past

Wisp awoke back in her bed at home, still in one piece but many spots on her skin wrapped in gauze to stem the bleeding from the multiple cuts. Her mother smiled down at her and stroked her hair. Her father hung back a little bit to one side, his arm in a sling and heavily bandaged from helping fend off the raiders. It looked like he too had been lucky in this ordeal.

"It's alright now. The city guard took down those two you were fighting then moved on while we took you home. Just rest for now," said Wisp's mother.

Wisp sat back and relaxed, eventually falling asleep, still tired from the fight. She awoke later around midday, her mother and father busy elsewhere in the house. While she laid there alone to ponder over her thoughts she recalled the rush and the joyful feeling she got from fighting with the Night Elves and protecting the others. She decided that she should start training on her own and maybe try to join the Blood Knights.

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It started like any other day. Wisp awoke from her slumber and got ready for the start of the day, then headed off into the city to explore. Today she didn't wish to do anything of the sort when it came to making of clothes but to explore was where her heart was calling her. After she had all her supplies together and her lunch for later in the day she set out to find what would be found.

Wisp traversed the streets, looking around at the city, still finding it breath-taking in all it's splendor. But then... something felt out of place. She wasn't sure what to call it, maybe a sixth sense? She just knew that something felt wrong about today and had an ominous feeling. Wisp attempted to shrug it off and continue on her way but even as she did the hair on the back of her neck stood on end as her instincts told her something was coming.

There are many times when something cannot truly be understood without the complete picture.

It is time to reveal some of the events of Wisp's life that lead up to her death and Second Life.

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Wisp was always a dedicated girl. She worked hard on any task she set her mind to and strived to have it done right and with a flair all her own. She grew up through her years with her family, rich textile and clothing merchants of the Sunwalker House. While they were not nobles in name their profitable trade granted them many luxuries of the high class. Wisp at a young age found wonder in the cloth and what amazing things it could make and would seen spending most of each day trying to design and create new outfits.

One of my hands dragged through my recently shorn hair as I paced the villa. I had not intended to stay here this long, but as is often the nature of my life, things had become complicated again.

Bloody hell, why do these things happen to me? I've wanted nothing more than to walk away from my past and for good bloody reason. The moment I get complacent however, it finds me. 

Quite literally this time, too.

The workers kept shooting her strange glances – what was she doing helping?

Since when did nobles get their hands dirty? Especially with hands as dainty as her own.

The long, lean blonde picked her way through what was left of the Whitedawn estate, after the fall of the Sunwell – long after the scourge, the wretched, and looters had picked their ways carefully through it.

She'd push aside debris here, and there – pausing every now and then to cradle some broken object thoughtfully, before dropping it to wade through the wreckage of her once-home.

((Final draft, feel free to critique it!))

Embers crackle, the wood groans; Flames licking the brick, another log tossed onto the roaring fire. The cozy heat illuminates Urilla’s room and its occupants within. Ever since that fateful day Raeril noticed Urilla’s medallion, the half-elf woman’s world has been blown apart. She came to Frostmana Citadel to find out the meaning behind the medallion, and who she is.

The faithful stewardess over the entire citadel, known only as Champion; prods the fire with an iron pole. Retiring the pole to its stand, Champion’s purple eyes assess the descendant of Duke Starscythe. The younger elf sulks, fiddling with the medallion in her right hand.

 “What are you looking at me like that for? Nothing to see here, I promise you.”

"The future is stardust because you can dream it. The present is clay because you can mold it. But the past is stone because you can never change it."

  Our pasts are such delicate things, the passing whirl of butterflies, distant calls of ravens and shadows at the corner of our eyes.  When born to darkness it is that shadow that follows you, it whispers sweet nightmares as a sword slides against another’s neck, when frost over takes their veins or corruption blackens their skin.  One can ignore it, hide from it, but they can never escape it.  The light itself breeds shadows, and I have seen some that are a deeper black then anything spawned in the edges of night.  We live in a war glutted world, one swelled to the brim with hatred, prejudice and unearthly hungers.  A world that rises the evil as much as the good, it is a fine line, for those who chose to walk the middle.

That last note I sent was not my best work, but lately it's been difficult to concentrate on my goal.  It was more complicated then just taunting that idiot Harrigan.  I adjusted my borrowed armor and ran a hand through my purposefully dirty and now white colored hair, before shoving the helmet back onto my head.  I had been in a rush when I wrote it, I had lingered to long in Stormwind as I waited to see if she would visit me.   The hustle of relief soldiers that stood with me in front of the portal made it easy to be just another face in the crowd.  I would pick up the rest of the costume when I make it to Shattrah; an old friend would be willing to let me borrow what I need.


"Have you given up then on being anything beyond what they dictate to you?"

Scum… Skythe was right. That’s all I was, all I am, and all I ever will be. But even as Scum, as a being of no importance, I’ve done more to put myself at ease than ever before. Morality was another issue altogether, though.

He chuckled, the large once-elf standing at the edge of the temple mount. His dark crimson runes illuminated the dark fel-abundant air, and he actually felt at ease. After a moment, the large male found himself smiling, but more to his disbelief, breathing. He didn’t need to breathe, save for speaking and sighing, an occasional chuckle as well. Were he able to, he would have narrowed his eyes in thought, but a purse of his lips served the same purpose.

She sat in the dirt, her little knees tucked under her. Her palms were flat in the mud, moving back and forth, squishing down. The water oozed from the brown whirlpool, worms desperately trying to flee the madness. A giggle erupted from the girl’s lips as she leaned away, strands of her red hair falling from the short ponytail. She had been outside of her family’s cottage for nearly an hour, playing in the light rainfall and then digging in the aftermath. Her white blouse was stained beyond repair, and when she finally made the trek inside, mud dripping from her hands and covering her petite feet, her mother would give her a good scolding.

But Cleona didn’t care.

“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.”

He watched as the dwarven woman walked away. A soft smile came to his weary face. "Thank you, Lorith Stonegarten..." He turned and paced over to the small slope, at the edge of the lake. He slipped a plated gauntlet off and touched his finger to the water, watching it rippled for a moment, before it froze solid, into a glass like mirror. He stared long and hard at himself for the moment. "...Daroth Malichai...Do you even remember who YOU were?" He closed his eyes, and went back in time...

It was a steady beating rhythm, she could match it with her heart if she believed in them, she had no belief in hearts, not that they existed or thrummed blood through ones veins.  They did not beat, love, bleed or break, they did not exist for the evil in the world had vanquished them, dried them up and blew them away with some deep breath, this is what she believed and this is what her voices told her.  

A moment of clarity as I sit by this river.

  Mother is a double word, one split into two just as I am split into many. I am split because my mothers are split, because my father is split and a part of both mothers.  Don’t understand? I doubt you do, and you will not unless you are within me, the others I am understand, even Mother and father do not understand, it is something so deep in the rivers of my veins that its surface will never coat my tongue.  

The dragon fluttered occasionally in Kagg’s lap; his hands idly stroked it as he sat, listening.  Sort of.  He looked up at Tiradell.  The elf had been talking for a while now, and Kagg put a smile up on his face as he sat, bored.  Tana was right, elves talked too much.  He hoped Tira would get to the point soon, he wanted to go out and fight the demons again!  He was sure he’d nearly talked that one draenei Peacekeeper into serving as his squire.

“Do you understand what I mean, Kagg?” Tiradell asked him.  The elf’s hand brushed over the hair on his head as he looked over at Kagg.

The young orc started briefly, frowning thoughtfully at the question.  “No, I do not,” Kagg replied.  He watched Tiradell’s face fall.

 “Well, why don’t you tell me then what you think?” Tiradell asked, shaking his head and smiling.

11. Earth

The Lady of the Land paced the borders of her property, and estate that had been abandoned to war and plague. She still believes that with enough time and love, the fields would grow again. She knelt down and sliced her finger open, offering the blood to the earth, reaffirming her bonds.

Now though... now her lands are wracked with tremors, elemental rifts and cultists and her bond to the earth is holding her captive, in pain, as the earth is in pain. People swarm around her, their voices a meaningless babble to her ears as she shudders in time with the rocking land.

30. Peace

The sky blackened with every passing minute, the hour itself permeated with the thick dreariness of death and suffering. Yet, in the eye of this unfathomable storm, stood hope. Here, in the midst of such evil and dread, stood the last push of the noble Alliance, valiant races, from human to gnome and unto dwarf, together ranked for the ideal of a free future away from the genocide brought unto them. Valiant Lothar, standing with honorable and just Turalyon, address their fellows from a gathering of hastily constructed defenses on the edge of the Searing Gorge. In the distance, the sounds of warfare are present, with the orcish horde violently crashing against the Alliance. All except one heard the yells and rallying cries of Anduin Lothar.

I don’t know how long I lay with the dead. The light in that place shifts so little between day and night. Or perhaps whatever has replaced the functions of my eyes simply cannot tell the difference.

It was the rain that brought me back to myself. Cold, fresh drops that struck my face, and plinked off my armour. Though I was convinced I would never feel again, the discomforting damp and chill broke through the layers of my shock and forced me to move.

I could not bring myself to take shelter in the tomb again, nor did I think its keeper would welcome me back. Instead I followed the worn path to a ruined village, and took shelter in what may once have been an inn.

Warmth. I had not expected that, and it brought with it a relief that left me sitting by the fire, so happy I could still feel it, that for the moment I could feel nothing else.

The loss of a Loved one, is there anything harder to bear?

Take Comfort, and know that your loved one need not leave forever.

The Blessed Light teaches us that our spirits live on, but the sadness of an empty chair at the dinner table or a missing smile, is often too much for a heart to bear.

Dolly Weaver’s Discreet, professional Service will ensure that your grief need not last any longer than you wish.  Your loved one can remain by your side, preserved just as you remember them, bringing Comfort to your heart.

"It doesn't hurt me.
You wanna feel how it feels?
You wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me?
You wanna hear about the deal I'm making?" Placebo

The slow rise of his chest was real.  Laying beside me I could finally let go the fear it was a dream.  He didn’t need to breathe, I wonder if he knew he did it in his sleep.  He had no use for air, his heart did not beat, and his organs…well they were no longer even in him, held together by runes engrained in his spine.  Runes that at one point in time, I had shoved a knife through.

Some time ago, before it opened again, the University of Kalimdor led a trip to the Dark Portal. My eye sight was poor, and when we stood on a hill, at a safe distance away, I could only barely make it out. I could see blue fog in a frame of grey stone, but that was all.

Then one of the orcs passed around some spyglasses, and we took turns getting a closer look. Inside the fog was dark space and stars. The stone, of course, was not a simple frame, but carved into dark-hooded figures holding resting swords. For one moment, everything was sharp and clear. When I passed the spyglass on, I could not longer see those features, but my view of the portal was still changed.

The dragons have an odd sense o’ humour. All that control o’er time, an’ they bring us tah when we woulda been, iff’n we ne’er left. Don’ exactly seem right, but I guess the time was always borrowed, so now we’ve paid it back. Now jus’ gotta decide where tah go.

At the battle fer Light’s Hope, I knelt on dead grass as Mograine saw a vision o’ his past, an’ came tah a revelation tha’ decided his future, an’ mine. Floatin’ over the water then, I saw the same thing happenin’ tah Ko, an’ I let it.

I didn't lie, exactly. I dissembled. Abandoned one father's name and claimed the other's, put just enough lilt to the first that it almost wasn't my name at all.

Just enough for it to seem like a coincidence.

He never asked. After all, I was "the elf", so why would he? I never had to lie outright, and if I ever slipped up, he didn't seem to notice. I think perhaps he stopped listening when I introduced myself.

I don't know why I did it. Maybe because we are so different now, both our different shades of broken, that it just seemed easier. But nothing is what it seems. I should know better by now.

Do they not know where we were in the world in the times they send us to? Or are the threads of my lives so tangled even a bronze cannot trace them? Whatever the reason, the result is the same.

“We have tah leave. Now.” He’s out of his seat and on the stairs before the words are finished. As she comes out to clear the tables, he keeps his back to her, though there’s no chance of her recognizing him, wouldn’t be even without the illusion. We haven’t met yet.

I've been asked to do some fairly strange things, but this was one of the most bizarre. Go back in time? Even with a dragon saying it was so, I could not believe it.

But it was.

Anchorite Zxitra watches me with pity. "You must leave the Exodar and not return until further notice. Until we have..." I turn my gaze away politely. "Memna, I am- Your presence is a disturbance for the relatives of those lost. We cannot afford to lose more of our people to hate and wrath."

"V-visit me on Ald-dor R-rise?"

Zxitra shifts. I note the tension in his hands as he folds them before him with a formal bow. "When time permits, the Naaru willing." He hopes not; I hear this in his voice. Well should I know the peculiarities and tonalities of my own brother. Some days, I cannot recall his name.

The tides shift and pull me away. "L-l-light be w-with you, Anch-chorite."

Agony bursts behind my eyes as my five senses skew and bleed away beneath the mental assault. "Th-this is n-not b-becoming of y-y-your s-station in l-l-l--"

*In Eversong Woods by Lake Elrendar, a blind elf, a half dark iron dwarf child, and their strider are approached by a aged death knight with a mixure of human and elvish features. He appears to have traveled several days and, judging by his exhausted stance, he has been in many battles. With caution, he speaks...*

He sees himself in this forlorn place.

I could sense it, in his resistance when I asked him to leave. He is more, alert, in this place. As though he sleepwalks in all others.

He sees himself, as he is now, reflected back at him from scourge-tainted lands, constant fighting, and tenacious clinging to all that is left.

It frightens me, and I cannot say why.