Northrend

The winds rose around the aged hunter like vengeful spirits, crying out their fury and tearing angrily at the ragged hides draped around his imposing frame. There was a storm coming, faster than he'd expected, and it seemed he would not quite have time to return to the small Taunka village before it was upon him.

No matter. He would seek shelter for the night elsewhere.

A fortnight he'd been stalking these frozen valleys and snow-capped ridges, accompanied by his beloved tigress, Belmaria, and burdened by both a worn leather satchel and a heavy heart. The bag- of Ranger-issue, and the last vestige of his former life he'd allowed himself- was clutched close to his body as he trudged through heavy drifts of knee-deep snow. His finely trained gaze methodically scanned the nearby crags even as his thoughts turned to the precious cargo he carried.

I looked out across the cold harsh landscape of Northrend, and yet it felt freeing. Dalaran still gives me the feeling of isolation and exile. The wizards seem to all gaze at me with harsh judging looks, seeing me as an outcast and not one of them. Knowing what I am and how I was created I can see why they would be upset. The Lich King ruined more lives than just mine.

He helped me though and I can see that, since he gave me a second chance at life. My first life was ruined by my own prejudices and reckless rage. Youth does that though, so I guess I can't blame myself too much.

There's none of the white stuff in Quel'Thalas.

There's a place, where Eversong Woods meets the aptly-named Ghostlands, where from a distance the ashen soil almost resembles it. It's quiet there, and the air is cool. Then when you move in closer, that's when you realize the 'drifts' are just a little too dingy, the surface just a little too dull...and it's obvious this place was last awash in flames instead of snow. It's dead leaves that crunch beneath your feet instead of hardened crusts of sparkling white...and the chill you feel in your bones has more to do with the haunted than the hibernal. After all, it's a different kind of quiet that follows the screams of the anguished, as opposed to that sort of hallowed hush that comes over the land with a blanket of virgin snow.

At least, that's how it seems to me.

I found him in the morning, with his chest bound tightly. A large, ugly gash threatening to flood underneath the fresh bandages.

These are the lands of the Lich King and his Death Knights, where the cold indeed could freeze the very heart of anyone.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep." ~Robert Frost

     My moronic half-brother sleeps like the dead; the sort of sleep those who are too stupid to be kept up by thoughts or troubled dreams can enjoy.  Some might call it innocence, but I find ‘stupid’ to be a better adjective.  The meaning is much the same to me anyhow.  The brutish ape snores loudly enough that I expect an avalanche to bury us within the cavern I’d dragged him into the night before.

"A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity."              ~King Solomon

     Heat.  I’m sweltering, burning, unable to breathe.  My lungs fill with searing air that brings no actual breath, and I find myself suffocating.

     When I startle to wakefulness, tearing away from my haunting dreams, I’m quick to push the thick furs laid out overtop me away.  They feel too heavy, making it difficult to breathe properly.  Sweat has matted my pelt to my skin, which brings attention to my nudity.  Someone has taken my armor, and the clothing beneath!

“You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.”     ~Amy Lowell

     Damnable, frigid Northrend updrafts!  The taunka actually live here?  Why in the name of the Earthmother would anyone want to scrape out a miserable existence in this forsaken place?

     I have to stop more often than I’d like, alighting on frost-laden branches to fan my wings, hoping the wan sunlight will melt the ice that’s begun to glaze my feathers.  Of course, that allows the biting winds to pierce through the softer covering of my midsection, chilling me to the bones again.  I’d prefer the heat of Stranglethorn to this torment.

((Part 1 is here, Part 2 is here, and Part 3 is here. Sorry this took so long to post, Real life has kept me from doing much writing lately. Not that I'm complaining, it's been all good things <3 ))

The swirling gale drove the falling snow into a nigh-impentrable wall of white, erasing any trace of hoof-prints mere seconds after they were behind her. The Vindicator's hair whipped against her cold-numbed face and icicle-covered pauldrons. She smiled, even as the wind threatened to tear the Me'dun Menis - the strips of cloth with the Naruu's Benedictions written on them - clean off her armor. At least she wasn't in danger of being lulled to sleep.

Bear, Cat and Crow; constellations I learned from the druids, shone brightly in the night sky. The familiar shape of the Horse and a bit of the Wheel glittered on the south-western horizon; both would have been high in the sky in Gilneas. I turned my head away and resolutely pushed away the feelings of homesickness and desire for what could never again be. Instead, I searched north, gazing over the small icebergs and shadows that may have been orca whales. On the northern horizon, I found the frozen, craggy cliffs of the Howling Fjord approaching.

We left the coastal village early on the the fifth day, trudging out into the hip-deep drifts. The cat prowled alongside us, heard and smelt but certainly unseen, and once more we walked north. There was a Horde town on the way, a great metal fortress, but we passed it by. I could sense nothing of use there, and pointless delay would only harm the mission.

By the time the sky dimmed, we had reached the edge of the cliffs, and looked down on another world. Sholazar, as it is called, seemed very much like Un'goro to me--a basin of green mist, hidden away in the midst of harsher lands. Of course, rich and wet though such a place is, it still conceals its own dangers. We would not enter at night. We waited at the small clifftop outpost, resting and gathering our strength, until morning.

We traveled north, my companions and I, led by the Gurubashi traitor. The wind was bitter, the snow like freezing sand, and when at last we reached the edge of the world, our goal was still a distant glimmer past the edge of the horizon. So, further north we went, trading our feet for the wood and iron and canvas wings of an Orcish ship. Winterspring's chill had not been kind to scorpid and serpent, and so we parted at the docks. Warm sun and easy prey would keep them well for my return.

With the defeat of the Lich King and the Scourge threat subdued, Dalaran had become a quiet city. Of course, there were still the magisters, scholars, tradespeople, and those practiced in certain other skills, but the streets only had a few travelers, outsiders, here and there, seeking something quickly before disappearing by portal or hearthstone.

Like Shattrath after the desctruction of the Burning Legion, Dalaran earned the "Ghost Town" nickname by anyone who was not a resident. For those whom lived in the floating metropolis, it felt very much like times before the influx of adventurers and heroes.

Just the way Diemtri liked it.

The line twitched.

((Part of an on going larger story between the two, starting with Again. ))

The ghoul collapsed and momentum dragged it forward, the piled snow crowning his head jerking the lifeless corpse to a crumpled standstill.  A goggled eye stared upwards, already calloused before he had met permanent death by the priest’s hands.  Jaw dislocated hanging to one side with a rolling purpled tongue catching snowflakes.  Meters from him Melidane drew in a breath, the whipping wind and oncoming warning of a blizzard made the simple act of breathing a burning line through her lungs.  

(This is a Sonnet I wrote in my free time, please give some feedback thanks =D)

His righteousness burns like a living flame

Persuing justice with every breath

For his peoples wrongs, he would take the blame

He would fight against evil, until death

His people plagued, undeath setting in

A foe reared its head, one not seen before

He charged, sword clenched in hand, but could not win

On that day, his righteousness was no more

To the frozen shores, he persued justice

Any loss was worth victory that day

As darkness clings to his heart, he's restless

Nothing left of him, to their dismay

“Dane… as in Melidane Solveig, as in Ildane Audsvard.”  A hand slammed into the wall with enough vicious intensity to rain debris from the ceiling. “As in the adoptee of Ellis Solveig, you’re Revald’s brat.” The ageing sailor stabbed at the air in Melidane’s direction face flushed, distorted and standing veins carving out lines in his forehead. “I knew it was you, as soon as they dragged your sodden carcass on deck.  You look just like that shadow fed father of yours.”

Her journey had taken her across Northrend and into dangerous territory.  Her health had deteriorated as she focused single-mindedly on her goal - to locate Alainthal Starwhisper.  Apparently he had returned to Azeroth, and she made haste to follow.

In an isolated area of the Storm Peaks she met one last burst of resistance.  A magical storm had raged, preventing her departure, as waves of blue dragonflight operatives attacked.  A band of goblin pirates fought at her side, eventually turning the tide; though the Blues' left Sinobel a far more sinister parting gift. 

Part Six: Northrend - Epilogue

Let no one ever say, “We could have never imagined.” Let no one ever say, “We had no warning.”  Let no one ever say the worst catastrophe could not have been foreseen.

We have our testing ground, our hypotheses proven, in a crescent of land at the top of our world.  Northrend was once a pure land, a staging ground for the Titan’s creation of our world.  It remains a place where wilderness remains untouched, where tall peaks tower capped with snow; where the engines of the makers still grind slowly, echoing the distant past.  It is the aerie of the Aspects and the graveyard of our world, a promise of life and a promise of death.

And Northrend is broken, corrupted, and forever changed, much as our own lands could be.

(( A story, from before Quet was Quet, and when she still hadn't reclaimed Ajamu! With the old-world changes hitting tomorrow, she'll be losing her faithful scarlet hyena (Hawrt is, sadly, being changed into a mastiff) and so I thought I'd dig up this old piece to share. I think it really captures Hawrt's personality, one that I wish I'd showed off in game more often. ))

Lyst snarled as she leveled the blade at the undead soldier that moved towards her. "Come to your fate, damned brother." The skeletal man ran forward, getting cut down by the death knight. She turn to the others that surrounded her and laughed. "It looks like I'll be by your side soon enough Lester." A large Scourge warrior let out a unholy roar as they charged in at the traitor of their ranks. Lyst smirked and gripped Hellreaver as the undead closed in around her.

The hooves clopped on the hard dirt paths as the undead horse galloped past the tall pines. A herd of wild mustangs ran across the path further ahead and an imperial eagle swooped overhead as the noises of the forest calmly said all was an average day. The rider came to a stop at an intersection and pulled down her hood quietly as she looked around. An elk walked out from behind the trees and stared for a moment before turning to find some sweet grass. The wind gave a gentle blow and Lyst's short hair waved to the side for a moment as she looked around. She took the worn road to her right, now at a slower pace as she seemed to relax. The sound of a fiddle being played echoed through the trees from someone's home. She listened carefully with a smile as what sounded to be some wooden flute join in. The sound of a river soon grew and Lyst came upon a wooden bridge. A waterfall thundered in an oddly calming way and bears carefully fished for their meals.

  Northrend suited her, from its harsh environment down to features that spoke of northern blood. She didn’t come from here, her own home nestled close to the Alterac Mountains.  But the snow of Northrend reflected in her pale skin, the out cropping shadows of jagged rocks in coal dark hair and the depths of the sea in ice bearing eyes.  Dane loved the savage countryside with its dangers that either lay hidden or walked the surface without concern.  It was a place she could be herself even under the service of the one who employed her, in fact the blood elf seemed glad of Dane’s rather cold nature, even the elf warlock’s “child” called her the frozen priest.

Despite their solid, rotund, inert shapes, they looked like caged animals. Micah stood on deck, wrapped in his winter coat against the bitter Northrend cold, watching the crew. They heaved and hoed and the pulley system screeched with the weight of the new cargo they were pulling aboard; cauldrons. The crates were really just frameworks, keeping the massive pots and their lids steady and secure for their journey, with plenty of spacing between the slats so the eye could see the fat, squat things inside.

Toads. They looked like toads. They even had splayed claw-feet with three toes each.

She looked at the demons before her with a stern expression, “Ormmon and I are going to Northrend. The queen has requested” the word was laden with sarcasm “her subjects to do what we can in the war effort.”

Melicinth narrowed her eyes muttering, “If these duties in anyway muck up things for that fool Arthas I’m all for it.”

Betlia stamped a hooved foot on the floor, crossing her arms over her ample yet barely covered breasts and said, “You never let me go anywhere or have any fun!”

“You will stay here and look after your little brother Betlia.” Melicinth said in patient, motherly tones.
“He is not my brother!” the succubus all but screamed.

Narrowed eyes narrowed still further to mere slits as Melicinth turned a cold, hard gaze of the female demon, “Do not dare question me fel creature.

“AHGH!” Despite the terrible numbing cold, the pain Micah felt as the broken timbers pinched his wrist was all too vivid. Edgar and Owens let up a little on the pressure – and Micah immediately screamed again, his voice fighting against the frigid water that was pouring in from the breach in The Ingénue’s hull, buffeting his head and face and soaking him through, “NO! HOLD IT! HOLD FAST!”

"A person without a shadow should keep out of the sun, that is the only safe and rational plan."
    ~Adelbert von Chamisso

    The raven clutched at the crude, iron railing of the zeppelin as the brutal winds of Northrend whipped and howled around him, and though they ruffled his ebon feathers, he did not move.  Still as a statue and silent as death, the dire bird stared at one of the passengers on the goblin vessel, with his black eyes gleaming like glass.  No one really pays a bird much attention, most days.  No one seems to remember that there are those for whom the body of a raven is as natural as their own.

"Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven."
    ~Tryon Edwards