mean?”

              “You have no pointed out my blindfold, why?”

              “It would be rude, ser.”

              “Why do you think so?”

              “It’s not my business.” he says mechanically.

              “Hmm, in the same way, the details how were ambushed would be best left unspoken. You would do well not to talk down your allies, Collin.”

              “Because that would be rude.”

              “Exactly. The story doesn’t change with me trying to blame someone for what happened.”

              “How should the letter end, then?”

              “Put a space between that section and this one. It is my recommendation that patrols are continued to be sent out. Heavily armed and with a focus on keeping a lookout towards the flanks.”

              “That means watch your backs?”

              “Correct Collin.” he says mildly impressed. “Skip a line and write; signed, Gaelin Silverstring.”

              “Done. Want me to take it to the Commander?”

              “Please. If he’s not in, then just leave it on his desk.”

              “Yessir!” With that the Argent Squire slides off the chair and runs up the stairs.]]>
A New Challenge

              Rain relentlessly casts itself down against the stone walls of the Tyr’s Hand Keep. Within its depths he paces next to a dimly lit desk. Gaelin pauses at the chair and picks up the scrap of paper.

Spoiler:
[Image: Parchment.png]

              A low sigh escapes the Recruit.

              “Is something the matter, ser?” By chance an Argent Squire had been on a nearby bench. Gaelin turned towards the boy enough to hold the blank parchment over his arm. Not many are able to sneak up on the Demon Hunter, but the gentleness of a child won out today.

              “What is your name?” Gaelin asked politely.

              “Collin.”

              “Good evening Collin. Do you know how to write?”

              “I’ve been writing since I was eight, ser.”

              “Ah, forgive me. How old are you now?”

              “Thirteen. How old are you?”

              A smirk tugs buds on the corner of the elf’s lips, “One thousand two hundred and eighty-five.”

              A momentary pause hangs as Collin processes the response. “I’m supposed to respect my elders.. and you’re the eldest I’ve met!”

              Gaelin softly chuckles at the child’s response. “Well, I need help to write a letter. Can you do this?” He extends the empty parchment in question.

              “Yes, ser.” Collin gets up from his seat and takes the paper with a smile. He then plops down in the chair at the desk. He spreads the paper out and prepares a quill to write. “How should it start?”

              “Write; Commander Dawnsend.”

              “Mhmm?”

              “The patrol today did not go well. We were ambushed by a patrol of Risen Scarlets and two Suu.. demons.” Gaelin hesitates and looks to the boy.

              “What was the last word?”

              “Demons. Risen Scarlets and two demons.”

              “I’m all caught up now.”

              Gaelin nods and leans against the wall next to the table. “We dispatched the enemies with light injuries.” Afterwards a lingering silence hangs heavy in the air.

              “What else, ser?”

              “Collin, sometimes some details are best left unspoken.”

“What do you mean?”

              “You have no pointed out my blindfold, why?”

              “It would be rude, ser.”

              “Why do you think so?”

              “It’s not my business.” he says mechanically.

              “Hmm, in the same way, the details how were ambushed would be best left unspoken. You would do well not to talk down your allies, Collin.”

              “Because that would be rude.”

              “Exactly. The story doesn’t change with me trying to blame someone for what happened.”

              “How should the letter end, then?”

              “Put a space between that section and this one. It is my recommendation that patrols are continued to be sent out. Heavily armed and with a focus on keeping a lookout towards the flanks.”

              “That means watch your backs?”

              “Correct Collin.” he says mildly impressed. “Skip a line and write; signed, Gaelin Silverstring.”

              “Done. Want me to take it to the Commander?”

              “Please. If he’s not in, then just leave it on his desk.”

              “Yessir!” With that the Argent Squire slides off the chair and runs up the stairs.]]> <![CDATA[The Sunbeam]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38648.html Thu, 02 Oct 2014 03:40:48 -0700 Vooz]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38648.html
It had been three weeks since Janice Grier had arrived at the inn…the inn. Was she really still there? It seemed like an eternity since she had checked in; annoying the bartender with a snide comment before heading up the stairs, her heavy footfalls a testament to her weariness. She’d entered her room, a cozy, well-lit little chamber that smelled of pine. She’d kicked off her boots and reclined in a chair, relieved after a long day of traveling. An entirely trivial memory, perhaps. However, as Janice’s health had grown steadily worse over the past weeks, that memory was all she could conjure in her mind to comfort her. Her mind was too far gone to recount alchemical formulas or complex spells. Nor could she occupy her attention with a good book or a hot meal. No…all she could do was remember. And it brought little comfort.

Now, that cozy little chamber, so comforting and bright, had become a den of filth. The blinds had been drawn, the candles doused, all possible sources of light extinguished. The smell of pine was now replaced with the smell of all manner of excrement. Slime and vomit covered the floor and the walls…nearly every surface in the tiny room had been stained with bile or blood. And the flies…oh, those flies. Those roaches. Those insidious little pests that now buzzed through the air and scuttled across the floor. The stench was so foul, so repulsive, that you could almost hear the walls gag. How odd, then, that no concerned patron had caught a whiff of it and attempted to break the door down. Janice had managed to consider this, before the illness had completely consumed her mind. It seemed a reasonable conclusion that those concerned patrons were in a similar state of illness. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they were better off. Perhaps they were already dead.

The rumors of this illness, this plague, had not escaped Janice’s notice. As a prominent alchemist in Lordaeron’s capital city, she’d been asked by some of her colleagues what she thought about it, and if she might contribute to the search for a cure. She’d refused to comment, of course. It was none of her concern, and after all, what were the odds that this plague would affect her? With that line of thinking, this fate almost seemed fitting.

Now, this lovely, brilliant young woman was little more than a skeleton with a coating of sickly, pale skin. She’d not eaten in a week, and it seemed that everything left within her had been vomited up. Her face shared the fate of her body; a pale-skinned skull with sunken eyes and dark rings beneath them. Her hair, once silky a vibrant, was now a tangled and twisted mass coated in vomit and bile. What had once been a paragon of beauty and sophistication was now a twisted, tormented ghoul.

She wretched, something she had almost gotten used to. Bile ejected from her mouth, staining the bed she lay upon even more. She gripped the sheets with her skeletal fingers and screamed, though all she could manage was a high-pitched hissing sound. She spasmed violently in rage and pain her body shaking and writhing in its seemingly endless anguish. This fruitless gesture only managed to sap the last of her strength, however. She crumpled back onto the bed, facing the window, the sunbeam now shining directly into her eyes. She squinted and winced in agony, yet she could not move. Her strength was gone.

For hours she lay there, the sunbeam shining relentlessly onto her face. Yet as the time passed, she came to accept its presence, and soon, embrace it. This little beam of light…this one sign from the outside world. It gave her hope, gave her comfort. Her courage grew, and her resolve became sound. She would continue to fight, continue to live, and no plague would ever take her.

The day soon turned to night, and the sunbeam was no more.]]>
It had been three weeks since Janice Grier had arrived at the inn…the inn. Was she really still there? It seemed like an eternity since she had checked in; annoying the bartender with a snide comment before heading up the stairs, her heavy footfalls a testament to her weariness. She’d entered her room, a cozy, well-lit little chamber that smelled of pine. She’d kicked off her boots and reclined in a chair, relieved after a long day of traveling. An entirely trivial memory, perhaps. However, as Janice’s health had grown steadily worse over the past weeks, that memory was all she could conjure in her mind to comfort her. Her mind was too far gone to recount alchemical formulas or complex spells. Nor could she occupy her attention with a good book or a hot meal. No…all she could do was remember. And it brought little comfort.

Now, that cozy little chamber, so comforting and bright, had become a den of filth. The blinds had been drawn, the candles doused, all possible sources of light extinguished. The smell of pine was now replaced with the smell of all manner of excrement. Slime and vomit covered the floor and the walls…nearly every surface in the tiny room had been stained with bile or blood. And the flies…oh, those flies. Those roaches. Those insidious little pests that now buzzed through the air and scuttled across the floor. The stench was so foul, so repulsive, that you could almost hear the walls gag. How odd, then, that no concerned patron had caught a whiff of it and attempted to break the door down. Janice had managed to consider this, before the illness had completely consumed her mind. It seemed a reasonable conclusion that those concerned patrons were in a similar state of illness. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they were better off. Perhaps they were already dead.

The rumors of this illness, this plague, had not escaped Janice’s notice. As a prominent alchemist in Lordaeron’s capital city, she’d been asked by some of her colleagues what she thought about it, and if she might contribute to the search for a cure. She’d refused to comment, of course. It was none of her concern, and after all, what were the odds that this plague would affect her? With that line of thinking, this fate almost seemed fitting.

Now, this lovely, brilliant young woman was little more than a skeleton with a coating of sickly, pale skin. She’d not eaten in a week, and it seemed that everything left within her had been vomited up. Her face shared the fate of her body; a pale-skinned skull with sunken eyes and dark rings beneath them. Her hair, once silky a vibrant, was now a tangled and twisted mass coated in vomit and bile. What had once been a paragon of beauty and sophistication was now a twisted, tormented ghoul.

She wretched, something she had almost gotten used to. Bile ejected from her mouth, staining the bed she lay upon even more. She gripped the sheets with her skeletal fingers and screamed, though all she could manage was a high-pitched hissing sound. She spasmed violently in rage and pain her body shaking and writhing in its seemingly endless anguish. This fruitless gesture only managed to sap the last of her strength, however. She crumpled back onto the bed, facing the window, the sunbeam now shining directly into her eyes. She squinted and winced in agony, yet she could not move. Her strength was gone.

For hours she lay there, the sunbeam shining relentlessly onto her face. Yet as the time passed, she came to accept its presence, and soon, embrace it. This little beam of light…this one sign from the outside world. It gave her hope, gave her comfort. Her courage grew, and her resolve became sound. She would continue to fight, continue to live, and no plague would ever take her.

The day soon turned to night, and the sunbeam was no more.]]> <![CDATA[Oph's Quest for the Past]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38610.html Sat, 27 Sep 2014 16:09:30 -0700 Maarten]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38610.html
The Elf takes a moment to aim before blowing off the lock and kicking open the cabinet. “Bala'dor. Bee'nor.” She goes past the names until she reaches the one she looks for. “Blacktear.” She opens up her files, only to find much of it rotting from not being used for years. She curses under her breath and starts reading what is still readable. “Unknown man brought the child. Said he found her in a carriage to the north with two dead bodies near it. Male and female. Both brown of hair. Child is a week old at most.” Ophelia speaks to herself. “Investigation came up with nothing. Why even travel with a week old baby? It doesn't matter. This is the seventh child that comes in with a story that can't be verified and without a name. We named her Seven for the time being.” Ophelia flips through the rest of the pages, most of them rotten so terrible they can't be read anymore. She keeps flipping until she finds the page on the day of her adoption. “Seven got picked up today. A human female, brown haired and infertile. Dramina Blacktear. She took the child and left Elven lands with her. Light knows why she didn't choose a human child. I'm just glad to be rid of the little b***h. Always crying for attention, always trying to find a way to make our lives miserable. Oh, how I hate her.”

Ophelia frowns at the pages. “Assholes.” She mutters to herself before returning to the pages. “Two days after Seven, or Ophelia as her new mother called the brat, a white haired male came looking for a child. A very specific child. The description perfectly fits the little brat, Seven.” The Elf looks over the pages with some interest, no longer skipping the partially unreadable parts. “He demanded classified information. He got nothing and swore this wasn't the last we'd have seen of him.” Once more the Elf skimmed through the many pages. Occasionally cursing under her breath. Taken the ruined book, Ophelia made her way outside and to her wolf, sighing softly. She patted the creature, jumped into the saddle and rode off. As she rode, she felt as if someone was watching her. Yet she rode on, not caring about the feeling. Something about the feeling was odd, however. As if she felt it before.]]>
The Elf takes a moment to aim before blowing off the lock and kicking open the cabinet. “Bala'dor. Bee'nor.” She goes past the names until she reaches the one she looks for. “Blacktear.” She opens up her files, only to find much of it rotting from not being used for years. She curses under her breath and starts reading what is still readable. “Unknown man brought the child. Said he found her in a carriage to the north with two dead bodies near it. Male and female. Both brown of hair. Child is a week old at most.” Ophelia speaks to herself. “Investigation came up with nothing. Why even travel with a week old baby? It doesn't matter. This is the seventh child that comes in with a story that can't be verified and without a name. We named her Seven for the time being.” Ophelia flips through the rest of the pages, most of them rotten so terrible they can't be read anymore. She keeps flipping until she finds the page on the day of her adoption. “Seven got picked up today. A human female, brown haired and infertile. Dramina Blacktear. She took the child and left Elven lands with her. Light knows why she didn't choose a human child. I'm just glad to be rid of the little b***h. Always crying for attention, always trying to find a way to make our lives miserable. Oh, how I hate her.”

Ophelia frowns at the pages. “Assholes.” She mutters to herself before returning to the pages. “Two days after Seven, or Ophelia as her new mother called the brat, a white haired male came looking for a child. A very specific child. The description perfectly fits the little brat, Seven.” The Elf looks over the pages with some interest, no longer skipping the partially unreadable parts. “He demanded classified information. He got nothing and swore this wasn't the last we'd have seen of him.” Once more the Elf skimmed through the many pages. Occasionally cursing under her breath. Taken the ruined book, Ophelia made her way outside and to her wolf, sighing softly. She patted the creature, jumped into the saddle and rode off. As she rode, she felt as if someone was watching her. Yet she rode on, not caring about the feeling. Something about the feeling was odd, however. As if she felt it before.]]> <![CDATA[Overdue by Eight Years]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38584.html Sun, 21 Sep 2014 18:54:27 -0700 WindZealot]]> https://www.conquestofthehorde.com/thread-38584.html
Ereneas Skyfire looked down at the card Adaelyn Fireblossom gave to him during their meeting in Dalaran. The address on the card led him to the borders of Eversong Forest and the Ghostlands. He stumbled across a cottage styled house once he walked over the bridge towards the Ghostlands. It looked fairly new, probably built within the last few years and most importantly it matched the number on the card.
"…I suppose this is the address…" Ereneas muttered, stepping up to the door of the house to knock. He waited until Malenor Spitfire opened the door. The Sunreaver was not in his uniform, but instead he wore red fuzzy pajama pants and a white apron to cover his shirtless, muscled torso. Judging by his expression, it seemed Malenor did not get enough sleep the night before. He stared at Ereneas for a long moment, not bothering to say a greeting or anything for that matter. Then he walked away, leaving the door open for Ereneas to enter the house.

Ereneas blinked his eyes as he stepped inside, only the visible eye being seen due to his hair covering the other. He closed the door behind him, studying the room in front of him. It was a living area with a dining table almost in the center of the room. There were two chairs at the table, opposite of each other. To his left, there was a desk drawer with a landscape portrait of Eversong Forest above it, and see-through curtains covering the entry way to the kitchen where Malenor was busy cooking. Against the wall furthest from him was a large sofa with a landscape portrait of an older Silvermoon City. In the right hand corner of the sofa was a small table next to a large chair. And to the left of the sofa was an enchanted spiral bookcase, slowly spinning around.
Ereneas moved to the dining table, taking a seat in the chair facing the kitchen entry way. He placed one of his hands over the other and waited patiently. Moments later, Malenor came out of the kitchen, holding two large trays of breakfast food, one in each hand. Although, it was clearly noon, pancakes, french toast, eggs (scrambled and sunny side up), bacon, cheese cubes, and some orange slices were being served. Surprisingly, the smell of the food was not noticeable until Malenor passed through the curtains. Perhaps, the curtains were enchanted, but nevertheless it was odd. Malenor placed the two trays on the table and headed back into the kitchen without another word.

Ereneas blinked again, confused. At least he could eat while he waited. He began to nibble on the cheese cubes from the tray in front of him. He leaned over in his chair to peer through the curtains, seeing Malenor slumped over the table. Suddenly, red bathrobe blocked his view of Malenor. Judging by the height, wet red hair, and among other things, this must be Adaelyn. Malenor rose up, speaking to her, although for some reason the words were not audible despite the distance. Again, perhaps it was the curtains, but who knows. Adaelyn turned to peek at Ereneas in the other room and quickly dashed out of sight. Malenor proceeded to laugh, or at least what looked like laughing, as he walked back to the room to speak to Ereneas. "She'll be right with you soon. Continue to eat if you would like."

"Of… Course, sir." He continued eating the assortment of food like some bacon, an orange slice, and more cheese cubes.

Malenor moved back into the kitchen, disappearing out of sight. Then a rushed looking

Adaelyn stepped into the room. Her hair looked a bit damp, but it was better than the soaked version from before. And instead of the red bathrobe, she wore a worn out gray robe. She sighed, taking a seat across from Ereneas. "Sorry about that. I didn't expect you would come so early today." She said, taking a slice of french toast from the tray in front of her.

"Uh…were you expecting me to come at all?" Ereneas asked.

"Yes, but not today. Malenor and I were quite busy last night. Normally, I would be up by the crack of dawn and he would be up by seven." Adaelyn replied.

Ereneas blushed a little, assuming the wrong thing, most likely. He remained silent, continuing to eat to avoid awkward tension.

Adaelyn didn't seem to notice, too busy with her toast, wiping the crumbs off on the worn robe. "Did you ever want to become a mage before?"

"Back when I was a lot younger."

"And you still are young, but that's only because we live for so long compared to other races." She smiled, folding her arms on the table as she spoke with him. "Do you recall the four rules of magic?"

"…Uh…uuuuh…" Ereneas lowered his voice, muttering, "Damn it." Then he answered in a more audible tone. "…I sadly do not."

She continued to smile. "I'll forgive you for that since you came to me for learning." She raised her left arm, holding up one finger. "First rule, magic is powerful." She added a second finger. "Second rule, magic is corrupting." A third finger. "The third rule that our kind undeniably knows, magic is addicting." A fourth finger. "Fourth rule, magic draws the denizens of the Twisting Nether to those who wield the arcane. In other words, we attract demons." She said the last word with subtle hate. She lowered her arm back down the table.

Ereneas nodded attentively. "I remember a bit now."

"These are four simple, easy rules to remember. Every-- Or at least those who are instructed by those who have a teaching license.. Every person who wants to walk the path of a mage, knows these rules before they start. Often, the fourth rule scares many apprentices away. Demons are unfortunately, cunning creatures."

"That's true, yup. Where'd you get your license, if I can ask?"

"Usually you can head up to Dalaran for the test. You see, long ago, Dalaran was in control of most magical teachings and restricted outside learning, but.. That all fell apart when Dalaran itself was destroyed. Magic was not regulated and therefore.. The dark magics were then spread and taught. Dalaran has brought back it's restrictions, but since it was gone for years.. People argue that Dalaran shouldn't meddle in such affairs like they used to, saying we need the darker arts to fight against greater evil. I believe you know where I'm going with this."

"I do."

"Moving on.. Do you recall the Law of Sympathy?"

"Was it the Workings of Magic are Subject to Natural Law or something similar to that? Or am I wrong entirely?"

"Entirely wrong. Magic, specifically Arcane magic, the magic we mages use, do not follow normal rules of nature, such as opposites attract. In Arcane magic, opposites definitely do not attract. " She slided her arms off the table. "Back to the Law of Sympathy.. When someone handles an item, they leave a part of their own magical aura attached to it. The sympathy between a subject and the object used by his or her becomes stronger with a more constant and thoughtful use. As auras vary with individuals, the vibration makes it possible to connect to individual by affecting the item, and vice versa. So you understand so far?"

"…Not…really, no."

"Let me speak of a few examples. The Law of Sympathy may allow a lock of hair to be used in a love charm, or a coin to be tracked back to its original owner. Similarly, an expert can read handwritten letters or books without having to actually read them. In a simplified way, think of it as emotions, lingering emotions on an object. And by magic, we can amplify such emotion to help us with our spells."

"I see…"

"Do you have anything personal on you? A favorite memento? A letter? For demonstration purposes."

Ereneas reached into a small pouch on his person and pulled out a folded up square of paper. He unfolded it, handing it over to her.

Adaelyn quickly folded the letter back up, not even taking a peek at the letter. "I should of mentioned to keep it closed as well." She smiled, taking the folded letter in her hands, closing her eyes in concentration.

"This is from.. Someone you're related to.. Female, your aunt perhaps? This person seemed quite reluctant at first, but it seems they have forgiven you for something that you did." She opened her eyes, looking at Ereneas.

"…Yeah. That's true."

She handed the folded letter back to Ereneas. "I cannot read word for word, but I know the main idea of the letter. If you wish for someone who is more skilled in the Law of Sympathy, I suggest Malenor could help you with that. It takes practice to be exact. Now.. Going back to your other topic. Why do you think Arcane magic does not follow the normal rules of nature?"

"…It's magic. Otherwise…" He shrugged.

"Yes and no.. If you ever pursue a lesson on the different types of magic, outside of Arcane, you will see that magic is not just magic. Arcane is a magical energy derived from the phase transitions of mana. And mana as you know, is where casters like mages and the alike, draw their power from when casting spells. If mana were water, then arcane would be steam pressure. Are you following along?"
He nodded.

"Arcane energy is so similar to an element it might as well be one. It is distinctive for its ability to bend other elements such as Fire and Life and energies such as Time to the caster's will. Basically, those skilled in arcane magic have learned how to exploit the instability in the universe. Amazing isn't it? Doesn't it remind you of the four rules of magic?"

"Yeah, those rules do come to mind when I think about the concepts."

"Arcane is not natural because it bends things that are natural. We force the elements to bend to our will through arcane. Does this remind you of anything outside of Arcane magic?"

"…Would it be stupid to say it reminds me a -bit- on shamanism?"

She smiled. "No, that's exactly what I wanted you to say. Now, do you know the difference between the Arcane and Shamanism?"

"…Shamanism implies consent. Arcane doesn't?"

"Not quite, but you are on the right track. Would you like to try again or would you like me to explain?"

"Explain, please."

"Shamanism is a deeply spiritual form of elemental magic that involves a connection with both the natural and the spirit worlds. Shaman do not normally enslave elementals, but honor them, asking the elements to heed their call. And if you've ever seen a Shaman at work, they harness the powers of the elements through totems." She smiled again, continuing. "I recall having a conversation with an acquaintance on Shamanism. Would you like to hear?"

"Go on."

"Give me a moment. I can't quite seem to remember. Excuse me." She said, getting up from her seat. "Oh, would you like for me to tell Malenor to remove the breakfast trays from the table?"

He shrugged.

She exited the room, going through the kitchen curtains. Moments later, a well dressed

Malenor came out in a suit and tie. "I'm going out for a few hours, are you finished eating?"

"I guess."

Malenor removed the trays from the table, going back into the kitchen. When entered the room again, he said to Ereneas, "Please do not let Adaelyn go outside while I'm gone. I'll be back later" before walking out of the house.

Ereneas slowly nodded, watching Malenor leave. Then Adaelyn returned, wearing a nice red robe with golden embroidery, holding a large scrying orb.
Ereneas looked to Adaelyn searchingly.

"We're going to have a little memory seeking with this." She said, setting the orb down on the table, closer to Ereneas. She moved her chair, placing it near Ereneas as well.

"Oh…?"

"Think of it as your first lesson in Divination." She placed her hands on each side of the orb, closing her eyes. "Now, I will project my memory of the time and you may see through the orb. During this, I ask you to try to also concentrate and imagine yourself inside of the orb as I play through my memory. For better results, you must place your hands over mine while doing so."

As instructed, he placed his hands over hers, feeling coldness from her hands.

"I will start now." She said, becoming silent. Inside the orb, wisps of red swirled, changing into a red monochromatic scene of an elf and a Draenei, sitting along the edge of a lake's bank.

Ereneas tries imagining himself inside the orb, like she told him to. He felt a mental shift, finding himself somewhere else, the scene of the orb except in color. It looked to be spring time judging by the color of the leaves of the surrounding trees. He looked around, seeing that he can view a lot more compared to seeing through the orb. Suddenly, he's pulled back to reality, seeing the orb in front of him and sitting in the chair. Maybe he got distracted or he wasn't concentrating enough. He tried again, accomplishing the task better than before.

He stood on the water of the lake, in front of the two women, one being a High Elf and the other being a Draenei. The High Elf looked similar to Adaelyn, but with long white hair instead of short red hair. He began to focus his concentration to watch the scene play out as the women started to talk.

Adaelyn: You are a Shaman?
Draenei: Yes, I am.
Adaelyn: I've never met a Shaman in person before, what is it like to be a Shaman?
Draenei: We honor the spirits of our ancestors and the elements.
Adaelyn: That's not what I was asking. How is Shamanism different from being a Mage? Both can control the elements.
Draenei: No, but they are similar in effect. I can call upon lightning to strike my foes, burning them to death. Like warlocks can summon flames from the depths below to their enemy, burning them to death.
Adaelyn frowned at the mention of warlocks.
Adaelyn: I prefer not hearing about the darker sorts.. They're only bargaining their lives with that magic.
Draenei: Yes, that is the difference. Shamans make bonds with the elements and request their power when needed. Other magics would cost a bit of themselves. It seems easier and quicker to many--
Adaelyn: But in the end it's not worth it.
The Draenei nodded.
Draenei: We ask out of respect, we give back and do not go back on our word of agreement. If we do, the elements would not respond to us again.
Adaelyn: In other words, you have a strong relationship with your magic?
Draenei: Yes, in a way.

Ereneas lets his concentration go, finding himself back in the room, staring blankly at the orb. He felt tired as if he just finished running a mile. Adaelyn opened her eyes, seeing his weary expression. "Would you like some water? Juice maybe?"

"…Juice, please."

She smiled, sliding out of Ereneas's hands while taking the orb with her. A few minutes later she returned with a chilled glass of apple juice and offered it to Ereneas. He took the glass, gulping it down. "That was…interesting!"

"Magic is a wonderful, but dangerous power." She smiled, nodding.
Ereneas nodded back.

"I can assume you know your nine schools of magic, correct?"

"Mmmhm."

"Please name them."

"Evocation, Abjuration, Conjuration, Transmutation, Enchantment, Illusion, Necromancy, and Divination."

"And the ninth?"

"…It's escaping me…"

"While it's not a true school of magic, it's called Universal. It's usually where you place the miscellaneous spells under."

"…I see…"

"And out of the eight main schools of magic, which one is highly unacceptable? Not to mention, illegal."

"Necromancy."

"Between you and I, I am greatly disturbed by having the Forsaken as our allies because of this."

"…I hate them."

"Do not trust them, keep them at arms length if not further. It is only.. Natural for them to hate the living. They are the enemies of all living things. While the Forsaken are our allies, we cannot whole heartily trust them because of their roots of Necromancy. Have you seen the state of Hillsbrad, or even Silverpine? Be wary of them.."

"…I've seen them…And it just makes my hatred fester."

"I hope that Banshee Wench will crumble back into the Void where she belongs."

Adaelyn scowls, shaking the expression off with a new question. "While not a school of magic, what else is there that you should be wary of when you are a mage? Our people know it quite well and some have accepted their fates, going down that dark path.. It's rather unfortunate it is more... Acceptable."

"Corruption. Steering towards the Fel."

"Correct. The path of the.. Warlock. What do you know of them?"

"Their magic is corrupting. Addicting. It's also highly volatile and abhorred by most."

"Again, you are.. On the right track, but not quite there."

"Explain, please."

"Think of what you said and then think of the four rules. It is correct of Fel, but that is extremely put into light words."

"What's a better way to describe it, then?"

"Fel magic or energy is also known as sacrificial magic. Do you know why?"

"…I haven't heard that term before."

"That's more than likely because warlocks do not see their powers as sacrificial. But let me ask again, do you know why it's called that?"

"I don't…"

"Fel is a destructive form of magic created from destroying something else through sacrifice. Destroying such things like Life energy."

"I get it, now."

"Do you think Mages fear Warlocks?"

"That's…generalizing…I think most do."

"We have a right to be afraid of them. They wield Fel magic, magic that has a profound effect on the soul - both the victim's and the caster's. If frequently used it results in corruption that transforms the body. Our people knows this by the color of our eyes and such.. And of course... If you've seen the Felblood Elves during the time of that traitorous Prince, the demonic energy consumed their bodies, changing them into those.. Things. They took the appearance of demons through these processes of Fel. This is a fate not even dragons are immune to. Soil, trees and animals grow thick with fel magic, too."

"…Those sounded terrifying from the accounts of others…"

"Warlocks believe they are masters over Fel, but that could not be more wrong. Fel is their master as they give their lives and others to gain more power from Fel. In the end, they will be consumed by Fel and have their souls lay waste into the dark depths of the Void."

"And that consumption is what kills them."

"They will become demons in the end and whatever they were before that life, they are no more. While we should fear the Warlock, due to their power, it has to be us to correct them. Warlocks are mad and insane due to the power that's granted to them through their sacrifices. We either end them or help them back onto the right path, although they won't be the same since the effects of Fel is.. You understand where I'm going with this, yes? "

"Yeah."

"It's quite early for you to be tangling yourself with Warlocks, so I suggest staying away from them and treating them like you do with the Forsaken. Be wary of them. And just so you know to be clear.. Warlocks do sacrifice others for their spells. Unfortunately, those sacrifices will end up in the Void along with the Warlock as well one day." Adaelyn shakes her head. "It's saddening to think of innocent souls being tormented by the darkness of the Void because of some mad Warlock's need for power."

"An endless amount of suffering for both. The worst fate…"

"It's easy for Warlocks to be known due to their reek of Fel magic permeating around them, not to mention any obvious signs of corruption or visible demon by their side. I suppose another would be their age, unless they have a few enchantments to deceive you. Did you know the more magical power you possess, the quicker you age physically? Which is why some Mages gain gray or white hairs despite being a young age. So, you can imagine what age would be like for a Warlock with all that power.."

"Of course, it's not that noticeable for us since we have long life spans, but if you ever take a look at humans, you may notice it."

"…I've seen quite a bit back at Dalaran."

She smiled. "Anyway, I believe I have gone over most of what I wanted to discuss with you to refresh your memory on magic. Do you mind telling me in a short summary of what you learned or re-learned from our discussion today?"
"There are four rules to being a mage that you should know when you're starting out. Magic does not abide by the laws of nature. Fel is not only a sacrificial magic, but utterly abhorrent and self-destructive to use. Don't do necromancy, either?"

"Good enough considering I discuss a lot." She smiled once again.

Ereneas nodded back with his own smile.]]>
Ereneas Skyfire looked down at the card Adaelyn Fireblossom gave to him during their meeting in Dalaran. The address on the card led him to the borders of Eversong Forest and the Ghostlands. He stumbled across a cottage styled house once he walked over the bridge towards the Ghostlands. It looked fairly new, probably built within the last few years and most importantly it matched the number on the card.
"…I suppose this is the address…" Ereneas muttered, stepping up to the door of the house to knock. He waited until Malenor Spitfire opened the door. The Sunreaver was not in his uniform, but instead he wore red fuzzy pajama pants and a white apron to cover his shirtless, muscled torso. Judging by his expression, it seemed Malenor did not get enough sleep the night before. He stared at Ereneas for a long moment, not bothering to say a greeting or anything for that matter. Then he walked away, leaving the door open for Ereneas to enter the house.

Ereneas blinked his eyes as he stepped inside, only the visible eye being seen due to his hair covering the other. He closed the door behind him, studying the room in front of him. It was a living area with a dining table almost in the center of the room. There were two chairs at the table, opposite of each other. To his left, there was a desk drawer with a landscape portrait of Eversong Forest above it, and see-through curtains covering the entry way to the kitchen where Malenor was busy cooking. Against the wall furthest from him was a large sofa with a landscape portrait of an older Silvermoon City. In the right hand corner of the sofa was a small table next to a large chair. And to the left of the sofa was an enchanted spiral bookcase, slowly spinning around.
Ereneas moved to the dining table, taking a seat in the chair facing the kitchen entry way. He placed one of his hands over the other and waited patiently. Moments later, Malenor came out of the kitchen, holding two large trays of breakfast food, one in each hand. Although, it was clearly noon, pancakes, french toast, eggs (scrambled and sunny side up), bacon, cheese cubes, and some orange slices were being served. Surprisingly, the smell of the food was not noticeable until Malenor passed through the curtains. Perhaps, the curtains were enchanted, but nevertheless it was odd. Malenor placed the two trays on the table and headed back into the kitchen without another word.

Ereneas blinked again, confused. At least he could eat while he waited. He began to nibble on the cheese cubes from the tray in front of him. He leaned over in his chair to peer through the curtains, seeing Malenor slumped over the table. Suddenly, red bathrobe blocked his view of Malenor. Judging by the height, wet red hair, and among other things, this must be Adaelyn. Malenor rose up, speaking to her, although for some reason the words were not audible despite the distance. Again, perhaps it was the curtains, but who knows. Adaelyn turned to peek at Ereneas in the other room and quickly dashed out of sight. Malenor proceeded to laugh, or at least what looked like laughing, as he walked back to the room to speak to Ereneas. "She'll be right with you soon. Continue to eat if you would like."

"Of… Course, sir." He continued eating the assortment of food like some bacon, an orange slice, and more cheese cubes.

Malenor moved back into the kitchen, disappearing out of sight. Then a rushed looking

Adaelyn stepped into the room. Her hair looked a bit damp, but it was better than the soaked version from before. And instead of the red bathrobe, she wore a worn out gray robe. She sighed, taking a seat across from Ereneas. "Sorry about that. I didn't expect you would come so early today." She said, taking a slice of french toast from the tray in front of her.

"Uh…were you expecting me to come at all?" Ereneas asked.

"Yes, but not today. Malenor and I were quite busy last night. Normally, I would be up by the crack of dawn and he would be up by seven." Adaelyn replied.

Ereneas blushed a little, assuming the wrong thing, most likely. He remained silent, continuing to eat to avoid awkward tension.

Adaelyn didn't seem to notice, too busy with her toast, wiping the crumbs off on the worn robe. "Did you ever want to become a mage before?"

"Back when I was a lot younger."

"And you still are young, but that's only because we live for so long compared to other races." She smiled, folding her arms on the table as she spoke with him. "Do you recall the four rules of magic?"

"…Uh…uuuuh…" Ereneas lowered his voice, muttering, "Damn it." Then he answered in a more audible tone. "…I sadly do not."

She continued to smile. "I'll forgive you for that since you came to me for learning." She raised her left arm, holding up one finger. "First rule, magic is powerful." She added a second finger. "Second rule, magic is corrupting." A third finger. "The third rule that our kind undeniably knows, magic is addicting." A fourth finger. "Fourth rule, magic draws the denizens of the Twisting Nether to those who wield the arcane. In other words, we attract demons." She said the last word with subtle hate. She lowered her arm back down the table.

Ereneas nodded attentively. "I remember a bit now."

"These are four simple, easy rules to remember. Every-- Or at least those who are instructed by those who have a teaching license.. Every person who wants to walk the path of a mage, knows these rules before they start. Often, the fourth rule scares many apprentices away. Demons are unfortunately, cunning creatures."

"That's true, yup. Where'd you get your license, if I can ask?"

"Usually you can head up to Dalaran for the test. You see, long ago, Dalaran was in control of most magical teachings and restricted outside learning, but.. That all fell apart when Dalaran itself was destroyed. Magic was not regulated and therefore.. The dark magics were then spread and taught. Dalaran has brought back it's restrictions, but since it was gone for years.. People argue that Dalaran shouldn't meddle in such affairs like they used to, saying we need the darker arts to fight against greater evil. I believe you know where I'm going with this."

"I do."

"Moving on.. Do you recall the Law of Sympathy?"

"Was it the Workings of Magic are Subject to Natural Law or something similar to that? Or am I wrong entirely?"

"Entirely wrong. Magic, specifically Arcane magic, the magic we mages use, do not follow normal rules of nature, such as opposites attract. In Arcane magic, opposites definitely do not attract. " She slided her arms off the table. "Back to the Law of Sympathy.. When someone handles an item, they leave a part of their own magical aura attached to it. The sympathy between a subject and the object used by his or her becomes stronger with a more constant and thoughtful use. As auras vary with individuals, the vibration makes it possible to connect to individual by affecting the item, and vice versa. So you understand so far?"

"…Not…really, no."

"Let me speak of a few examples. The Law of Sympathy may allow a lock of hair to be used in a love charm, or a coin to be tracked back to its original owner. Similarly, an expert can read handwritten letters or books without having to actually read them. In a simplified way, think of it as emotions, lingering emotions on an object. And by magic, we can amplify such emotion to help us with our spells."

"I see…"

"Do you have anything personal on you? A favorite memento? A letter? For demonstration purposes."

Ereneas reached into a small pouch on his person and pulled out a folded up square of paper. He unfolded it, handing it over to her.

Adaelyn quickly folded the letter back up, not even taking a peek at the letter. "I should of mentioned to keep it closed as well." She smiled, taking the folded letter in her hands, closing her eyes in concentration.

"This is from.. Someone you're related to.. Female, your aunt perhaps? This person seemed quite reluctant at first, but it seems they have forgiven you for something that you did." She opened her eyes, looking at Ereneas.

"…Yeah. That's true."

She handed the folded letter back to Ereneas. "I cannot read word for word, but I know the main idea of the letter. If you wish for someone who is more skilled in the Law of Sympathy, I suggest Malenor could help you with that. It takes practice to be exact. Now.. Going back to your other topic. Why do you think Arcane magic does not follow the normal rules of nature?"

"…It's magic. Otherwise…" He shrugged.

"Yes and no.. If you ever pursue a lesson on the different types of magic, outside of Arcane, you will see that magic is not just magic. Arcane is a magical energy derived from the phase transitions of mana. And mana as you know, is where casters like mages and the alike, draw their power from when casting spells. If mana were water, then arcane would be steam pressure. Are you following along?"
He nodded.

"Arcane energy is so similar to an element it might as well be one. It is distinctive for its ability to bend other elements such as Fire and Life and energies such as Time to the caster's will. Basically, those skilled in arcane magic have learned how to exploit the instability in the universe. Amazing isn't it? Doesn't it remind you of the four rules of magic?"

"Yeah, those rules do come to mind when I think about the concepts."

"Arcane is not natural because it bends things that are natural. We force the elements to bend to our will through arcane. Does this remind you of anything outside of Arcane magic?"

"…Would it be stupid to say it reminds me a -bit- on shamanism?"

She smiled. "No, that's exactly what I wanted you to say. Now, do you know the difference between the Arcane and Shamanism?"

"…Shamanism implies consent. Arcane doesn't?"

"Not quite, but you are on the right track. Would you like to try again or would you like me to explain?"

"Explain, please."

"Shamanism is a deeply spiritual form of elemental magic that involves a connection with both the natural and the spirit worlds. Shaman do not normally enslave elementals, but honor them, asking the elements to heed their call. And if you've ever seen a Shaman at work, they harness the powers of the elements through totems." She smiled again, continuing. "I recall having a conversation with an acquaintance on Shamanism. Would you like to hear?"

"Go on."

"Give me a moment. I can't quite seem to remember. Excuse me." She said, getting up from her seat. "Oh, would you like for me to tell Malenor to remove the breakfast trays from the table?"

He shrugged.

She exited the room, going through the kitchen curtains. Moments later, a well dressed

Malenor came out in a suit and tie. "I'm going out for a few hours, are you finished eating?"

"I guess."

Malenor removed the trays from the table, going back into the kitchen. When entered the room again, he said to Ereneas, "Please do not let Adaelyn go outside while I'm gone. I'll be back later" before walking out of the house.

Ereneas slowly nodded, watching Malenor leave. Then Adaelyn returned, wearing a nice red robe with golden embroidery, holding a large scrying orb.
Ereneas looked to Adaelyn searchingly.

"We're going to have a little memory seeking with this." She said, setting the orb down on the table, closer to Ereneas. She moved her chair, placing it near Ereneas as well.

"Oh…?"

"Think of it as your first lesson in Divination." She placed her hands on each side of the orb, closing her eyes. "Now, I will project my memory of the time and you may see through the orb. During this, I ask you to try to also concentrate and imagine yourself inside of the orb as I play through my memory. For better results, you must place your hands over mine while doing so."

As instructed, he placed his hands over hers, feeling coldness from her hands.

"I will start now." She said, becoming silent. Inside the orb, wisps of red swirled, changing into a red monochromatic scene of an elf and a Draenei, sitting along the edge of a lake's bank.

Ereneas tries imagining himself inside the orb, like she told him to. He felt a mental shift, finding himself somewhere else, the scene of the orb except in color. It looked to be spring time judging by the color of the leaves of the surrounding trees. He looked around, seeing that he can view a lot more compared to seeing through the orb. Suddenly, he's pulled back to reality, seeing the orb in front of him and sitting in the chair. Maybe he got distracted or he wasn't concentrating enough. He tried again, accomplishing the task better than before.

He stood on the water of the lake, in front of the two women, one being a High Elf and the other being a Draenei. The High Elf looked similar to Adaelyn, but with long white hair instead of short red hair. He began to focus his concentration to watch the scene play out as the women started to talk.

Adaelyn: You are a Shaman?
Draenei: Yes, I am.
Adaelyn: I've never met a Shaman in person before, what is it like to be a Shaman?
Draenei: We honor the spirits of our ancestors and the elements.
Adaelyn: That's not what I was asking. How is Shamanism different from being a Mage? Both can control the elements.
Draenei: No, but they are similar in effect. I can call upon lightning to strike my foes, burning them to death. Like warlocks can summon flames from the depths below to their enemy, burning them to death.
Adaelyn frowned at the mention of warlocks.
Adaelyn: I prefer not hearing about the darker sorts.. They're only bargaining their lives with that magic.
Draenei: Yes, that is the difference. Shamans make bonds with the elements and request their power when needed. Other magics would cost a bit of themselves. It seems easier and quicker to many--
Adaelyn: But in the end it's not worth it.
The Draenei nodded.
Draenei: We ask out of respect, we give back and do not go back on our word of agreement. If we do, the elements would not respond to us again.
Adaelyn: In other words, you have a strong relationship with your magic?
Draenei: Yes, in a way.

Ereneas lets his concentration go, finding himself back in the room, staring blankly at the orb. He felt tired as if he just finished running a mile. Adaelyn opened her eyes, seeing his weary expression. "Would you like some water? Juice maybe?"

"…Juice, please."

She smiled, sliding out of Ereneas's hands while taking the orb with her. A few minutes later she returned with a chilled glass of apple juice and offered it to Ereneas. He took the glass, gulping it down. "That was…interesting!"

"Magic is a wonderful, but dangerous power." She smiled, nodding.
Ereneas nodded back.

"I can assume you know your nine schools of magic, correct?"

"Mmmhm."

"Please name them."

"Evocation, Abjuration, Conjuration, Transmutation, Enchantment, Illusion, Necromancy, and Divination."

"And the ninth?"

"…It's escaping me…"

"While it's not a true school of magic, it's called Universal. It's usually where you place the miscellaneous spells under."

"…I see…"

"And out of the eight main schools of magic, which one is highly unacceptable? Not to mention, illegal."

"Necromancy."

"Between you and I, I am greatly disturbed by having the Forsaken as our allies because of this."

"…I hate them."

"Do not trust them, keep them at arms length if not further. It is only.. Natural for them to hate the living. They are the enemies of all living things. While the Forsaken are our allies, we cannot whole heartily trust them because of their roots of Necromancy. Have you seen the state of Hillsbrad, or even Silverpine? Be wary of them.."

"…I've seen them…And it just makes my hatred fester."

"I hope that Banshee Wench will crumble back into the Void where she belongs."

Adaelyn scowls, shaking the expression off with a new question. "While not a school of magic, what else is there that you should be wary of when you are a mage? Our people know it quite well and some have accepted their fates, going down that dark path.. It's rather unfortunate it is more... Acceptable."

"Corruption. Steering towards the Fel."

"Correct. The path of the.. Warlock. What do you know of them?"

"Their magic is corrupting. Addicting. It's also highly volatile and abhorred by most."

"Again, you are.. On the right track, but not quite there."

"Explain, please."

"Think of what you said and then think of the four rules. It is correct of Fel, but that is extremely put into light words."

"What's a better way to describe it, then?"

"Fel magic or energy is also known as sacrificial magic. Do you know why?"

"…I haven't heard that term before."

"That's more than likely because warlocks do not see their powers as sacrificial. But let me ask again, do you know why it's called that?"

"I don't…"

"Fel is a destructive form of magic created from destroying something else through sacrifice. Destroying such things like Life energy."

"I get it, now."

"Do you think Mages fear Warlocks?"

"That's…generalizing…I think most do."

"We have a right to be afraid of them. They wield Fel magic, magic that has a profound effect on the soul - both the victim's and the caster's. If frequently used it results in corruption that transforms the body. Our people knows this by the color of our eyes and such.. And of course... If you've seen the Felblood Elves during the time of that traitorous Prince, the demonic energy consumed their bodies, changing them into those.. Things. They took the appearance of demons through these processes of Fel. This is a fate not even dragons are immune to. Soil, trees and animals grow thick with fel magic, too."

"…Those sounded terrifying from the accounts of others…"

"Warlocks believe they are masters over Fel, but that could not be more wrong. Fel is their master as they give their lives and others to gain more power from Fel. In the end, they will be consumed by Fel and have their souls lay waste into the dark depths of the Void."

"And that consumption is what kills them."

"They will become demons in the end and whatever they were before that life, they are no more. While we should fear the Warlock, due to their power, it has to be us to correct them. Warlocks are mad and insane due to the power that's granted to them through their sacrifices. We either end them or help them back onto the right path, although they won't be the same since the effects of Fel is.. You understand where I'm going with this, yes? "

"Yeah."

"It's quite early for you to be tangling yourself with Warlocks, so I suggest staying away from them and treating them like you do with the Forsaken. Be wary of them. And just so you know to be clear.. Warlocks do sacrifice others for their spells. Unfortunately, those sacrifices will end up in the Void along with the Warlock as well one day." Adaelyn shakes her head. "It's saddening to think of innocent souls being tormented by the darkness of the Void because of some mad Warlock's need for power."

"An endless amount of suffering for both. The worst fate…"

"It's easy for Warlocks to be known due to their reek of Fel magic permeating around them, not to mention any obvious signs of corruption or visible demon by their side. I suppose another would be their age, unless they have a few enchantments to deceive you. Did you know the more magical power you possess, the quicker you age physically? Which is why some Mages gain gray or white hairs despite being a young age. So, you can imagine what age would be like for a Warlock with all that power.."

"Of course, it's not that noticeable for us since we have long life spans, but if you ever take a look at humans, you may notice it."

"…I've seen quite a bit back at Dalaran."

She smiled. "Anyway, I believe I have gone over most of what I wanted to discuss with you to refresh your memory on magic. Do you mind telling me in a short summary of what you learned or re-learned from our discussion today?"
"There are four rules to being a mage that you should know when you're starting out. Magic does not abide by the laws of nature. Fel is not only a sacrificial magic, but utterly abhorrent and self-destructive to use. Don't do necromancy, either?"

"Good enough considering I discuss a lot." She smiled once again.

Ereneas nodded back with his own smile.]]>