Echö's blog

Continued from Beisel's The Mind of a Cultist:

They were coming. Two-hundred yards uphill Gus splashed across the stream, running headlong towards us with something in his mouth. Not big enough to be the donkey’s head... it looked like a leg. He barreled on, closer and closer, until I could hear the nervous giggle in his throat. When he reached me he didn’t even slow down, just kept going down the path we’d come, a rippling mottled gray mass descending through the trees.

Continued from Trail's End, Part 1

The most useful aspect of being an expert tracker isn’t the ability to recognize and follow just about any trail. The most useful aspect is the ability to recognize what a trail looks like so completely you can make one yourself. Any trail. Any type. Anywhere. From a deer’s meandering path through the forest to the marks a tauren’s hooves make on wet sand.

Here I was working with rocks, dust, dry scrub, pockets of aspen and birch with their flickering golden leaves, and dense growths of conifers. A little spare - not like the thick forests of Hillsbrad around Dalaran where I’d learned the craft - but workable. I walked on the hunched backs of the stones, scuffing the gravel between them here and there, reaching out to break or bend a branch in the way. Others I pushed aside. After all, this trail wasn’t meant to be mine.

“I’ve got to go.” I didn’t even look back as I stuffed necessities into my pack, buckled my crossbow quiver against my hip and tugged on my gloves. “It’s important. There isn’t time.” I opened the door.

Before I stepped out I glanced over my shoulder at the two of them. Credence and E, sitting at the table with our unfinished dinner plates between them, just as they had been when the message from Zhukova arrived. Neither had even moved, nor spoken a word as I’d leaped from my roast chicken and started suiting up, blathering about Hron Ironbelly and cultist informants and a hot lead.

“Kids these days,” Echo muttered, wincing as Credence gently lifted her foot to her shoulder and leaned forward slightly, hands pulling back at the muscles of her thigh. Echo’s knee gave a sad little creak and burned, the pain ebbing back as Credence loosened her hold and gently lowered the limb to the bedspread. Echo let out a few breaths before she opened her eyes again.

“That’s better,” she sighed, as strained muscles and tendons relaxed after the stretch. “Just... just wait a minute before you do the other one.”

Kast decided to take a break. He didn’t look at me as he walked out of the room, and I didn’t look at him. He can be an ugly man sometimes. This business was some of the ugliest, and sure wouldn’t do much to improve his looks.
 
I snapped my fingers at my side, answered by the huff and scuff of Gus rising from where he had been lying against the wall. The basement was dark enough the hyena’s hoary coat barely muddied the shadows, but his eyes gleamed in what light there was. Funny how I treated him like a dog. In many ways, he wasn’t like a dog at all. All the better for this. People get used to dogs.

The barge was the key. It came downriver with the gray light before dawn, sidling up to scrape against the shallows. A quick transaction of men and cargo followed. With Forsaken crowding the surrounding territories, new supply routes had been carved through the hills, Alterac’s river shores being one safe place to make landing. Chillwind camp would have some fresh soldiers and fresh supplies tonight. But not after a quick trip downstream, first.

These are the words of blogger Heather Hogan, taken from an article she wrote for a site pretty much totally irrelevant to what we do here, but they contained a message I dearly wanted to pass on to all the other writers here:

"Storytelling is older than science, and it will always be more powerful, because our lives are dominated by the stories we tell ourselves. Stories of quest and stories of love, stories of flights and stories of flops, stories of birth and stories of death, and above all, stories of hope. But we can only tell ourselves the stories we know — and from those once upon a times we reconstruct and deconstruct our own.

These days we've shaken down story quantification to a "Like" button, a measure of cartoon stars, 140-character reviews. Our most primal need cheapened to a series of approving or disapproving grunts. Cynicism is easy, criticism is easy, and we are a culture that brags about not giving a single f--k. But the real measure of a story isn't what the critics say; it isn't even what the ratings say. The real measure of a story is whether or not it beams its way inside us and fills our busy hearts with light."

Just wanted to share that with you all.  =)

Echo stepped below deck of the houseboat, her mail jingling. "Well, that didn't go as expected," she sighed, moving to hang her crossbow back in its pegs on the bulwark.

Credence looked up from a table sporting a freshly-baked tart, her eyes smiling as they often did when she was successful in her endeavors in the galley. "You're back early. The tart is just out of the oven. It will take a bit to cool before we can eat it."

Timothy, the black fox, took a white-tipped ear in his mouth and growled. The owner of the ear, a long, golden cat stretched out on the houseboat deck in the sun, rolled slowly over, loose spotted coat flowing after the initial torsion, big white paw lifting to spread toes across the fox's cheek. Echo smiled at the lazy feline and poked Timothy with the toe of her boot on the cat's behalf, though her interference did little more than motivate the fox to switch ears. The two animals curled into a playful, harmless wrestle, Whistler the parrot hopping to and fro around them, bobbing his head and spreading his wings like some kind of mad referee.

Fancy new double-portrait of awesome character Meggie.  Full image under the break!

"Going north, you said?" Credence asked, lifting the green-and-blue bracers from the table and handing them to Echo, a note of curiosity in her eyes.

"Not that far north," Echo answered, with a soothing smile.  "Not that far, hopefully ever again.  Just up into Quel'thalas, to deal with the Amani.  Haven't been up there, myself, but most of the Scions have been.  You know, I don't think I've dealt with trolls before - at least not a whole tribe, not like this.  Should be interesting."

"I always feel better when there's a dwarf around," Echo said, sitting back in her chair after swallowing a particularly refreshing mouthful of ale.  Decompressing with Credence on Friday nights had become a cherished routine: a light supper on the table, plenty of ale, and a patient smile accompanying a listening ear. Her sooty armor hung on its rack, far enough away that the scent of creosote didn't tingle their noses, and her bare feet rested in Credence's lap. As those kind fingers worked the tension from her toes, the ale tempted further musings from her lips.

The other day, after I finished and posted "All Pink", Heulwen said something to me along the lines of, "Well, that's great and everything, but all you ever paint are pretty girls."  So I said, "Okay, if not pretty girls, then what should I paint, eh? Eh??"  In other words, COME AT ME, BRO.

Heulwen spouted off something about a troll scout in Outlands delivering a report to an orc, leaning from his raptor mount. 

Orcs? Trolls??  RAPTORS???

AND ALL MALE??

The weight of the ham - wrapped in cloth and secured about Echo's wrist with a loop of butcher's twine - balanced the weight of the basket hung over her opposite arm, which was full of potatoes, apples, onions and yams.  Between them, she cradled a sack full of lighter things: bundles of sage, thyme and marjoram, a bouquet of greenhouse flowers.  Despite the planning which had gone into burdening herself, still she more or less waddled down the Stormwind docks.  Her mind, likewise, carried an abundance of cooking times, recipes, double-checked ingredients and most of all hopes for a successful family dinner.  It was to be the first, formally, on board the houseboat.

She remembered a flag. 

A swath of blue with gold embroidery, it flicked and wavered over the battlefield like a stroke of pure color on a muddy canvas.  Somewhere, far back in time, careful hands had woven the cloth, dyed it, sewn the seams and with callused fingers a hundred times pricked in dedication to that design. Not the last blood the banner would bear, carried across the sea, unfurled on foriegn soil, borne up by hands upon hands of those far from home. It fluttered over their marching steps, over desert and through forest, high up the mountainsides, to witness their efforts against the enemy.  It flew bold and bright against magic, explosives, blood and thunder, death-cries and the curdled moans of the wounded and dying.  She saw it, battered and frayed, snapping against its staff, so little left of its original cloth as to seem unrecognizable.  She saw it, as she lay amid the corpses, the shock of her wounds dulling their pain but knowing she was bleeding out; the Standard waved, to her, to her, only to her, to bear her up and remind her of so much more than what she could see.

It wasn't every day Echo would consider relationship advice from a girl half her age.  The whole notion still seemed ridiculous.  Even if Countess DeWynter was indeed older than she estimated, she was still - more or less - some noble's brat with little to show but an oddly subservient Kaldorei lover (if she could call Tavlo'ashmalan that) and an expansive house and lands.  It could be pure coincidence that Echo had always so enjoyed her time at Wyntersmere with Credence, or it could just be something in the water, or Light forbid some kind of lingering succubus curse hanging over the whole estate.

The low winter sunlight rolled over the snowy Alterac hills, pushing long shadows back from the pines, scattering across the windows of trappers' huts, shining off fresh-frozen streams.  The mouth of a cavern gaped to catch it, swallowing a swath of brightness to paint one inner wall.  Just inside the cave, Echo crouched opposite in shadow, careful not to disturb the fragile beam nor what it revealed. 

Near the floor of the cave, poking up among oddly arranged little piles of rocks and sticks, four lumpy animal feet were drawn.  Massive, rounded toes sported painstakingly-placed claws, spindly legs winding upwards over blocky outcroppings to meet a sausage-like body. From the body a huge shape was drawn, rounded at the front, coming to a point at the end.  Above, where the sunlight licked into shadowy crevices, a head, long-snouted, perked triangle ears.  The drawing was childlike and scrawled and yet somehow recognizable: A fox.  A magic fox.

The crisp wind rolled into the cavern, sweeping its dank depths and dusting away yet more bits of charcoal from the image.  In her bare hand, Echo held two thick sticks, heavily charred at the ends, the points dulled.  The wood had gradually warmed in her grasp. The last time the sticks had been held Kjerstin's young niece had wielded one, and Echo's sister the other.

Shimmering orbs, the water droplets sparkled on the blue and gold of the motorbike, trailing down through the machinery or whisked away by the cool winter winds off the harbor.  Echo knelt, the thick mail of her leggings creaking and jingling, to carefully wipe down the leather seat and polish the chrome.  Not a lick of soot remained, nor ash, nor pine needle.  She dug at a little stubborn clod of dirt between two metal plates, wearing her fingernail through the cloth, eyes intent.  Even Credence would approve of how the bike gleamed, slick and shiny after its journey to Hyjal.

So much for appearances.  Echo stood, flicking the polishing cloth out and letting her eyes travel over the machine in front of her.  Credence was right about one thing; cleaning did, indeed, grant a sense of calm assurance.  Things should be in place, Credence had said, or things could go wrong.  Echo nodded a little, catching her wide-eyed reflection distorted in the chrome.  She polished another spot away then twisted the cloth in her hands, looking out for a moment at the gray sea.  The wind blew sharp and salty, buffeting her drawn-back hair.  Winter's Veil, soon...

Morning rose once more over the broken city of Stormwind, and once more Stormwind's citizens rose in quiet determination to clean up the mess.

Echo walked up from the harbor fully armed and armored, wearing her old 7th Legion tabard.  Although she didn't expect the great beast who had done this to return soon, plenty of looters were about, pilfering the destruction. She had found they responded much more quickly to perceived military force bearing down than some lady yelling at them.  At her side trotted a large, iron-gray dog who amplified the effect.

Stormwind Harbor, usually placid, washed and heaved.

Echo looked out from the quarterdeck of the houseboat, narrowing her eyes as a hot wind seethed over her face.  Under the black night sky the horizon glowed strangely orange.

She had a feeling no elementals would invade tonight.

Echo’s lungs burned.  Every footfall rang like an explosion through her legs, but they kept pumping nevertheless.  She flung back her hair and looked behind her; Kast, Rothmal and Malifor had planted themselves around the steamtank, the last of their loyal soldiers sweeping around them like parted waters.  The cultists were hot on their heels.

Shit shit shit... They wouldn’t last long, especially if the cultists found a moment to summon up another round of elementals.  With a shaking hand, Echo fumbled at her belt, trying to loosen a flare.  If she could just reach the arch of the bridge she’d shoot it up, with every hope that some patrol from Hammerfall or Refuge Pointe would see it.  Then she’d turn and get back behind Kast and hold back the Cult as long as she could.

Echo always remembered the obstacle course.

She remembered the smell of sweat on warm skin, bare earth, well-trod grass.  She remembered the whisking little black flies that hovered around her eyes in the summer heat, swarming in clouds over some fallow field outside Southshore.  She remembered the ache in her thighs at the hurdles, the tear in her shirt as she pulled herself under barbed wire, the desperate lunge over the top of the wall.  Most of all she remembered the white chalk line in the dirt and the grass, smeared by the other young recruits as they passed over.  All she had to do was reach it -

Echo’s hands clutched her head, covered her ears, though still the bounding screams and repeating clashes would not leave her, nor the smell of death, nor the irritating buzz of panic throbbing between her temples.  Her eyes shut tight and her teeth clenched, but it had a hold of her, the bone-shaking fear of doom closing in, of no way out, of -

“Joo need da juju, eh, ba’tah?”

“What th -”  Echo whirled around as Kast jerked the flare from her belt, but he was already off, jogging toward the center of the fray.  Her eyes moved swiftly from him to the clash between Malifor and Krauss, then suddenly she was bowled over.  Sharp pain slid over her side, bruising her ribs.  What was that? Longsword? Lance? Totem?

Echo watched the courier ride away, over the Arathi hillsides.  His horse left laden with half of the supplies of their camp, including the luxurious tent; the rest had been packed up on her horse and Credence’s odd, haunted steed. She glanced down at the letter in her hands, delivered from the House at Wyntersmere, and frowned as she read it again.

“More elemental activity up in Alterac.  There’s rumors of cultists out in the cities, setting up camps outside.”  Echo folded the note and slipped it into a pocket, turning her attention to tying down the cultist flung over the back of her horse.  He’d been out for so long she was sure he was a goner by now, but she was still going to deliver him to Kast anyway.  “Looks like things are starting to happen all over.”

So seldom did she come to light, the archmage of Dalaran, the Lady of Names.  She was dead, after all, or disposed of, not to be seen again since that fateful day in the Third War when she boldly marched out to meet the Prince.  The quiet woman in heavy dark robes, a deep cowl shadowing her face, presented little evidence of the Lady’s vivacious life, intrepid spirit, or consummate power.

Credence pulled back the hood, settling herself beside the cultist’s body in the antechamber of their tent.  Strands of raven-black hair fell from her loose ponytail to streak her pale cheeks, eyes sweeping the figure in quick examination. The cool Arathi winds buffeted the canvas of the tent, but Credence appeared immune to distraction.  Echo stood opposite, holding the fletching of an arrow recently stuck into the unconscious man’s shoulder.  After a moment or two she withdrew the arrow, wiping blood off the tip with a handkerchief before replacing it in her quiver.

“There we go.  That should keep him out overnight, at least.”